It Gets Worse [Worm AU Fanfic] Complete

[Ack]

This fic was inspired by suggestions from CinnabarSage .

1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.

Part One: Introduction (below)
Part Two: Rebound
Part Three: Miscommunication Central
Part Four: Surprise!
Part Five: Gathering Troubles
Part Six: Bolt from the Blue
Part Seven: Mopping Up
Part Eight: Double Trouble
Part Nine: Anvilicious
Part Ten: Draggin' Ass
Part Eleven: Things Get Silly
Part Twelve: The Saga of the Weird-Shit-o-Meter
Part Thirteen: Lucky for Some
Part Fourteen: Whatever Happened To ... ?
Part Fifteen: Going, going ...
Part Sixteen: Buildup
Part Seventeen: Loose Ends
Part Eighteen: Spinning Out of Control
Part Nineteen: Negligent Deicide
Part Twenty: Finale [END]

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part One: Introduction


January 3, 2011

Taylor huddled, shivering, holding the blanket around her shoulders. Nearby, the janitor was talking animatedly to a pair of police officers, but she wasn't really listening.

"- dunno how long she was in there. She was just lucky that I was going that way and heard her calling out -"

"Miss, can you hear me?" It was the same paramedic who had given her the blanket. "Miss?"

"Uh?" She jerked her head up. "Yeah? W-what?"

"Miss, can you tell me your name?"

Taylor twitched, pulling the blanket more tightly around herself. "T-taylor. Taylor He-hebert."

"Taylor Hebert. Is that correct?"

"Y-yeah. Why am I sh-shivering? Not cold."

The paramedic's voice was warm, soothing. "You've just been through a very traumatic experience, Taylor. You're in shock right now. This is perfectly natural. You'll get through it. Now, can you look into this light for me?"

She didn't protest as the woman shone the tiny flashlight first into one eye and then the other; it seemed easier just to let her do it.

"Okay then, that's excellent. Pupil response is normal. Taylor, can you tell me today's date?"

Taylor blinked. "Uh, January. January third. Two thousand eleven. First day of school."

"Good, good. And where are you?"

"Sitting in the back of an ambulance." The response came out without her even thinking about it. "Outside Winslow High School."

"Well, you're tracking just fine, Taylor." The paramedic nodded to herself in satisfaction. "Do you feel up to talking to the police?"

Taylor twitched again. "Uh, can I have my Dad with me?" She looked down at the horrible stains on her jeans and sneakers – the things that had been sharing the locker with her had been scrubbed away, but the marks remained – and added, "And can I have a shower too?"

The paramedic smiled, looking rather motherly. "I think that can be arranged, yes."

<><>​

Showered, dried and dressed, head to toe in fresh clothing, Taylor felt much more human. More able to face the world. She guessed that she was still in shock; occasionally she shivered and her hands twitched once in a while. There were clean white dressings on them, where she had beaten them bloody on the interior of the locker. A kindly policewoman had replaced the dressings after the shower.

Now she sat beside her father, facing another police officer. The man's uniform was neat, tidy, almost painfully so. He had a notebook, in which he wrote down what Taylor was telling him. It was no great hardship for him to keep up with her; she kept stumbling, losing track, going back over what had already been said, but he showed no impatience, no irritation. She got the impression that his entire life's purpose was to sit in this room and listen to what she had to say.

"Well then," he stated, after she had mumbled herself to a halt. "We will be investigating matters. The fact that you can't state with certainty who shoved you into the locker is unfortunate, but the fact remains that a crime has been committed and we will be looking into it."

He stood; Taylor's father took the hint and followed suit. Taylor realised what was going on a few seconds later and stood up as well. "So what happens now?" she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

"Well, if I were you," suggested the officer, "I'd take a week off school. Rest, relax, recuperate. You've had a huge shock to the system. You don't need to be going back into that environment for a little while yet."

Danny nodded. "I think that's a damn good idea. I'll let the school know, just after I give them a piece of my mind for letting this happen to Taylor in the first place."

"That's your business, sir," the police officer told him. "If we have any more questions to ask your daughter, we'll be in touch."

"Sure," Danny agreed. "I'm just surprised that there's going to be an investigation at all. I mean, I know how overworked you guys are and this sort of thing has to be small potatoes compared to your normal run of things."

"Normally we wouldn't," agreed the officer, opening the office door. "But as luck would have it, one of our major cases fell through this morning and your case popped at just the right time. Besides, I've got a girl about your daughter's age and I'd hate to have something like that happen to her."

"Well, however it works, I hope you catch those little shits." Danny held out his hand.

"That's what we're here for." The officer shook it. "You go get better, miss."

"Thank you." Taylor turned and walked from the police station with her father beside her.

"Well, that went better than I expected," he commented as he led the way to the car. "What do you want to do now?"

"I want to go home," she told him firmly. "And have about three more showers. I can still feel those bugs on my skin."

"Home it is," he agreed.

<><>​

January 10, 2011

"Holy shit. I don't believe it."

"What?" Madison looked around at Emma's startled exclamation. Her eyes widened. "Crap, I don't either. She's back."

"Who's back?" Sophia looked up from the drinking fountain. Taller than most, she scanned the crowd in the direction that the other two were looking. It only took a few seconds. "Well, shit. She obviously didn't get the message the first time."

"What do we do about it?" Madison looked at the two of them.

Emma frowned. "You gotta admit, that's pretty ballsy of her, coming back so soon after, uh, after what happened."

"Yeah," chimed in Madison. "It was terrible, wasn't it?"

Puzzled for just a moment, Sophia looked around to see one of the new substitute teachers loitering nearby. Mr Grant wasn't a bad teacher, but he seemed unusually interested in what the students had to say. Sophia had pegged him as an undercover cop on about the second day, so the three girls had become a little more discreet about what they discussed and where they discussed it.

Turning, she looked pointedly at him; after a few seconds, he moved off, apparently finding business elsewhere. Smiling slightly, Sophia turned back to Emma. "So, shall we organise a welcome back party for her?"

"Nothing too blatant," Emma cautioned her. "Might be more of them around."

"Oh, please," Sophia retorted. "Like they could catch me on their best day."

"So what do we do?" asked Madison again.

Sophia smiled slowly, her teeth very white. "We let everyone know that it's business as usual, of course."

<><>​

Taylor ducked; the dodge-ball went flying over her head as she moved on. Behind her, she heard a muffled cry of pain and looked around; Julia, a friend of Madison's, was on the ground, blood flowing freely from her nose. I didn't even know she was there.

Turning away, she saw the ball coming straight at her once more and recognised the thrower as one of Emma's friends. She moved aside just in time for it to whistle past her shoulder. That would've left a bruise.

A grunt of pain and a solid thud made her look over her shoulder. Two girls had collided and fallen together. One of them was Sophia Hess; from the way she was holding her ribs, she must have taken a hit there.

Shit, they've really got it in for me. She saw the ball bounce into the hands of Emma's friend again and moved behind someone else. Sure enough, the girl held the throw, looking for a clear shot. Taylor kept moving, stepping behind people and the girl kept waiting, until Mr Sorensen yelled at her to just throw the damn ball, already! So then she threw it, without nearly as much force as before, at someone else.

<><>​

Taylor ducked her head under the shower stream and ran water through her hair. They're not going to let up. It was a dismal certainty. Although it had been a good gym class; she had no bruises from the dodge-ball this time around. That was a rare enough event that she considered it reason for minor celebration. They'll get me some other way.

A thud and a grunt of pain made her turn around. She couldn't see that well without her glasses, but it looked like someone was lying on the floor just outside the shower. Turning off the water, she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself. Stepping into the outer part of the cubicle, she looked down at the supine girl. Upon closer investigation, she realised that it was Sophia, holding a bunch of familiar-looking clothing. Above her, where Taylor's clothes should have been hanging on a hook, there was nothing. A piece of soap, lying nearby, appeared to be the architect of Sophia's downfall. I wondered where that got to.

"Hey, that's my stuff!" Taylor reached down and grabbed her clothes from Sophia; the other girl tried half-heartedly to hang on to them, but seemed to be in some amount of pain from her ribs. Hanging the clothes back on the hook, Taylor dried herself hurriedly – her hair would be damp, but that was no big deal – and got dressed before Sophia could do more than sit up. Under her were Taylor's sneakers; Sophia seemed to have landed on them, which couldn't have done her bruised ribs – or ego – any good.

Hurrying away, she worried over the incident as she went to hang her towel up. It was just a lucky break that she stepped on the soap. She'll be after me now ... and today was going so well, too.

<><>​

"So, can anyone tell me what precipitated the downfall of the Namibian government? Anyone?"

Taylor raised her hand to answer Mr Gladly's question, while glancing around to keep an eye on Madison. The petite brunette was glaring daggers at her, thanks to the empty desk next to Madison, which was usually occupied by her friend Julia. Taylor had a good idea why – the dodge-ball must have hit her pretty hard. She's probably still in the infirmary – but she wasn't sure why Madison seemed to be blaming her for it. She probably thinks I shouldn't have ducked.

"Yes, Taylor?"

She turned back to the front; Mr Gladly was looking directly at her. "Uh, yes. That was due mainly to Moord Nag, wasn't it? The government was corrupt and wasn't protecting the people, so she came in and killed the militias that were oppressing them. After that, the people decided to support her instead of the government."

"Very good, Taylor. I see that you weren't idle while you were away." He beamed at her; she wanted to scowl back at him. He has to know why I've been 'away'; I still can't sleep with the light off and Dad's got to spray the bedroom for bugs on a daily basis. But at least I'm not waking up screaming any more.

And then Madison put her hand up; he turned to her. "Yes, Madison?"

"Uh, Mr G, can I go sharpen my pencil at the trash can? It broke."

Taylor was immediately suspicious – Madison always took the opportunity to pass by her desk and cause problems when she went to the trash can – but there wasn't much she could do about it.

She was right, of course; when Madison came past, she went to grab Taylor's books and pull them to the floor, but Taylor locked her arms down on them and glared at her. Undaunted, Madison smiled angelically and continued on to the trash can in the corner of the room.

Mr Gladly, as always, totally missed the byplay. "Okay, class, turn to page one hundred and five. I want you to read through the examples given of regime changes due to parahuman interference over the last ten years. Pay particular attention to those in Africa and see if you can't spot any common factors."

As Taylor complied, she saw Madison making her way back down the row of desks. There was a secret smile on her face that boded no good for Taylor. What's she going to do?

And then, at the desk ahead of Taylor's, the boy sitting there moved his elbow and his pencil fell on the floor. He didn't seem to notice and nor did Madison; her heel came down on it, it rolled and her foot flew out from underneath her. With a startled shriek, she landed on her butt, with what looked like brown snow drifting down around and on top of her.

Shavings, Taylor realised. She saved all the shavings and she was going to dump them on me.

"Madison, are you all right?" Mr Gladly came down the row of desks, but she was already getting to her feet.

"Mr G, Taylor tripped me!" Madison's finger was out straight, accusing.

"What? No!" Taylor pointed at the pencil, still on the floor. "John's pencil fell off his desk. Madison stepped on it."

Bending down, Mr Gladly picked up the pencil and examined it. "John, is this yours?"

Turning, the boy looked at it. "Uh, yeah, Mr G. Sorry about that. Sorry, Mads."

"Be more careful next time." Mr Gladly handed the pencil back to him. "Madison, I don't think Taylor tripped you. Just go back to your desk, all right? And clean yourself off."

Visibly fuming, Madison stomped past Taylor, brushing pencil shavings off of herself. Not even she would do something obvious while Mr Gladly was standing right there, but in no way did Taylor think she was going to give up.

I am so dead.

<><>​

"Got the water balloons?" Madison's smile was more than a little anticipatory.

"Right here." Emma carefully lifted the cardboard box from her backpack; she'd padded it with wadded-up plastic bags for this purpose. From within, she handed out the gurgling rubber sacs of watery doom. There were two for each of them; even assuming each of them missed with one, the other three balloons would be sufficient to soak Taylor to the skin.

"Excellent." Sophia weighed hers in her hand. She'd been waiting all day to repay Hebert for the humiliation in gym class. This would do perfectly.

"So where is she?" asked Emma.

"Went upstairs a little while ago," Madison reported. "Maybe to the bathrooms?"

"Good." Sophia started up the stairs. "Maybe we can catch her in one of the stalls."

"No, wait, here she comes now. Quick, get out of sight!"

Emma's mistake was tugging on Sophia's sleeve. In doing so, she lost her grip on one of the water balloons; it slipped from her hand and splattered on the steps, spraying water far and wide. Sophia, in the process of turning, stepped into the puddle. Losing all grip on the step, her foot shot out to the side and she fell. As it happened, this was on top of Emma and Madison.

"Look out!"

"Argh!"

"Fuck!"

They went down in a tangle of flailing limbs. Flailing limbs which released water balloons upward, to fly in short arcs and then come down again. Five soggy splats sounded, one after the other.

Taylor came trotting down the steps; as she reached the landing above, she peered curiously at the scene below. Sophia was lying atop Emma, with Madison squashed beneath the two of them. All three were soaked from head to toe and brightly coloured rags of rubber were lying around them.

Edging around them, she spared them one last look, then headed off down the corridor.

Clambering out from under Sophia, Emma sat up, a distinctly disgruntled look on her face. "We have got to do better than this."

"Well, don't look at me," snapped Sophia. "You're the one who dropped your water balloon."

As the other two argued, all Madison could do was try to remember how to breathe.


End of Part One

Part Two

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Two: Rebound


I got off the bus and hefted my backpack. Even now, the memory of Emma, Sophia and Madison, piled at the bottom of the stairs, made me giggle spontaneously when I thought of it. I thought I might have an idea how that had happened; they'd obviously brought the water balloons to school in order to ambush me with them, but one of the balloons had maybe leaked, making a puddle on the stairs. And Sophia stepped on the soap earlier, so there was probably still some on her shoe.

However it had happened, it had been a very satisfying scene to come upon. They hadn't bothered me for the rest of the day. In fact, I hadn't seen them for the rest of the day. Being humiliated like that must kind of burn. Gee, I wouldn't know about that at all.

Strolling along the pavement with the pack slung over her shoulder, I felt unaccountably light-hearted for the first time in … months. I still hadn't totally recovered from the ordeal in the locker, but the money that Dad had squeezed out of the school would probably go toward therapy. Truth be told, I didn't know how I was going to deal with some stranger asking me probing questions about things I really didn't want to think about, but I guessed that it was probably a good idea. I don't want to end up with PTSD.

But today had been a good day, the ominous beginnings notwithstanding. Maybe I'm learning to dance between the raindrops. For sure, they'd tried, but they hadn't been able to tag me even once, not in gym class or after – though I had an errant bar of soap to thank for Sophia's downfall – not in World Affairs and not at the stairs. My mind slid irresistibly back to the look on Emma's face when I had descended the stairs and edged around them. That expression of total aggravation and humiliation had been so worth it. I just wish I'd had a camera.

Still giggling, I opened the chain-link gate and let myself into the back yard. The back door opened to my key and I strolled into the house.

"Afternoon, Taylor." Dad was sitting on the sofa.

Okay, I hadn't expected that.

<><>​

"Um, Dad, why are you home so early?"

"Because I was worried about you." We sat across the kitchen table from each other. I'd fixed myself a ham sandwich. He was just sitting there.

"Oh. Well, I'm fine. Today was actually pretty good, to be honest." I took a bite from my sandwich.

"So nobody picked on you?"

For a split second, I considered telling him the unvarnished truth – they tried, but they just couldn't get it right. Oh, by the way, my ex best friend Emma is leading the pack – but I chickened out. Dad didn't need this sort of hassle; if he came home early every day because he was worrying about me, he might lose his position with the Dockworkers' Association.

"Seriously, Dad. I'm fine. Nothing happened. Nobody shoved me, called me names, picked on me or anything. Heck, I didn't even get hit playing dodge-ball." Though they surely tried.

"Oh." He looked obscurely disappointed, as though he'd wanted to be able to justify leaving work early. "So, no problems at all?"

"None. I promise." I reached across the table, captured his hand. "I'm fine. You worry about getting jobs for the dock workers."

Finally, he smiled and squeezed my hand. "Okay, kiddo. You win. But if there's a problem, let me know, okay?"

"Sure." I knew I was lying through my teeth. Even if I'd had problems, I wouldn't have admitted to them; Dad needed to be able to concentrate fully on his job. And even if today was just a fluke, it was a welcome fluke and I'd take it. That one good day was worth a lot of aggravation.

And what the hell, I might have another one soon.

<><>​

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

"Okay, so shit happened. We move along. Taylor got lucky, but it's not gonna happen again. We're gonna show her who's boss." Sophia looked between Emma and Madison, her expression hard, as if challenging them to contradict her.

"Okay, so what do we do?" Emma looked unsure; Sophia wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled, to tell her you're tough, dammit, show a bit of spine! But she didn't. It was up to Emma to prove her toughness.

"The bathrooms." Madison's voice was bright. She still winced a little when she moved – her bruises had to be even more spectacular than Sophia's – but her heart was definitely in this.

"What about the bathrooms?" Sophia made her voice harsh.

It didn't seem to faze the petite brunette. "She'll be there again today. She goes there nearly every lunchtime. Third floor. You know, the one where the stall doors open outward."

"So what?" But Emma was looking interested now.

"So one of us holds the door shut, while the other two drop stuff on her from either side." Madison's voice held a do I have to explain everything? note, but Emma didn't mind. "Soda, pudding, juice. No witnesses, no way for her to get away from us."

"She might go to Blackwell." Sophia didn't really think this would happen, but she was throwing it out there to see what the others thought.

"What if she does?" Emma snorted. "She didn't get a good look at us last Monday, so even if she says anything, all we have to do is alibi out. Arrange it ahead of time and they'll never pin it on us. What the cops don't see, they can't prove."

"All right then." Sophia gave Madison an approving nod. "We'll do it."

"One more thing." Emma's voice held a note of caution.

"Yeah?" Sophia turned to look at her.

"We don't do anything till then. Make her think we're leaving her alone."

Madison nodded. "Yeah. Good idea."

<><>​

I had to admit to a certain amount of wariness; as welcome as the lucky breaks had been for me on Monday, they couldn't last. But maybe they won't have to. Maybe I can get through this on my own.

It even seemed to be working. Math class had dragged on, certainly, but nobody from Emma's coterie had done anything to mess up my day. Next had been World Affairs, with Madison and Julia. The latter had a gorgeous black eye, albeit mostly concealed with makeup, along with a bandage across the bridge of her nose. I hadn't spoken to them, or even looked at them if I could help it. Madison hadn't tried any pranks, although she and Julia had given me the occasional poisonous glare when Mr Gladly's back was turned.

The third class of the day was Computers, which I shared with none of the regular bullies. I was good with computers, so I could settle down and think things through logically, while doing the work at the same time.

I wasn't quite sure how to process the situation; were they giving up? They had eased off once before, just prior to the Christmas break, which had culminated in the locker incident. But that had gotten the school some very unwelcome attention from the police; had this scared them off?

Part of me wanted to think that their run of bad luck might turn them off bullying me, but I didn't think so. They'd been getting away with it for more than a year. It was probably habit for them.

But yesterday had proven something to me as well; they weren't infallible. They could lose. Given just a little luck and perhaps some forethought, I might just be able to sidestep further attempts. Or at least force them out into the open enough that the teachers and staff were forced to pay attention.

At least, that was the general plan.

<><>​

Habits cut both ways. Emma and her friends had 'torment Taylor' down to a fine art, whereas I had been eating my lunch away from the cafeteria – far too many opportunities for spilled food, spilled drinks, trips, shoves, pinches and other indignities and humiliations, thank you very much – for quite some time.

I didn't eat in the same place every time, for fear that they'd find out and stake the place out, but one of my favoured locations was the upstairs girls' bathroom. Lock myself in a cubicle, eat my lunch, read a book, do some homework, go back down to class. No muss, no fuss, no bother.

I didn't realise that they knew about this ploy until, well, they showed up.

The first I knew of it was when I was sitting on the toilet seat, halfway through my pita wrap, when the door of the bathroom banged open. I froze. I didn't want to rustle the bag and clue anyone into what I was doing, so I kept still and listened. There was a knock on the door, making me jump. I ignored it, but the person on the other side just repeated the knock.

"Occupied," I called out, hesitantly.

In response, I heard muffled giggling and whispering; most of the words were too soft for me to hear, but I thought I heard my name. And I definitely recognised the voices. Emma. Sophia. Madison. Shit, they found me.

This was most definitely not a good thing.

<><>​

I stood up abruptly, letting the brown bag with the last mouthful of my lunch fall to the tiled floor. Rushing for the door, I popped the lock open and pushed. The door didn't budge.

As I pushed harder, I heard noises from the stalls on either side of me. What are they doing? I gathered myself to push even harder and then I heard a crash and a clatter from both sides, interspersed with startled shrieks. Overhead, a bottle of juice – I smelled cranberries – arced over the stall, the globules spilling from the neck just missing me as it vanished from my sight beyond the door. I heard the hollow plastic clatter as it struck the tiled floor while I heaved once more at the cubicle door.

From beyond the door, I heard a startled cry, followed by a heavy thud, as the obstruction gave way.

I pushed the door open all the way and looked down at Sophia Hess; she was lying, winded, in a most uncomfortable position, in what seemed to be a large pool of cranberry juice, which was now soaking into her top and skirt. From the mark on the floor, one of her feet had skidded in the pool, which had come from the bottle that was lying beside her … which I had seen seconds before, flying over the top of the stall. It must've landed just right to spill the juice so she'd step in it. Really?

Sophia, although she gave me a groggy glare of death, didn't seem about to get up and attack me, so I retrieved my bag lunch and backpack from the toilet stall. As I was doing so, I realised that Emma's face was glaring at me from under the divider.

"Emma?" I asked, jolted out of my bemusement. "What the fuck?"

She didn't answer, so I stepped out of the stall once more. I had to see what was going on here.

Looking into Emma's stall, I saw – and burst out laughing. Emma had, I gathered, been standing on the toilet seat in order to reach over the partition and – I presumed – pour juice on me. No, not juice, I corrected myself; soda. The half-empty bottle was floating in the toilet bowl itself, its missing contents all over Emma.

The cause of the mishap was clear. The toilet seat had come loose from the pedestal, going one way while she went the other. And somehow, through some miracle of comic timing, she'd ended up wedged upside-down beside the cistern, with her head almost under the divider between toilets. She was grunting and straining to free herself, her legs jerking spasmodically, but it looked as though she had come down at just the right angle – or wrong angle, from her point of view – for doing that; one of her arms was trapped and she had zero leverage with the other one. In short, she was stuck in a hugely embarrassing position and would require intensive assistance to extricate herself. And possibly the use of heavy machinery.

The story in the stall on the other side was perhaps even funnier. Madison's toilet seat had opted to come loose from its pedestal as well – wait, what? - but instead of going sideways, it had shot out of the stall and come to rest under the sink. She hadn't ended up covered in the contents of her bottle, as Emma had; that bottle was the one that had arced over my stall and contributed to Sophia's catastrophic mishap, but she had ended up stuck in the toilet, butt first, with a small container of chocolate pudding upended on her head, the contents trickling down her face. Her knees were quite literally up around her ears. And as petite as she was, she looked wedged.

I would have given my soul to own a camera, right at that moment. I would have settled for a phone with a camera in it. Heck, I would have accepted a reasonably good sketch artist.

By the time I managed to stumble from the bathroom, I was weeping with laughter. I would have stayed, to enjoy the absolute hilarious awesomeness of the situation even more, but Sophia was beginning to climb to her feet. She was still winded, holding her ribs, but that wouldn't last and I figured it was probably a good idea to absent myself from the situation.

Other girls were just arriving at the bathrooms as I staggered out. They looked at me curiously as I wiped tears of mirth from my eyes. I still couldn't talk, so I just pointed into the the bathrooms and made good my escape.

<><>​

By the end of the next period, the news was all over tenth grade and starting to percolate into the rest of the school. Emergency services had been called in; Madison was eventually pried out of her porcelain prison, while they had to dismantle the toilet beside Emma to get her free. Both were taken away on stretchers; the paramedics didn't think they'd sustained spinal injuries, but it was better by far to get them X-rayed to make sure.

Sophia, who had merely been winded – again – went into a magnificent fit of the sulks. People asking her about what had happened got told to fuck off in no uncertain terms; people asking me, on the other hand, got chapter and verse in between fits of laughter. I knew that Sophia would probably kill me later, but it was still so very worth it.

Several people expressed disbelief that the whole thing had happened at all, but the the first girls in there had taken photos before Sophia chased them out again. Those photos were making their way around the school in a way that underlined the phrase 'going viral'. It turned out that the more popular someone was, the more glee people took from the situation when that person ended up with egg on their face. And boy, did they take some glee from it.

Others had trouble believing that all of this had happened by chance; the number of staggering coincidences required boggled the mind. But I had done nothing and I told them so. They seemed to accept this and went back to admiring the photos. I, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder.

Weird coincidences were starting to follow me around. My life wasn't getting any better – unless I counted in the sheer satisfaction at seeing Emma and company brought down, as well as the fact that they were out of my hair for the moment – but it was becoming clear to me that the bullies were being prevented from tormenting me by incidents that could only be described as crazy random happenstance. Any one of the events of the last two days, taken on its own, could easily be passed off as pure chance, but two separate toilet seats coming free of their moorings at exactly the same time, with a bottle of juice flying over and leaving a pool for Sophia to step in? What were the odds?

Yesterday, Sophia's attempt to steal my clothing had ended when she stepped on the soap; soap that had almost certainly contributed, later on, toward foiling the water balloon plot. Looking at it in a certain way, it could all be explained away logically. As Dad had once told me, dice have no memory. It was perfectly possible for a series of one-in-a-million chances to happen, one after the other, to the same person, for the same end. But plausible? Not so much.

I needed to think about that. In fact, I was strongly considering talking to Dad about it. He had to have seen weirdness happening in his life. If he could match my story with one of his own, then I'd accept it as just one amazingly awesome day. But if he couldn't …

<><>​

I was still thinking about it when the last class ended and I joined the general exodus from the school. Just as I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard Sophia's voice. "There she is."

Turning, I saw Sophia, in the company of four boys. Each of them was eyeing me with intent and moving in my direction. I began edging away, not wanting to let her or them get too close to me. True, whatever guardian angel was watching over me hadn't let her touch me for the last two days, but I couldn't depend on that. I didn't dare.

I got to the edge of the crowd and took off running, along the pavement. Part of my mind told me that I was running away from potential witnesses, people who could even help me against Sophia. The rest of my mind, the more pragmatic part of it, reminded me of all the times that these same people had stood by while Sophia and her friends had bullied me, up to and including locking me in my own locker. I ran faster.

<><>​

When Hebert started running, Sophia glanced around. She couldn't see any of the undercover cops. Perfect. As they started after their prey, she pulled a heavy roll of silver-grey duct tape from her bag and handed it off to Troy, the biggest of the boys she had recruited for this purpose.

Their continued failure to get to Hebert following the locker incident had shaken Sophia a little. She was a winner. She deserved to win. Hebert, by her very nature, was a loser. But she wasn't playing by the rules; she wasn't losing. Through no merit of her own, she was avoiding her very deserved comeuppance at their hands. Well, not today.

All four boys were from the track team; Sophia had gotten their agreement to help her out with this by vaguely suggesting that she might be willing to date one of them if they assisted her. They'd fallen all over themselves to sign up for it. Originally, the idea was for them to chase Hebert on their own while Sophia left them to it, but she wasn't certain that they had the will to continue the chase to its conclusion, so she had decided to go along with them.

The duct tape was her idea. Once they had Hebert, Sophia intended to repay all of the humiliations and embarrassments that had happened to her over the last two days, then leaving the boys to add what refinements they could dream up in order to impress her. She couldn't have Hebert free to run off while this was going on, so binding her with tape was the next best idea. This brand had particularly strong adhesive qualities; Hebert was going to lose some hair. And possibly some skin, if the person removing it wasn't gentle.

They rounded the corner. Hebert was up ahead, running hard. However, while she was skinny, she was in no way fit or athletic. All they had to do was run her down. Prey, meet predator.

Sophia took the lead, adding enough pace to catch up with Hebert in short order. The boys pounded alongside her, then a couple of them drew ahead. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself a little harder. I don't lose, not to Hebert, not to you.

Ahead of them, she saw Hebert look around; her eyes widened and she actually sped up a little. But it was going to be too little, too late. They were bearing down on her like an express train and she had no hope at all of getting away. Behind her, Sophia heard Troy whoop with exhilaration, as well as the zzzrrripppp noise as he pulled a length of duct tape free from the roll.

"Carefu-" she began, just as Ken began to put on a spurt, pulling ahead of her. She never got to finish the word, because Ken tripped and fell. Sophia was too close behind him and she went tumbling as well. The others crashed into her back. Something latched on to her.

Zzzrrripppp. They rolled over and over, cursing and swearing and trying to get loose from one another. But every motion seemed to have the opposite effect from what was intended and she kept hearing that duct tape pulling free of the reel. With each motion, she was less and less able to move freely.

<><>​

I heard the shouting and swearing behind me, far too close behind me; I snatched a glance with my heart in my mouth. The image that I beheld was so compelling that I nearly ran into a telephone pole before I remembered to look where I was going. Slowing to a trot and then a walk, I turned and ventured back the way I had come, staring with absolute fascination at Sophia and her friends.

Sophia glared back up at me, but she couldn't speak, due to the strip of duct tape crossing her mouth, meshed in with the one going right across over the top of her head. She struggled, but it didn't affect her bonds in the slightest.

"Okay …" I let the word draw out, trying to quell the laughter once more welling up from within me. "I get the duct tape bit, Sophia, but could one of you please tell me how you all managed to tie yourselves up with it?"

Those boys whose faces I could see looked utterly mortified, while Sophia looked as though she wanted to kill them, herself, or me, whichever was easier. I looked down at the bunch of them, somehow entangled in yard after yard of tough silvery-grey duct tape, binding their limbs no less efficiently than if they'd intended this result.

I couldn't help it; I began to giggle. "Or," I gasped. "Or is this some kind of weird performance art? Because you should be on the Boardwalk."

I couldn't say any more because I was laughing so hard that my face turned red and my stomach hurt. Sophia was so pissed I thought I could almost hear the steam whistling from her ears, but due to that fortuitous strip of duct tape, she couldn't say a word. And that made it even funnier.

Eventually, I recovered enough to stagger back toward the bus stop. Sophia and the boys would work their way free eventually. I didn't want to be there when they did. I strongly suspected that they might hold it personally that I laughed at their misfortune.

Still, once I was on the bus, I laughed all the way home.

<><>​

As I got into the yard, I checked this time to see if Dad had come home early again. Sure enough, the car was parked alongside the house. Damn it, Dad.

I opened the back door and called out. "Hi, I'm home!"

"Hi," he replied. "I'm in the living room."

"Twice in a row?" I asked as I headed for the door into the living room. "Dad, you're going to get in trouble."

"I got a phone call at work today," he told me as he got up from the sofa.

"What, the school called?" I was puzzled. "Nobody spoke to me about this." Well, I had been distracted in Mr Quinlan's math class, but then, the photos of Emma and Madison had been making the rounds. There hadn't been three students actually paying attention.

"It wasn't the school, Taylor." He looked at me soberly. "Alan Barnes called. He told me some weird story about you putting Emma in the hospital. He hinted at legal action."

I blinked. "Put her – Dad, I didn't touch Emma!"

"All right," he agreed promptly. "So what did happen?"

"Well, one of two things. The first is that Emma and her friends have been spontaneously suffering the worst case of bad luck ever … or …"

"Or?" He tilted his head, looking at me.

I took a deep breath. "Or … I'm a cape."


End of Part Two

Part Three

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Three: Miscommunication Central


The bus rolled past the group of struggling teens. Sophia could see the staring faces from within; worst of all was Hebert's face. She was still laughing. Laughing at me. Nobody laughs at me.

She wrenched against the binding duct tape, straining to form words past the strip which had fallen across her mouth and felt like it was permanently bound there. It didn't happen; all she managed was a faint mewing noise, which infuriated her even more. That makes me sound helpless. I'm not helpless.

She had, of course, a simple way to get out of this. I could go insubstantial, leave it behind. A pause. Unless this adhesive makes it part of me. She thought about it some more. Well, if nothing else, I can get away from these dopes, and pull my way free.

The big problem was, of course, the fact that she would be outing herself in front of four witnesses. Worse, these witnesses would be able to verify that she, a superhero, had talked them into attacking Hebert.

The boys were also struggling, which didn't help; every time she thought she'd achieved any sort of slack in the duct tape, one of them would pull it tight again. She growled behind the tape.

Fuck it, I'll take the chance. Swear them to secrecy. It worked with Emma.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, she prepared to push herself into the shadow-state – then held back, just in time, as a dozen kids trotted around the corner.

"Holy shit, I didn't believe it when Joey texted me."

"I'm seeing it and I still don't believe it."

"Are you seeing this?"

"Someone get a picture!"

"Oh god, this is classic."

"This is better than Emma Barnes."

"It's better than Madison."

"How do you even fucking do that?"

"Geez, get a room, will you?"

"I didn't know she was into bondage."

"Hey guys, can we get you anything? Pillows? Blankets? Lube?"

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Sophia gritted her teeth behind the duct tape. Somebody is going to fucking die for this.

The crowd of kids gathered around them, chattering and laughing. She heard phones click as pictures were taken and, presumably, sent to other people. And then someone knelt beside her; she felt fumbling at the duct tape. Excellent. I'm getting out of this.

The fumbling moved to her belt, and she felt her phone being removed from her pocket. She tried to struggle, to wrench herself free, to turn to look at whoever was robbing her, but she couldn't do any of that. She couldn't even raise the alarm.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!

There was a slap on her ass – one final humiliation – and then the person was gone. With her phone. I've just been robbed. I've just been robbed. This does not happen to me.

But manifestly, it had. Sophia nearly ruptured herself trying to turn her head, to see who had taken them, but it was too late. Another phone clicked, capturing her expression.

Then – and only then – did she hear sirens approaching. The crowd began to disperse as the police car came into sight; it pulled up alongside Sophia and the boys. The officers got out and approached the group; one of them pushed his cap back and scratched his head.

"Well," he mused out loud. "Now I really have seen everything."

Sophia's list was really long by now, but she added him to it anyway.

<><>​

She winced as the duct tape was pulled away from her mouth. She hadn't been wrong, before; the adhesive did feel as though it was removing skin as well as hair. "Fuck!" she screamed. "Fuck fuck fuuuuuccccckkkk!"

The police officers were restraining themselves from laughing, but only just, as they cut the five teens from the tangle of duct tape. For their part, the boys were a lot more subdued than Sophia, letting her take the lead.

Sophia subsided, glaring at everyone around her. The senior officer of the two pulled out his notebook. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, miss, would you like to tell us how this happened?"

Sophia took a deep breath. "I -" She paused, riffling through options.

Fuck.

"It was an accident." She ground the words out.

"An accident." The other officer snorted with laughter. "Five of you get wound up with duct tape and it's an accident?"

"Yeah," supplied one of the boys. "Like she said. It was an accident." He peeled duct tape from his clothing; it really didn't want to let go.

Sophia rounded on him. "You had a pocket-knife! I could feel it digging into my butt! Why didn't you get that out and cut us free?"

"Uh …" He seemed to want to look anywhere but her.

"What?"

"Uh, that … wasn't a pocket-knife."

They had to tase her to get her off of him.

<><>​

As she exited the police station, Sophia felt her 'social worker' take her arm. "Sophia, what happened? Why did you attack that boy?"

Sophia clenched her teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why is there a big strip of missing hair over the top of your head?"

She clenched her teeth harder. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, is that where the duct tape -"

"Yes, that's where the duct tape was. Now can you just let it go?"

The woman looked at her directly. "I can't help you if you won't talk to me. What's happening here?"

Sophia felt a certainty unfolding in her mind. I know what happened. "What's happening here is that you're driving me to the PRT building, and not asking any more stupid fucking questions."

<><>​

She rehearsed the speech in her mind as she rode the lift up in the PRT building.

There is a Master-class cape loose at Winslow High. Her name is Taylor Hebert. She forced me and my friends to harm ourselves for her enjoyment. She belongs in the Birdcage.

As the lift came to a halt on the appropriate floor, she allowed herself a long-awaited snarl of triumph. Suck on that, Hebert. I don't lose.

Stepping out of the elevator, she strode along the corridor toward Director Piggot's office.

<><>​

Emily Piggot looked up at the knock on the door. A quick glance at her day planner indicated that she didn't have any appointments scheduled. This had better be good. "Enter!" she called.

The door opened and Shadow Stalker ... well, stalked in. Her fists were clenched and her whole posture bespoke anger; Emily could tell that much. Beyond that, however, there wasn't much of a clue as to what was going on. Shadow Stalker nearly always seemed to be angry or upset over something.

"I presume you're here for something important," stated Emily.

Shadow Stalker took a deep breath. "Yeah," she replied. "Got something you really need to hear about."

Emily tilted her head. "Is this anything to do with the incident today, where you were charged with several counts of assault and battery to a fellow student of Winslow?" Her tone, deceptively light, held a certain amount of weight behind it.

"I can explain that," Sophia gritted.

"Explain it? You broke his nose, fractured his cheekbone, and kicked him repeatedly in the testicles!" Emily exclaimed. "In front of two police officers! After you were found duct-taped to him and three other boys! Can you explain that, too?"

Shadow Stalker clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles had to be white under the gloves. "Yes. It's why I'm here to talk to you now."

"And you couldn't simply leave me a message, or send an email?"

The Ward shook her head. "My phone was stolen. And it's really too important to put into an email. So I came straight here."

Emily nodded. "Very well. I will receive your report now."

<><>​

Finally. Sophia took a breath. "There's a -"

Piggot's phone rang. She held up a finger as she picked it up. "I have to get this."

Sophia ground to a halt, gritting her teeth. Impatiently, she watched Piggot on the phone.

"Yes … got it … yes … all right … okay … yes … okay … fine … done."

Piggot put the phone down and laced her fingers before her. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'm saying that there's a -"

Piggot's mobile rang, vibrating furiously on the desk. "Excuse me," muttered the Director, picking it up. She frowned at the number on the screen, then answered it. "Yes?"

Sophia clenched her fists inside her gloves. Oh, for fuck's sake. Come on. It shouldn't be so hard to simply tell her what the fuck is going on, and get Hebert put in her place forever. Fuck, I don't even care if she isn't a cape. She deserves this anyway.

On the phone, Piggot was still blathering on. "Pardon? No … no, I think you have the wrong number … no, this is the PRT building … Parahuman Response Teams … yes, yes, I'm sure. I'm the Director … no, I'm not Director Costa-Brown, I'm Director Piggot … no, I'm not joking … yes, I am serious … no, I advise you to check your number before you call again … goodbye."

Heaving a sigh of aggravation, she clicked the button to end the call, then put the mobile down again.

"Apologies," she told Sophia. "Now, you had something to say?"

"Yes," gritted Sophia. "I do have something to say."

Piggot cleared her throat warningly. "Tone," she warned Sophia.

Sophia pressed her lips together behind her mask, and took several deep breaths. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay."

"I'm waiting," prompted Piggot.

"Right," Sophia began yet again. "Director Piggot, there's a -"

A knock on the door interrupted her. She turned as it opened. The Deputy Director leaned in through the doorway.

"Yes, Mr Renick?" asked Piggot.

"I'm just going down to the canteen for a bite to eat," Renick offered. "Did you want me to get you anything?"

Piggot considered that. She wasn't feeling particularly hungry. "No thank you, Mr Renick. I appreciate the offer, though."

"Not a problem, Director." Renick withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him. The Director looked back at Sophia.

"You were saying, Shadow Stalker?" she asked.

Sophia drew a deep breath. Screaming at the Director would not help. "Right. There's a -"

The computer on Piggot's desk beeped loudly, drawing the Director's eyes to the screen. "One moment," she interrupted, holding up a finger.

"No, but there's a -"

"Miss Hess, this is important," Piggot warned her, eyes skimming the screen. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"But what I've got to tell you can't wait!" shouted Sophia, forgetting her decision not to scream at the Director.

Piggot turned to look at her, her gaze very cold indeed. "You will not use that tone of voice on me again," she snapped. "I have a very high priority email here that I have to look over."

"But this is important," insisted Sophia, trying not to shout again. "There's a -"

"No," snapped Piggot. "You will not interrupt me. You will listen. I'm a busy woman. I have work to do. I do not need you wasting my time like this. Now, you will wait till I have finished reading this email, and then you will say what needs to be said. Do you understand?"

Sophia's fists clenched again, and she ground her teeth together.

"I said, do you understand?" Piggot was in full-on bureaucrat mode now. There would be no talking to her.

Reluctantly, Sophia nodded. "Yes," she conceded. "I understand."

Piggot nodded curtly. "Good." She looked back at the email.

Sophia put her hands behind her back, twining her fingers together until they hurt. She had to tell Piggot about this. As much as Sophia wanted to put Hebert into her place personally, a Master-class like that had to be dealt with at a distance. And the best way to do that was by using the PRT as a blunt object. But to do that, she needed the PRT to cooperate and take her seriously. Lashing out was not the best way to get that done.

Eventually, Piggot finished reading the email. She nodded once, then looked up at Sophia. "Very well. What was the matter that you wished to speak to me about?"

Sophia took a deep breath. "There's a -"

And then the Endbringer sirens went off.

<><>​

"Oh, come on!" screamed Shadow Stalker. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

Emily was barely listening. She snatched up the phone and stabbed numbers on the keypad.

"Ops," a voice reported in her ear.

"Talk to me," she ordered. "Which one is it?"

"We don't know. We're not even sure if there is an Endbringer."

"Explain." From the corner of her eye, she spotted Shadow Stalker digging a pencil and pad from a pouch on her belt.

"About thirty seconds ago, our sensory equipment suffered a massive glitch. Some sort of power spike. It ended up profiling sort of like an Endbringer, so the computer set off the alarm just in case. We're double-checking all our readings right now."

Shadow Stalker placed the pad on the desk and began to write. She was two words in when the point broke. Throwing the pencil to the floor, she stamped on it.

"Triple-check them," Emily ordered curtly. Wordlessly, she pushed a mug full of pens across the desk to Shadow Stalker. The girl plucked one out and bent over the pad again.

"Will do, ma'am. Do you want to stay on the line, or should we call you back?"

The first pen refused to work at all. The second managed a bare squiggle of ink before it died. Emily watched, bemused to the point that she almost lost track of what the man in Ops was saying.

"Ah, no, I need you to give this your full attention. Call me back if this is something we really have to worry about."

Shadow Stalker tried another pen. The nib came off and deluged the pad in ink.

"Yes, ma'am. Will do."

"Good." Emily hung up, then took her gold-plated pen from her pocket. It was engraved with her unit's motto: Neque receptus, non deditio. Blandly, she offered it across the desk to Shadow Stalker.

Snatching it, the Ward ripped off the ink-covered page and clicked the pen. The click had authority behind it, as befitted a one hundred fifty dollar precision writing implement. However, what came next should not have happened; Emily watched in disbelief as the pen came apart in Shadow Stalker's hand, the powerful spring propelling bits and pieces of the mechanism in all directions.

With a howl of wordless rage, Shadow Stalker dropped the barrel of the pen, snatched a permanent marker from the cup, and spun around. She stomped over to the wall and began to write in large sweeping strokes.

Emily came to her feet, ignoring the familiar twinge from her legs. "Don't you dare write on my -"

A flicker out of the corner of her eyes warned her; old reflexes took over and she dived to the floor. Behind her, a shattering crash heralded the demise of her office window. She shielded her head with her arms as fragments of glass cascaded around her and something barrelled over her desk. Another crash resounded through the room, this one sounding more like drywall.

Cautiously, shedding bits and pieces of her window, she got up and looked over the desk. There was, within the settling dust, a large hole in her office wall. Outside, in the corridor, something was going on; due to the dust, she couldn't tell exactly what it was, but there seemed to be at least two people involved, plus a lot of squawking.

A white feather drifted to her desk. She stared at it.

<><>​

"It was the seagulls." Aegis, at least, seemed to be relatively unhurt. Piggot watched as he pulled a long sliver of glass from his arm; the wound didn't even bleed. Such a minor injury would be closed by the end of the day and healed by the time the week was up. He wouldn't even need bandaging. For just a moment, she envied him.

"The seagulls." Emily's voice was flat. There were more feathers in here, all originating from one very live and very noisy seabird, which had since escaped out the window in the confusion. On the upside, the Endbringer sirens had ceased to wail. "How do seagulls come into this?"

"Well, when the sirens went off, I was on patrol," he explained. "I came back as fast as I could. I got a reflection the sun off the building in my eyes as I was just gaining altitude to land on the roof. Then a flock of seagulls must have gotten in the way. One got right in my face, squawking and flapping. I didn't pull up in time."

"You most certainly did not." She looked down the hall a little way, to where paramedics were loading Shadow Stalker on to a stretcher. "How is she?"

"She's stable," one of them reported. "A few broken ribs and a broken collarbone. We don't think there was a spinal injury but we've got her immobilised anyway until that can be checked out. But she's awake now."

"Good." Piggot walked over and knelt next to the injured girl. Her knees protested, but she ignored them. "Shadow Stalker. Can you hear me?"

Shadow-Stalker's head was in a brace, so it couldn't move, but the girl's eyes rolled toward her. "Unh?"

"What was it you were trying to tell me?"

"Uh." The Ward seemed to be trying to think. "Director." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes?"

"It's not my fault."

"What's not your fault?"

"The bullshit magic space whale made me paint the eggs purple. I didn't mean to. It's in my brain."

Piggot looked accusingly at the paramedic. "I thought you said she was awake."

"She is," the man replied. "I didn't say she was lucid. She's got a huge bump on her head. There might be a concussion involved."

With an effort, Piggot stood again. "Take her away."

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned to Aegis. "Do you have any idea what she was talking about?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am. Not a clue."

She grimaced. "Well, the window and the wall will come out of your salary. Next time, be more careful."

His expression mirrored hers. "Yes, ma'am."

"Get out of my sight." She stumped back into her office.

I wonder what she wanted to tell me.

Letting out a sigh, she brushed glass from her chair. That was a serious string of bad luck. She paused. Wait a minute ...


End of Part Three

Part Four

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Four: Surprise!


Taylor

Dad's face got even more serious. "Taylor, talk to me. Why do you think you might be a cape?"

Dropping my bag on the floor, I started to pace back and forth; I had too much energy in me to stand still. "Because weird shit's been happening all day. People trying to get at me and failing."

He frowned. "Get at you?"

I gestured vaguely. "Prank me. Bully me."

"Christ." In two long strides, he was across the room, lifting the phone off of the hook.

"Dad!" He started pressing buttons. "Dad!"

Pausing, he turned toward me. "What?"

"Who are you calling?"

"Who else? The police. And the school. I should have known. Nothing's changed, has it?"

I shook my head. "It's not the way you think it is."

Slowly, he put the phone down again. "Explain."

I began to pace once more. "For the last two days, they've been trying to prank me again. And it's been backfiring on them, dramatically. Yesterday, I thought I was just lucky. Today … it was more than luck. A lot more."

"What do you mean, a lot more?"

"Come on, I'll show you." I headed for the stairs.

"Show me what?" Puzzled, he followed.

"You'll see."

<><>​

Emily

"Renick. A word, if you will."

Deputy Director Paul Renick looked up from his terminal; beside him, a half-eaten sandwich rested on a paper plate. "Director," he greeted her, rising to his feet. "I'm glad you're okay."

She nodded briefly. "Thanks." Closing the door behind her, she approached his desk. "I need to run something past you. Get your input. I don't need doubletalk and I don't want you to tell me what you think I want to hear."

"Well, of course." He pulled the chair out from behind his desk and offered it to her. "Have a seat."

She took it, lowered herself into it; it creaked under her weight. "Thank you. Now, you know the basics of what just happened to my office."

"Well, yes. I'll be speaking to Aegis very firmly when I get the chance."

A shake of the head. "There's more to it than that. Shadow Stalker was coming to me about something. Trying to give me some information."

"What was the information?"

"That's just it. She was prevented from giving it to me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Prevented?"

"She came into my office, very agitated. Told me she wanted to warn me about something. Began to speak. The following things interrupted her." Raising a hand, she ticked off points. "Phone call. Phone call on my mobile that was a wrong number. You came in to ask if I wanted anything from the canteen."

He blinked. "I was hungry."

"And you've done it before, yes." Her voice was impatient. "The point is in the timing. After you, there was that email on S-class threats and then the Endbringer siren."

"Wasn't that a computer glitch?"

"It was, but again – timing." She raised a finger. "While I was on the phone to Ops, she decided to write me a note. Her pencil broke. I gave her my pen mug. She picked two pens that didn't work and one that put ink all over her pad. Then I gave her my pen."

His eyes flicked to the pocket of her jacket. "Uh, where is it?"

Her lips compressed. "It came apart in her hand. There are bits and pieces all over my office. The people cleaning up have orders to retrieve all the bits intact."

"Okay, that's a bit beyond the normal." He rubbed his chin. "What happened next?"

"She took a permanent marker and started to write on the wall. And that was when Aegis came through the window. He put her through the same bit of wall she was writing on."

"That's got to be more than a coincidence."

She nodded. "Precisely what I was thinking. And this also happened with perfect timing. I even had time to duck out of the way."

Now he had a frown on his face. "This is starting to sound like far more than random chance."

She heard a certain note in his voice. "But … ?"

"But it would also be extremely difficult to set up deliberately, with that sort of timing."

She nodded. "Yes, the timing. To have any one of those incidents, or even two or three in a row, are understandable. We've had days like that. But."

"But all that bad luck, one bit after the other, precisely timed to prevent her from telling you … what?"

"I'm beginning to get an idea of the shape of it," she growled. "Something that can manipulate both people and random events. A cape who's almost certainly got it in for Shadow Stalker for some reason." She shook her head. "But they don't want her dead, just not telling me what she knows. Two feet either way and Aegis would have put her through a wall brace. Broken back, fractured skull, at the very least. She could be dead right now. But she's only in the hospital."

"Well, maybe …" He paused.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe she was trying to warn you about whoever was doing this to her. And that the cape was doing it to stop her from warning you. But like you said, they didn't want her dead."

She paused, thinking about it, then shook her head. "No, it doesn't follow. Whoever this is can manipulate, well, probability, on a very precise scale. The blatant way they did it almost ensures that I know that something's going on, and that I'll figure out what it is. That defeats their purpose."

He glanced around the room. She frowned. "What?"

"Just waiting for something to happen to stop us from talking about this."

"Maybe this hypothetical cape's got all his attention focused on Shadow Stalker." She rubbed her chin. "If she wanted to warn us about such a cape … hmm. Could be that she's already encountered him or her. There was the duct tape incident, just after school."

"I heard about that, but not the details." Renick looked intrigued.

She pointed at his terminal. "You've got a computer. Call up social media. See what hits there have been on Sophia Hess over the last few hours. Because with something like that, there's almost certainly going to be pictures."

<><>​

Taylor

I sat at the computer in my room, bringing up social media pages. Dad leaned over my shoulder, looking at the images displayed.

"Christ, I see what you mean." He tried hard not to laugh, but the pictures on the screen were just too funny. "How in hell did they end up like that?"

"Well, as far as I can tell," I replied, "Emma and Madison were standing on the toilet lids, preparing to douse me in juice and soda, while Sophia held the door shut. Not sure what the pudding was all about, though."

"And Sophia?" He indicated the third series of pictures. They were … weirdly compelling. Hard to look away from.

"They were chasing me with duct tape. Apparently you shouldn't run with that."

"Apparently not," he agreed, between chuckles. "Oh, man. I don't know if I could do that on purpose, let alone by accident."

"Which is why I think I'm a cape," I explained. "I think I bring bad luck to people who are trying to harm me." Quickly, I sketched in what had happened on Monday.

"But not to anyone else?"

"Um." I paused. "I overheard the janitor saying that he'd spilled coffee on himself and he was going to his office to clean himself up. That was the only reason he was going past my locker. And that police officer did say that they lost an important case just in time to get mine."

He took his glasses off and began to polish them. "So … whatever this is, it inflicts bad luck to help you or to stop people from hurting you."

"I guess." I frowned. "But nothing good has happened. I haven't found any lost wallets full of money, or won a free trip to Hawaii or anything like that."

"Hey." His voice was severe. "You got out of that locker, right? All those pranks against you failed, right? Don't be greedy."

Abashed, I nodded. "Right, sorry, Dad."

"Though if you do find any wallets full of cash, I want half."

His expression was almost deadpan enough to fool me; I shoved him. "Dad, really?"

His smile broke through again. "No. Seriously, though, you have to remember that if you do find a wallet full of cash, it means that someone's lost a wallet full of cash. Okay?"

"Okay." I sighed. "But now I'm worried."

"Worried about what?" His glasses went back on his face.

"I didn't mean for this power to do any of that." I pointed at the pictures on the screen. "I didn't even know I had powers, or that it was even doing that."

"Huh." He frowned. "What if you don't actually have powers?"

"What?" I was startled. "But – everything that's happened -"

"No, no, hear me out." He raised a finger. "What if it's someone else around the school who's got the powers, and has decided to protect you with them?"

"What, without telling me?"

A shrug. "Secret identities are a thing. And if you're getting bullied that regularly, people might not want to be seen to be protecting you."

I thought about that for a moment. "But … there was nobody around when I was in the bathroom stall. Nobody but Emma and Sophia and Madison."

"Nobody that you saw. They could have been outside and you wouldn't have known." He considered that. "Or invisible, or something. In fact, invisibility or telekinesis could probably do exactly what we're seeing here."

"So wait," I protested. "You're saying that I had some invisible person hanging around while I was in the shower? That's majorly creepy, right there!"

"Hmm." He considered that. "Might be a girl."

"Only makes it slightly less creepy," I pointed out. "And this guardian angel's doing this stuff without asking me or being asked to do it. People could get hurt."

"Only because they're trying to hurt you," Dad pointed out carefully.

"Still, what if someone decides that I'm a cape because of all this? And comes after you? Or if the PRT decides that I'm a dangerous out-of-control cape and tries to shut me down?"

Dad rubbed his chin. "Well, there is one thing we can do."

<><>​

Emily

Renick tried to hide a smirk. "Okay, I'm convinced. This isn't random chance."

Emily repressed the urge to laugh; the images were indeed highly amusing. But that wasn't the point. "You're correct, of course. This is the work of outside forces. What happened to those other two girls, as well as Shadow Stalker, is definitely worth looking into. Every instinct is telling me that there's a cape at the bottom of this."

He frowned. "Are you thinking Master?"

"No." She shook her head. "Shaker. What happened in my office was the work of something that could manipulate random incidents to give them precise timing. Probability manipulation. All aimed at preventing Shadow Stalker from saying what she wanted to say."

"And she kept trying to say it, which put her in the hospital." Renick's expression was grim.

"So whoever this is, they don't care about the people they hurt," she replied. "This could be a problem."

"No, this is a problem." Renick pointed at the image of Sophia Hess, bound in duct tape. "Whoever this is targeted her in both civilian and heroic identities. He or she knows who Shadow Stalker is behind the mask. And isn't worried about attacking her either way."

Emily grimaced. "Damn it. If it's not one thing …"

Her mobile rang; surprised, she glanced down and hooked it from her pocket. "Director Piggot here."

"Director, this is Lieutenant Bronson, down in the lobby. Two people just came in, a girl and an older guy. The girl wants to talk to you. She says it's about what happened at Winslow today."

She stared at Renick, her eyes full of surmise. "Escort them up at once."

<><>​

Taylor

About five minutes out from home, the Endbringer sirens started wailing. I turned to Dad. "That doesn't sound good at all."

He leaned down and switched on the radio. Soft country music spilled out of it. No bulletins, no warnings, nothing. Just the music. "That's odd."

"Maybe it's a drill or something?"

"Well, just in case it isn't, I'll head for the Central Library shelter. It's closest."

"Good idea." We kept listening for anything Endbringer-related on the radio for the next few minutes, but nothing came up. Traffic was beginning to get hectic, with multiple small collisions and snarls, but nothing came near us; it was almost as if the road were being cleared for us, giving us a clear path. I didn't say anything and nor did Dad. Neither of us wanted to break the spell.

And then the sirens just quit sounding. I looked around, confused. "Maybe it was a mistake?"

Dad shook his head. "They don't make mistakes with that sort of thing." Soft music continued to roll from the speakers.

"Right," I stated. "So, uh, yeah, the PRT building?" I had been almost relieved when the sirens went off, because that would delay the inevitable. But there was no Endbringer. There was just me and Dad and my guardian angel. I had to see this through.

<><>​

Emily

Two people were escorted into the conference room by the PRT soldiers. The first was a middle-aged man, tall and skinny, with a weak chin and a balding head. His glasses gave him a slight air of bewilderment. Emily assessed him with a glance, then turned to the girl.

She was also tall and skinny, wearing sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt and round-lensed glasses. Long dark hair spilled down her back, but she had his eyes. If these aren't father and daughter, I will eat my desk.

Emily rose and held out her hand. "Director Emily Piggot. And you are …?"

The man stepped forward, accepting the handshake. "Danny Hebert. This is my daughter Taylor."

"Mr Hebert, pleased to meet you." She shook his hand. Have a seat."

Each of them drew out a chair and sat down; she took her own seat once more. Lacing her fingers before her, she eyed them closely.

"Thank you for seeing us so quickly." That was Hebert; his daughter seemed to be just sitting, quietly nervous.

"I will admit, the happenings today at Winslow have certainly gained my attention." Piggot's tone was grimly amused. "I did not expect someone to turn up on my doorstep about them." She paused a beat, focusing her attention on the girl. "Why are you here, by the way?"

The girl glanced at her father, then back at Emily. "All of this … it's not me. I'm not controlling it. But things are happening. I wanted to warn you before things got too far out of control, before someone got badly hurt." She blinked. "Wait, you already knew about this?"

A single nod. I love moments like this. "We're aware of what's been happening. However, you say it isn't you?"

"No, I don't think it is," Taylor told her. "You see -"

Emily held up a hand. "One moment." Taking a digital recorder from her pocket, she placed it on the table and pressed the button to start recording. "This is Director Emily Piggot of PRT East North East, commencing interview on … the eleventh of January, two thousand eleven. The time is … five fifteen. I am interviewing Danny and Taylor Hebert regarding potential cape-related activities that have being going on at Winslow High. Taylor claims that while the events are connected to her, she's not responsible for them. Taylor?"

"Okay, um. I first started noticing weird things happening yesterday. I've been getting bullied, kind of a lot, and I had to spend a week away from school, but when I came back they tried to start it up again. But it all started going wrong."

Emily leaned forward slightly. "Define 'going wrong'."

<><>​

Taylor

I took a deep breath, tried to think back. "Um, on Monday, they were trying to target me in dodge ball, but they kept hitting each other. And then Sophia tried to steal my clothes when I was in the shower -"

"Hold up a moment." Director Piggot's tone was mildly curious. "For the record, what's this Sophia's full name?"

"Sophia Hess. She's one of the three people who's been really bullying me the most."

Piggot tilted her head to one side, very slightly. "And the other two?"

"Uh, Emma Barnes and Madison Clements."

A nod from the Director prompted me to go on. "Thank you. Proceed. What happened when Sophia Hess tried to steal your clothes?"

"She stepped on a bar of soap and fell over. She was too winded to stop me from getting my clothes back from her. And then later when all three of them tried to ambush me with water balloons, they somehow ended up falling all over each other and getting themselves with their own water balloons."

A stifled snort from the Director made me pause; I could see that the woman had her lips pressed tightly together. Piggot took a deep breath through her nostrils, then nodded. "Go on. What happened next?"

Feeling more confident, I went on. "Well, they left me alone for the rest of the day. But today, they tried to get me with juice and soda in the bathrooms. Standing on toilet seats and pouring them over the top of the partition."

"And they somehow slipped and ended up in those ridiculous positions," filled in Piggot. "I've seen the photos."

"Both toilet seats came off at the same time," I clarified. "I saw them."

Piggot raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. For a coincidence, that is."

"I was starting to wonder, even then," I admitted. "But it wasn't until Sophia tried to chase me down with some boys that things really started getting bizarre."

"This is the incident where they managed to tie themselves up with the duct tape, correct?"

I nodded earnestly. "Yeah. But it's the bathroom incident that's got me worried."

The Director leaned back in her chair. "Worried?"

"Well, if it's not me, and I know I'm not doing it deliberately," I explained, "then there's got to be someone else doing it. A guardian angel. Which is why I'm here."

"A guardian angel." There was a certain amount of scepticism in Piggot's voice.

"Well, that's what I'm calling whoever it is," I told her. "Personally, I'm thrilled that I've got a guardian angel. I haven't had to watch my back in school for two whole days. If he'd just tell me who he was, I'd thank him from the bottom of my heart. But I'd also ask him to ease up a little. So far he hasn't gone too far over the top, but I'm scared that he might hurt someone badly."

"Too late," Piggot told me flatly. "Someone has been hurt badly."

My stomach felt as though it was going to drop to about the level of my sneakers. "Oh god. Who? How?"

"Your friend Sophia Hess." I wanted to correct her, inform her that Sophia wasn't my friend, but Piggot was going on. "She's in the hospital right now with a broken collarbone, several broken ribs and what may turn out to be a severe concussion. All due to your so-called 'guardian angel'."

"No, that's impossible," I protested. "I saw her when she got duct taped. She was fine. Maybe a little gravel rash, but that would be all of it."

<><>​

Emily

It was possible, Emily assumed, that the Hebert girl was good enough at acting to fool her. Possible, but very unlikely; the look of shock on the teen's face would have been hard to counterfeit. So she's telling the truth. Or thinks she is. A huge point in her favour, of course, was the fact that she had come in to tell the PRT what was happening. Or what she thought was happening. In my experience, capes don't usually just go around secretly helping people for the fun of it. There's always a price to pay.

"That's not where she acquired the injuries," Piggot told the girl. "She figured out there was a cape involved just a little bit before you did, and came in to tell us about it. Or at least I'm guessing that's what she was trying to do."

She didn't miss the flare of fear in Taylor's eyes. It wasn't hard to decipher; from the moment that Sophia Hess had been named as a bully, pieces of the puzzle had begun to click together. She still didn't have the whole picture, but there was enough there to guess at the rest. She thinks that Shadow Stalker wanted to bad-mouth her to the PRT. Which is possibly correct. She was certainly angry enough. And if Shadow Stalker has been bullying her enough to get the attention of this 'guardian angel', then the duct tape would definitely make sense.

"So what did she say about me?"

Piggot gave her a wry smile. "Absolutely nothing. Every time she tried to pass on whatever information she had, she was interrupted." She paused, thinking about it. "About a dozen times, all told."

"So how did she come to be injured?" That was the father, Danny.

"The last interruption came as she was trying to write it on my office wall," Piggot explained. "Aegis was distracted by a flock of seagulls and crashed through my office window. He then put Miss Hess through the wall she was writing on."

<><>​

Taylor

I stared at Dad and he stared at me. "Okay, there's two things that really worry me about that," I told the Director. "First, the fact that this was happening while I was still at home. The second thing is that I don't see how that could have been done with telekinesis."

"Unless Aegis was pulled through the window?" Dad suggested.

The Director shook her head firmly. "I spoke with him at length and he confirmed that he was just coming in too low. Plus, the timing was incredibly precise. It was with everything that happened to her. There is no way that anyone could have manoeuvred them into just the right positions at the right time, not to mention have two different people call me up at just the right times, without something far beyond simple telekinesis."

I was lost. "Beyond …?" I asked blankly.

"Probability manipulation," she explained briskly. "Changing the likelihood of some specific event happening until it's either inevitable or impossible." She laced her fingers together and looked at me over them. "Now, from your description and from what I understand of the events so far, you are correct in being worried abut your 'guardian angel'. So far, he's only escalated events, turning the tables on your bullies. But what if he decides that someone poses a threat to your life? Will he kill to protect you, even if it turns out that he's wrong, later on?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "I don't even know who might be doing it. I don't have any friends in Winslow." Well, maybe Greg Veder, I amended silently.

"Are you certain?" the Director asked.

"Okay, there's one guy who kind of likes me," I told her, "but he's a bit of a creeper. Also, he was nowhere near me any of the times it happened." I paused. "Except once, in World Affairs class. But not any of the other times. Also, if he was protecting me, he'd be calling me up and telling me about it. The boy can't keep a secret."

"I'll have to take your word about his lack of discretion," she replied thoughtfully. "But the questions to consider are twofold: what does your 'guardian angel' consider sufficient reason to use his powers on your behalf, and what level of surveillance does he have on you in order to know when to use them?"

"Well, if this Sophia was affected by his powers while we were still at home, he must have been focusing on her, not on him," Danny suggested. "Which means he can switch surveillance targets. And that he can tell if someone is about to do something to affect Taylor adversely."

"Well, she could have been trying to talk about something else altogether," I pointed out. "Although, knowing how vindictive she can be, I'd say that's not totally likely."

"Just as a side-note, I'll need full disclosure on her bullying activities, so that I can pass them on to the appropriate authorities," the Director noted casually. "I may not have jurisdiction over non-parahumans, but that doesn't mean that I'm willing to let something like that slide."

"Don't forget Emma and Madison too," I told her. "They're just as bad."

"Oh yes, of course," she agreed. "So, regarding your 'guardian angel'. Does he seem to be willing to strike at innocent targets, or bring disproportionate punishment on people trying to prank you?"

I thought about that for a moment. "Not that I could see, in either circumstance. But the janitor had spilled coffee on himself and the police had lost an important case. Those two incidents worked out to my favour, but it involved other people having bad luck."

She frowned. "I didn't think the police were involved in this situation. And what does the janitor have to do with it?"

I blinked. "Uh, you didn't know?"

Her frown deepened. "Didn't know what?"

Dad cleared his throat. "Monday last week, Taylor was locked into her locker by some of the bullies. She can't prove that it was any of the three main ones, but by all accounts it was very nasty in there. The janitor who let her out had just spilled coffee on himself and only went that way because he was going to clean himself off. And the police have taken notice because they had a major case fall through just that day."

Piggot's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Well, that puts an interesting spin on matters. The locker was very nasty, you say?"

I shuddered. "Imagine sharing a vertical steel coffin with the worst toxic waste imaginable. Then square it. That's about one percent of what it was like. I still can't get to sleep with the lights off."

"Hmm." She rubbed her chin. "Excuse me a moment." Standing up, she left the room, taking the voice recorder with her.

I shared a glance with Dad. "Okay, that was a bit weird," I murmured.

"Well, at least she's sympathetic," he pointed out. "And she believes you."

"That is something," I agreed, then paused. "Is it just me, or is she showing a tiny bit more interest in Sophia than Emma or Madison?"

"Huh." He seemed to think about that for a moment. "It's possible. I didn't notice. Though I found it interesting that she was talking to Sophia in her office when Aegis came visiting. We had to come in with news of a potentially dangerous cape. She just walked in off of the street, and still got to talk to the Director face-to-face."

"Yeah," I replied. "I -" The door opened again, and I shut up.

<><>​

Emily

Having taken care of preparations, she re-entered the room and sat down. "So, where were we?"

"You were just talking about how what happened last Monday puts an interesting spin on things." Dad looked interested. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Well, it gives us more data points to work with, for one thing." She smiled blandly. "I'm presuming you skipped school until this week?"

"Uh, yeah," Taylor agreed. "Dad took care of me. I took a lot of showers, the first few days. At least now I can work up a sweat without wanting to run screaming."

Emily looked directly at her. "Well, take it from me that experiences like that will change you," she told me softly. "They will always be with you. There's no getting away from that fact. However, it's up to you what you do with that."

Taylor opened her mouth to reply, but the words never came out, because at that moment the door opened. A PRT soldier stood there; incongruously, in one hand, he held a bright red plastic bucket.

Taking a step into the room, he hoisted the bucket and let fly with the contents. They were supposed to go all over Taylor – those were his specific orders – but at the last moment, he got one foot caught behind the other. The bucket turned, and Emily found herself deluged with cold tap water. The soldier ended up face-down on the floor, the bucket on his head.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the dribble of water from Emily's soaked clothing on to the floor. Then the soldier scrambled to his feet, fighting to drag the bucket from his head. "Ma'am, sorry, ma'am," he blurted. "I didn't mean – I tripped -"

"Quite all right, Corporal," she told him. "I kind of expected that to happen." She rose to her feet and gestured to the other two. "Come on. The corporal needs to find a mop and clean up this mess. I, on the other hand, need to change. We can talk some more afterward."

<><>​

Taylor

"Okay, what the heck happened there?"

As I spoke, I took a sandwich and nibbled on it. Egg salad, not too bad.

Dad poured hot water into his coffee cup from the electric jug – we had been moved to a lunch room while the Director got changed – and added milk before stirring. He seemed to take his time about thinking over his answer, but he got there eventually.

"I think that was a test," he decided. "A test for your guardian angel. She gave that soldier the order to douse you with a bucket of water. The prank rebounded on her for the most part, but the soldier tripped and got the bucket on his head for his part in it."

"Yeah, I pretty well got that bit," I agreed, finishing off the sandwich and grabbing another. "But why? She knew that it was all true. She would have seen it with Sophia. In fact, she expected more or less that very thing to happen. She even said as much."

He sipped at the coffee. "I think it was a test for the guardian angel, not to prove that he exists. Emma, Sophia, Madison, they all had lots of malice toward you, so they got punished very thoroughly. Arranging for you to be doused in cold water required some sort of punishment, but there was no malice in it, so she simply got doused instead. Tit for tat."

"Precisely." The door opened and Director Piggot entered. Her suit, identical to the one she had been wearing before, was dry. She showed no other signs of the incident with the bucket. "I had my suspicions, so I set up the situation. Besides, there's something else that you need to know about your guardian angel."

I turned to face her. "What's that?"

She waited until Dad and I were giving her our complete and undivided attention.

"He doesn't exist."


End of Part Four

Part Five

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Five: Gathering Troubles


Emily

She sat back in her chair and awaited the reaction from the two people before her. It wasn't long in coming.

"Wait, what? That can't be right." That was the father, Danny. He frowned as the full impact of her words registered on him. "You're saying … it's Taylor?"

Taylor, on the other hand, looked at her father then back at Emily. "What? I don't have a guardian angel? But …"

Then it was Danny's turn again. "Seriously, I think you'd better explain that."

The Director laced her fingers on the desk in front of her. "I've been doing this job a long time. While powers come in more variations than even the old-style comic book writers could imagine, there are some aspects that show up, again and again. The first one is that powers are direct. They don't do things half-assed or sideways. If the power effect is the same three or four times in a row, it's not an accident."

She took a deep breath. "And the other thing is that people are still people, whether they've got powers or not. I've never come across someone using his power to help someone who doesn't even know him, in secret, without trying to communicate in some way. Capes always want something in return. Always. Even if it's just recognition, or a thank-you." And powers just make it worse, she thought sourly. Children with machine-guns.

Taylor was frowning. "But … it's possible, right?"

"Certainly, it's possible, yes," agreed Emily. "Possible, but somewhat improbable." She opened a drawer and pulled out a pad. Pulling her pen from her pocket – it had been checked, and was in full working order – she clicked it and drew a line down the centre of the pad. On one side, she wrote POWER; on the other, she wrote GUARDIAN ANGEL.

"Now, let's list the pros and cons of whether you're powered or not," she said. "You've already stated that you don't know who could be doing this, yes?"

"Well, yeah," Taylor agreed. "I mean, it could be Greg, but if it was, he'd be dropping hints all over school."

"Unless his power doesn't let him tell anyone," Danny interjected. "Isn't it true that powers sometimes do something like that?"

"Well, yes," Emily admitted. "It happens, but it's rare." On the pad she wrote 'Greg – gagged?' on the 'guardian angel' side. On the other side, she drew a line.

"Well, that's easy to check," Danny pointed out. "Taylor can ask him."

Taylor grimaced. "Dad, are you sure you know what you're asking?"

He turned his head to look at her. "Why, what's the matter with Greg?"

She shook her head. "He's got no clue. Not a single one. People could ignore and ostracise him, and he wouldn't notice. If I even hinted that he might be doing this for me, he'd jump on it with both feet and convince himself that he's doing it."

"And if he is?" asked Emily. "What then?"

Both Danny and Taylor turned to stare at her. "I thought you were saying it wasn't him," Danny objected.

"I've also learned that it doesn't pay to rule anything out, no matter how improbable, when it comes to powers," she told him. "It's unlikely, certainly. But that doesn't make it impossible. So, Taylor, what are you going to do if it does turn out that this Greg has these powers and is helping you with them?"

<><>​

Taylor

Both the Director and my father were looking at me; I shrank back under their combined stares. "I … I don't know," I confessed. "I mean, I guess he kind of likes me, probably because I don't brush him off like everyone else. But he's a little bit creepy, and while I don't dislike him, I don't actually like him all that much either."

"And why's that?" asked the Director, almost gently.

"Well, for one thing," I said, getting my thoughts together, "sometimes we're placed together for a class project." A shudder rippled through me as I recalled the debacle that had been the last such project. "When that happens, he spends more time trying to talk to the pretty girls in the class than to me. So it's not even really me that he likes, just the fact that I don't tell him to go away."

"Yes, I've known people like that," agreed the Director. "Well, here's the next question. If it turned out that he was indeed your guardian angel, would you rather he protected someone else – and gave them all his attention – or stayed to help you?"

"Oh, god," I muttered. "I'm not sure which would be worse. I mean, unless he can't talk to me about it. But even if that was the case, owing Greg that, and knowing that he's doing it because he likes me, and I don't like him … ugh." I looked beseechingly at Director Piggot. "Is there any way to prove that it's not him without actually asking him?"

She seemed to be almost amused, which wasn't too much of a surprise. "Actually, yes, there is. And there is already a weight of evidence to show that this is you causing it and not your classmate."

"There is?" asked Dad. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Because we needed to explore the other hypothesis first, so you'd be ready to look at this one with an open mind," she explained.

"Oh, my mind is open, trust me," I assured her fervently.

"Very well." She tapped the pen on the pad. "Let's go through the spectrum of powers that a hypothetical guardian angel would need. Telekinesis, some sort of Master power. Stranger capabilities to be right there and not be seen. Some sort of clairvoyance, because from your own account, more than one thing was happening at once, in two different places."

"So what would Taylor need in order for this to be just her?" asked Dad, frowning.

"Some form of precognition, limited to events that would cause her problems, and probability manipulation to change events to suit her," the Director recited promptly.

"But I'm not doing it!" I protested. "I don't see what's going to happen. And I definitely don't deliberately alter events to suit me."

"Not deliberately, no," she agreed. "But it's happening all the same." Carefully, she laid the pen down and then crossed one hand over the other on the desk. "I had a strong inkling of what was going on before you ever walked into the building. I mean you no harm, and your power knows it." A dry smile crossed her face. "Bad things happen to people who try to harm you. I have no intention of joining that number."

"Wow." Dad looked from her to me. "You're really serious."

"Utterly." There was no humour in her tone or on her face now.

"So what other evidence do you have?" I was curious now. "So far it's all been circumstantial." Dad looked at me. I shrugged. "What? I've heard Mr Barnes talk about this sort of thing."

Director Piggot inclined her head. "True. But the clincher is what brought all this on. Have you ever heard of a trigger event?"

I frowned. "Uh, isn't that where parahumans get their powers?"

"Exactly." She replaced the pen in her pocket. "By all accounts, a trigger event is essentially the worst thing that can happen to someone. It's what causes powers to emerge. You've been through a horrific experience, very recently."

"Oh. Yeah." I didn't want to think about it, but there it was. "So … the locker caused me to become … lucky?"

"Very broadly speaking, that's what I think happened, yes." She tapped her forehead with her finger. "Also, triggering causes part of the brain to develop in a very specific way. With your consent, a CT scan could pick this up."

I shook my head. "No … I think I'll take your word for it."

"Yeah." Dad nodded. "Me too." He paused. "So where do we go from here?"

"From here …" Director Piggot rubbed her chin, then obviously came to a decision. "Miss Hebert, I would like to formally invite you to -" She broke into a fit of coughing as a bug flew into her mouth.

"Are you okay?" Dad was halfway to his feet.

She waved him away, pulling out a handkerchief. The spasm over, she looked at me. "On second thought, I would like to retract the offer. It seems to be a bad idea."

"Why?" Dad looked from me to the Director. "I'm assuming you were going to ask her to join the Wards. It seems like a reasonable idea to me. Taylor?"

I shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't have any problems with it. But if you say my power doesn't like it …"

Director Piggot grimaced. "Well, that may have been a random bug, but I'm not going to take any chances. If you wish to join, then we will accept you, but I am specifically not inviting you to join the Wards at this point in time."

"I, uh … can I think about it?"

"Certainly." She spread her hands. "Take all the time you want."

"Okay, thanks." I looked at Dad. "Was there anything else we wanted to do here?"

He considered the question. "No, not really." Turning to the Director, he went on. "We just wanted to let you know about Taylor's guardian angel or, as it turns out, her power. Is there anything else you wanted to know?"

"No," she replied. "Let me know what you decide. I'm not going to push you on this one."

If anything was going to underscore for me how serious my powers were, and that I had powers at all, it was the sight of Director Piggot, obviously used to getting her own way, very carefully deferring to my wishes in the matter.

Dad and I got up and he opened the door for me. "Thanks for seeing us on such short notice," I told the Director. "When I figure out what I'm going to do, you'll be the first to know."

<><>​

Emily

"I would appreciate that," she said. She watched the teenage girl and her father exit her office, the door closing behind them. Then she finally let herself relax, the tension of carefully watching her every word slowly draining away.

She had, in her career, faced many capes, quite often in this very office. Some had been arrogant, some reasonable, some downright obsequious. Though precious few of the latter, I have to say. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of capes with such a capricious power, one over which they apparently had little to no control, that she had encountered. She wouldn't admit to being scared, exactly, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts. "Right," she muttered. "So Shadow Stalker was bullying that girl, huh? Let's see about that."

Belatedly, she realised exactly what the bug had been about. Had Taylor joined the Wards, with Shadow Stalker already a member, the blow-up would have been as inevitable as it was devastating. If her power then decided that the entire PRT and Protectorate were a danger to her … She shuddered at the thought.

Picking up the phone, she dialled a number. "Armsmaster?" she queried. "Good. I need you to meet me here. We have an investigation to begin."

<><>​

Danny

I hope she'll be okay.

He was pretty sure he was worrying needlessly, but Taylor's sufferings were still very fresh in his memory. He had to stop himself from getting up and leaving the office, or at least picking up the phone and calling her.

She's fine. She's got the phone, she can call me if she needs anything. He had left her bundled up in her favourite blanket on the sofa, watching TV and eating cookie dough.

"I'm good," she had insisted. "If TV gets boring, I'll read a book. If that gets boring, I'll take a nap. You need to go and prove that they need you at work."

She had a point. He was perennially backlogged with paperwork even on the good days; leaving early, as he had been doing recently, was not doing his in-tray any favours at all. So he stopped glancing at the phone and turned back to the report he was reading.

Picking up the document from the desk, he turned slowly on his chair as he skimmed through it, then settled down to read it more closely. Frowning, he finally managed to engage his mind with what the report was saying, and read it a third time. Then he got up and went to a filing cabinet. From there, he pulled a sheaf of similar reports, through which he skimmed, looking for one piece of data. As he did so, the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper.

After cross-checking some old roster sheets, with the relevant reports in hand – the rest went back into the filing cabinet – he sat back down at his desk and pressed a button on his intercom.

"Yes, Mr Hebert?"

"Louise, could you please have …" He re-checked the name on the report. "Lee Adamson paged, please? I need him to report to this office immediately."

"Lee Adamson, right away."

"Thank you." He disengaged the button and dropped the reports on the desk. While he waited, he checked the date on the latest one. It had been submitted just the previous day; if he had not chosen to come in to finish his working day, it may have languished in the in-tray for at least another day.

<><>​

Lee Adamson

Adamson knocked on the doorframe. "You wanted to see me, Mr Hebert?"

He'd never been able to figure out how a weedy guy like Hebert had managed to make it in the Dockworkers Association, a trade that was rough and tough by its very nature. But here he was, the union spokesman and head of hiring, not the face of the Association but one of the people who managed to keep it going.

Danny Hebert looked up from the paper he was reading, the light reflecting momentarily from his glasses. Adamson saw that he looked worn, with a few more lines on his face. Maybe he was losing sleep over something. The rumour that was making the rounds was that something had happened to his daughter. Everyone knew that he'd left work in a hell of a hurry a few days back and he'd been knocking off early ever since.

Oh well, like I give a shit. It wasn't Adamson's problem. His job was to do the work the Association gave him and, when required, to perform the other duties set him by his real employer.

"Yes, come in. Close the door and sit down, please."

Lee did as he was told, taking a seat in the aged chair before the desk. "What's this about?"

Hebert took his time answering, picking up several sheets of paper and carefully stacking them together. Finally, he placed them in front of Lee. "Do you know what these are?"

Oh shit. The tone of voice, the whole attitude, clued Lee in on the fact that he was in trouble of some sort. He desperately wanted to read the papers, but settled for scanning the top lines. "Uh, incident reports, Mr Hebert?"

"That's correct, Lee," Hebert said. "Incident reports about items missing from shipping manifests in a regular pattern. Specifically, in a pattern where you're the common denominator in all the work crews that unloaded the items in question."

"Now wait just a minute -" Lee began, but Hebert overrode him.

"No, Mr Adamson, you wait just a minute. I haven't finished talking." He paused for a moment, to be sure that Lee wasn't going to interrupt, then went on. "I don't know that it's you that's been taking these items, and I don't know why they've been getting taken. Right now, I don't even know what's been taken. But I'm going to investigate all of these things, and I'm going to come to the truth of the matter. Is that understood?"

Shit shit shit. Lee understood, all right. He'd taken items from cargo being unloaded before; of course he had. He'd been getting paid extra to do just that. But he didn't expect the shift bosses to be as vigilant as they were; after all, he'd been getting away with it so far.

He became aware that Hebert was looking at him expectantly. "Uh, yes, I understand."

"Good." Hebert looked him up and down. "Now, these are quite serious allegations, so you're being suspended with pay until it's all sorted out -"

"Wait, what?" Hebert couldn't do that. There was another shipment due tomorrow evening, one that he had to be on the work crew for. "You can't -"

Hebert slapped the desk with his palm, making Lee jump. "I can and I will. Right now, you're only suspended with pay. If you're found guilty of any criminal activity, the penalties will get a lot worse. Is there anything you want to say to me that might clear this up?"

Several possible explanations scrolled through Lee's head; unfortunately, each seemed more problematic than the last.

I'm being set up.

It's all a conspiracy to get me fired.

Okay, I took the stuff, but I'll never do it again.

I'm really working for -

He cut that last thought off. No way he was going to let anyone know who was paying him under the table. Hebert was well known for not hiring anyone with gang affiliations.

"Uh, no," he mumbled. "Nothing."

"Very well, Mr Adamson," Hebert told him. "I'm going to require that you leave the site immediately. We'll contact you with the result of the investigation." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone why you were suspended."

Small mercies, indeed. "But I need the work. I -"

"Perhaps you didn't hear me," Hebert reminded him. "Suspension with pay. You're getting a vacation. If you're blameless, then you have nothing to worry about." If we find out that you've been taking stuff, he didn't have to say, then you do have something to worry about.

Lee didn't want to push the issue. Keep my head down, don't make him wonder what's so special about that shipment. "Uh, okay." Some part of him wanted to thank Hebert, but what was there to thank him for, really?

"That'll be all. Hand in your helmet, your vest and your ID before you leave." Hebert's attention was already on the next piece of paperwork.

For just a moment, Lee wanted to grab the scrawny pencil-pusher by the neck and throttle him, if only to make him realise what he was up against. It's people like him that screw things up for people like me. But he didn't. His orders were to not make waves, to pretend to be a good little employee. So he pushed open the door and left.

<><>​

"Hello?"

"It's Adamson."

"Why are you calling?"

"There's a problem."

"Those are not words I want to hear. What I want to hear is 'there was a problem but I sorted it out'."

"No, I can't. Hebert just suspended me. Took me off work."

"Why?"

There was a long pause.

"Adamson, why did he suspend you?"

"He might have figured that I was taking stuff."

"Damn it, you were supposed to be being discreet!"

"I was being discreet. Nobody saw me. But they were keeping a count of items being offloaded and he must have put it together."

"Christ. Does he know?"

"Hell no. What do you take me for? Right now he thinks I might be a thief, but that's it."

"Do we have anyone else who can cover for the shift tomorrow?"

"No."

"All right, leave it with me."

"What are you going to do?"

"Whatever I have to do."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"I didn't ask your opinion."

And then there was just the dial tone.

<><>​

Triumph

Rory looked up as the buzzer sounded. "Masks!" he called out. Dropping his cards, he fitted his lion's-head helmet over his head. Aegis, sitting opposite him, was already masked up; Kid Win, at the monitor console, hadn't taken his visor off.

They all came to their feet as the doors opened. Director Piggot led the way into the room, with Armsmaster following behind.

"Uh … Director Piggot?" Rory queried. "What's the matter?" Did we do something wrong?

"Nothing's the matter," Armsmaster assured him. "You're not in trouble. Though we do need you for something." He nodded to Kid Win and Aegis. "Could you please leave the room?"

With quick glances at their team leader, the two Wards headed for the door. Triumph watched them go, then turned back toward Armsmaster and the Director. "Uh, what exactly is going on?"

"What's going on," Piggot answered him curtly, "is that Shadow Stalker has been making fools of us all and we're going to get to the bottom of this right now."

"Shadow Stalker?" Rory repeated blankly. "Okay, sure, she's a bit abrasive and not really a team player, but …"

"We've received serious allegations that she's engaging in ongoing bullying activities in her civilian identity," Armsmaster said grimly. "If she's doing that, then she may be doing other things in her cape identity. We need to open her locker and look for any indication that this may be the case. Director Piggot wants you and me to be her witnesses in this situation."

"Wait, but she's in the hospital," Triumph objected. "You're not even giving her a chance to defend herself."

"If we find something suspicious, then she will have the chance to defend herself," Piggot stated flatly. "If we don't, then she won't need to. As it is, I have recently had one of the most unsettling conversations of my career entirely due to her, and I don't wish to be blindsided like that again. Ever."

Rory blinked. Clockblocker liked to make jokes about 'Miss Piggy' – hell, they all did – but he'd grown up around politics. He'd seen the steel in her spine more times than he could count. To hear her admit to being unsettled was a new experience. She's serious about this.

"Uh, yes, ma'am," he replied. "Her locker's right this way."

<><>​

Danny

His eyes ached from reading through forms and his hand was in little better condition from scrawling his signature at the bottom of those same forms. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then replaced them to look at the clock on the wall.

"Christ," he muttered. "It's after seven. Taylor will be worried sick."

Getting out of his chair, he glanced into the outer office, preparing to tell Louise to go home already. To his surprise, he saw that the desk there was empty, that his office light was the only one still on. Rubbing his forehead, he conjured up a vague memory of his secretary telling him that she was going home; he'd mumbled some sort of reply then gotten back to the attack on his overdue paperwork. If there was another Lee Adamson lurking in the in-tray that he missed because he'd been going home early …

Turning back to his desk, he saw that the pile in the in-tray had indeed been greatly reduced. There was still a deal of work to do, but not so much that he couldn't get it done tomorrow. And he had to get home to Taylor. Somewhat recovered she might be, but she was still fragile.

Shrugging into his jacket, he turned off the desk light and then the office light. He was just locking his office door when he heard the scrape of a shoe on worn linoleum. Turning, he watched as someone stepped into the doorway of the outer office.

"Who's that?" he asked. "Kurt?"

"No, not Kurt." The voice belonged to a man, but it wasn't one that Danny knew.

"Who is it?" Danny frowned. "How did you get in here?"

"The door was open." The man's voice was light, almost amused. "Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is what I'd like you to do."

"And what's that?" Danny squinted to try to make out the man's face, but the corridor light was behind him.

"Take Lee Adamson off of suspension." The voice was flat. "Put him back on the roster."

"What? No." Danny shook his head. "The man's under suspicion of theft."

There was a sigh, then the man reached into his jacket. Danny tensed, but the only sound he heard was the rustle of paper against cloth. An envelope, quite visible in the dimness, came into view; the man held it out to him. "Here's an incentive. You never took Adamson off the roster. I was never here."

"How much?" The question came out before he thought about it.

"Five large." He could hear the smugness in the voice. "I hear your little girl has some medical bills to pay off. This'll cover that with room to spare."

Involuntarily, he took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists. "Don't you bring Taylor into this," he grated. "And don't you ever come in here trying to bribe me for anything. Adamson's on suspension and that's where he'll stay till I find out what he's guilty of. Now get the fuck out of here before I throw you out. And take your dirty money with you."

"Now, now." The voice was still urbane, still calm and collected. "No need for any rough stuff. This doesn't need to be anything more than a civilised arrangement between gentlemen. I'll give you twelve hours to think about it."

Danny breathed heavily. "Twelve hours, twenty-four, forty-eight, I don't give a flying fuck. The Dockworkers don't do business with organised crime. That's the way it's always been and that's the way it'll always be. Now fuck off. And the moment I find one shred of evidence that Adamson's connected, he goes too. For good."

"Twelve hours. You'll be hearing from us." The man stepped back then sideways, disappearing from his sight. Danny came forward, snatching up a dimly-seen chair, brandishing it as he moved into the corridor. He saw nothing; all he heard were diminishing footsteps.

"Damn it," he muttered, stepping back into the office. As he put the chair down, he became aware of his racing heartbeat, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

<><>​

Armsmaster

"Damn it," muttered the Director. She looked over the contents of Shadow Stalker's locker, arrayed on the table. A spare costume, knee and elbow pads, two masks, each bearing the scowling-woman visage, her Tinkertech crossbows and several cases of arrows. Colin had been over the arrows carefully; they were the blunted type or the tranquilliser type exclusively. "I was sure we'd find something."

"I'm sorry, Director," Triumph said carefully. "Maybe she just isn't … what you think she is."

"I was given evidence that she is, or rather was, bullying one of her classmates to an extraordinary degree," gritted Piggot. "Now, do you think she'd do that in her civilian identity and not break the rules in any way as a cape?"

"I still think it's unfair on her to be targeted like this while she's still in the hospital," argued Triumph. "She can't even present her own side of the story. She doesn't even know this is happening." He gestured at the paraphernalia spread on the table. "And it looks like there was nothing to find anyway."

Armsmaster was rubbing his chin and frowning. Something was off, here. Something was missing.

"There's something." The Director's voice was iron-hard with certainty. "I just -"

"Director." He nearly had it.

"What?" snapped Piggot.

Colin snapped his fingers; a hard trick in armoured gauntlets, but one that he had worked to master. "Her Wards phone. It's not here."

She scanned the table. "You're right. It's not."

"Uh, that's because I've got it," Triumph admitted.

"You? Why do you have it?" Colin got the question in just before the Director, but only just.

"Aegis took it off of her after the accident and he handed it over to me." Triumph shrugged. "I was gonna hang on to it, give it back once she was conscious and lucid."

"Sensible," Armsmaster conceded. "Though you really should have handed it in to one of us."

"In fact, you'll hand it over right now," Piggot ordered him, holding out her hand.

Slowly, Triumph withdrew the phone from a belt pouch and gave it to her. "What do you think you'll find on it, ma'am? She'll have known you have access to anything that's on it. Even if she's been breaking the rules, she won't be doing it using that phone."

"Doesn't she carry a second phone, a civilian one?" Colin asked.

"She did," Triumph agreed. "But I heard it got stolen. She was really upset about that."

Piggot snorted. "'Upset' wasn't the word. But I'm not interested in her message traffic. I'm interested in another type of data." Turning, she placed the phone in Armsmaster's hand. "I want you to do something for me."


End of Part Five

Part Six

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Six: Bolt from the Blue


Miami, Florida
01:13 AM

It started as a minor weather system that came together off the coast, then rolled in over land. There wasn't much to it; a little rain fell, while thunder rumbled overhead. One bolt of lightning crackled down out of the heavy clouds, hitting a power-line transformer. The transformer weathered the strike easily, but an electrical surge went out in all directions. Circuit breakers popped in a dozen different locations, including the refrigeration area of a local airline meal supplier.

The refrigeration units shut down, but due to poor programming of the computers controlling the facility, no alarm was sent and no fault was logged. Three hours later, the automated system reset the breakers and the refrigeration units hummed to life once more. By the time the human workers arrived on site, everything was back the way it had been, with nothing in the logs to show that anything out of the ordinary had happened. But certain foodstuffs had spent several hours at room temperature, with the expected result.

In the meantime, the rain had spread up the coast. Weather forecasters on the morning shows would note that it was going to be bumpy flying on the eastern seaboard today.

<><>​

Brockton Bay
08:06 AM
Danny

He had been at work for all of half an hour before the phone rang; he picked it up. "Dockworkers Association. Danny Hebert speaking."

"Mr Hebert, we spoke last night." The voice was all too familiar.

"And I've still got nothing to say to you except 'no'." Danny kept his voice low. "Pursuant to that, I'd like to add 'hell no' and 'go fuck yourself' as well."

"Mr Hebert, I'd like to point out that I've been authorised to increase the gratuity to ten thousand dollars." He had to admit, the man was good. His voice was warm and persuasive, and Danny was almost tempted. But 'almost' wasn't good enough.

"Go to hell." He put the phone down.

There was a freedom, he found, in being able to deny another person something they wanted from you, something that you did not want to give. Could he do with ten thousand dollars? Of course he could. But could he accept the inevitable strings that would slowly, inexorably, invisibly enmesh him into tighter and tighter coils if he allowed this first bribe to go through?

The answer, of course, was 'no'.

Part of it was his own personal pride, while another part was his need for the Dockworkers to remain the same honest association that they had been in his father's day. A third part, perhaps most important of all, was what Taylor would think of him if she knew he had taken a bribe, looked the other way to allow criminals to act with impunity within the Association.

Taylor …

He hadn't been a total idiot about it, of course. On leaving the offices the previous night, he had taken along a heavy wrench that someone had left in the corner. Nobody had been waiting in the parking lot or in the back seat of his car; he had seen enough slasher movies to at least know to check there before getting into the car.

Taylor had been asleep on the sofa when he got in; woken up, she had eaten dinner with him then stumbled her way up to bed. He had also gone to bed after the washing up, though he had lain awake for a while, going over the implications of the night-time visitor.

Adamson was connected, of course. He wasn't Asian, so it wasn't to the ABB. Likewise, Danny somehow didn't think it was the Merchants. So it had to be the Empire Eighty-Eight that was trying a move on the Dockworkers. They had tried bribery; he had turned them down. Would they turn to violence next?

Violence against himself he could deal with. If they beat him up, the police would become involved, something that they most definitely did not want. But if they tried to use Taylor as leverage against him …

He had only seen a minor demonstration of Taylor's power at first hand. The images of Emma and Madison and Sophia following their attempts to prank her were quite compelling; he found himself praying that the power would be able to protect her just as thoroughly against the new threat as it had against the bullies. Because if I cave once, I'll have to cave again, and again, until it becomes habit. And then what sort of a man, what sort of a father, will I be?

He had wrestled with the problem until his thoughts became dreams, where he literally wrestled with a shadowy figure who sneered Taylor's name over and over. These dreams were shattered by his morning alarm; he awoke, tangled in his sheets, covered in sweat. Taylor had been a little puzzled by his insistence on driving her to school, but had accepted readily enough. He would pick her up from there as well, just in case …

"Mr Hebert? Did you hear what I just said?"

With a start, he shook himself and looked up into Louise's concerned face. "Sorry," he muttered. "Had a rough night. Must have drifted off."

She shook her head wisely. "Staying at the office all hours to catch up on paperwork doesn't help either, Mr Hebert. Plus your home troubles. How's your girl doing?"

"Uh, fine, Louise, thanks," he replied. "She's recovering quickly." Standing up, he stretched, feeling the vertebrae popping. "I think I'll get a cup of coffee."

"I think that might be a good idea, Mr Hebert," she agreed. "After all, we can't have you falling asleep on the job."

"No, Louise, we certainly can't." He took the papers from her hand and placed them on his desk. "And I'll look at these just as soon as I get back with the cup."

"Just so long as you go home at a regular hour tonight," she ordered him sternly. "You need to be a father to your girl as well, you know."

"I think you're right," he said. "I really do."

<><>​

Director Piggot

She stood in Armsmaster's workshop, trying hard not to look as though she was peering over his shoulder at the computer screen, even though that was exactly what she wanted to do.

"So, is it working?" None of the uncertainty or doubt that had crept into her mind over the previous night was allowed to show in her voice. It will work, she told herself. It has to.

"Interestingly enough, Director, it is." Armsmaster's voice held wary respect. "How did you know?"

A wintry smile formed on her face. "You may have forgotten that I was once a line grunt. Bad soldiers might hide their bad habits, but they keep a stash somewhere of whatever it is. The dumb ones hide it in their lockers or in the barracks. The smart ones hide it elsewhere, some place they can get to without raising suspicion."

"Which for her is the whole city," he noted.

"It is," she agreed. "But she has to carry her Wards phone. And that phone has a GPS tracker, which logs her location on a regular basis. Normally it takes quite a bit of work to scrape those locations out and apply them to a map, but you're a Tinker who works with electronics and computers. And you say it's working?"

"It is," he confirmed. "There's a limit to the number of locations that it's stored, but there's enough of them to give us a place to look. It's a building about three blocks from here. She's stopped in there enough times over the last few weeks to make it look fairly suspicious."

Piggot's smile showed her teeth. "Good."

<><>​

Taylor

It was kind of weird to not have to worry about Emma and her cronies for once. I kept expecting them to pop around the corner with some new prank or hurtful comment. But Sophia and Emma were in the hospital and I hadn't seen Madison all day. A few of their cronies were around, but they were leaving me alone, which suited me just fine.

Head high, I joined the lunch line along with everyone else. Carefully, I made my selections; a pita wrap, a banana, a bottle of fruit juice. A container of chocolate pudding made up dessert; I took myself off to a table to enjoy my meal.

I wondered what the afternoon would bring. If it was more of the same, I could definitely deal with that. I could get used to this.

<><>​

Aboard American Airlines Flight 732, Miami FL to Portland ME
01:46 PM

American 732 was an older aircraft, with the usual metal fatigue developing here and there on the airframe. None of it had, as yet, become problematic. However, after takeoff, the aircraft had flown into a region of unsettled weather, with higher than usual turbulence. This had shaken American 732 around a little; a hairline crack on the exterior toilet tank hatch had become somewhat more than hairline.

The passengers had, after takeoff, enjoyed their in-flight meals, such as they were. Unfortunately, this was followed by a certain amount of gastric distress, given that said meals had been improperly refrigerated over the previous night. Queues quickly developed outside each toilet cubicle; the waste products thus flowing into the toilet tanks were both voluminous and, it has to be said, runny.

In the meantime, the pilot had decided to climb out of the turbulence; he asked for, and got, permission to gain altitude. The turbulence decreased dramatically, but this had two unforeseen effects. The first was that the outflow from the crack in the hatch was increased due to lower outside air pressure. The second was that the higher altitude resulted in lower temperatures; the blue liquid, comprised of water, disinfectant and human waste products, froze more quickly, adding layer upon layer to the mass already collecting beneath the tail of the aircraft.

As yet, this had not affected the performance of American 732. This would change.

<><>​

Panacea

"And that should do it." Panacea removed her hands from Sophia's shoulder. "All the breaks are fixed. You may have a mild concussion; I can't do anything about that. Any lasting muscular soreness may require rest and relaxation. Take it easy for a few days."

The dark-skinned girl worked her shoulder. "Yeah, no, feels fine." Grudgingly, she added, "Thanks."

Amy shrugged slightly. "Don't thank me. This was a favour for your Director. Take care now." She turned and exited through a gap in the curtains. Director Piggot was standing a short distance away; Amy joined her. "It's done," she reported.

"I appreciate it," the Director replied briefly.

"Normally I wouldn't come in for a single cape," Amy pointed out. "But you told Mom it was important. Why?"

Piggot sighed. "We think she might be breaking the rules – and the law – in a big way. We need her on her feet to prove it one way or the other." She gave Panacea a direct stare. "You don't talk about this to anyone."

Amy shrugged. "I don't talk about what I do to anyone anyway. Did you need me for anything else?"

"No. That should be all."

"Okay." Amy headed off to where she was sure Vicky would be flirting with the most handsome doctor she could find. Because Vicky.

<><>​

Danny

Snapping out of a light doze, he looked at the clock. 2:46.

"Damn it," he muttered, standing up from his desk. He had meant to be gone by 2:30, to ensure that he got to the school in time to pick Taylor up. It was still possible to get there on time, but he'd have to push it.

"I'm heading out," he told Louise on the way through the office, still shrugging into his jacket. "Picking up Taylor from school."

"That's fine," she replied, not looking up from her computer screen; her fingers barely paused on the keyboard. "Give her my best."

"I will," he promised, then turned and dashed out the door. Along the corridor he went, out through the outer doors and into the parking lot. His car was parked a little way away and he hurried through the ranks of vehicles to get to it. But when he got there, something seemed odd about it.

It took him a few moments to get it, but when he did, he swore violently. The back tyre had obviously been punctured; the car had settled in that direction.

Pretty sure I didn't do that coming in, he told himself, even as he opened the door and popped the trunk. Out came the spare and the jack; he worked like a madman, hoisting the car off the ground and removing the wheel nuts. The wheel came off and he fitted the spare into place, twirling the nuts back on with quick, jerky movements of his fingers.

He only took the time to make sure that the nuts were on reasonably tightly before tossing the tyre and spanner back into the trunk. Letting the jack down, he threw that in too and slammed the trunk. As he climbed back into the car, he carefully didn't check his watch. He didn't want to know how late he was going to be.

Oh god, Taylor, please wait for me.

The engine in the old car roared as he gunned it out of the parking lot, but then he had to brake to a halt for traffic. Interminable moments passed before a gap opened up; he fed the car some gasoline and accelerated into it.

<><>​

Taylor

The bus rumbled away from the front of the school, bearing the last of the students from Winslow. With my bag over my shoulder, I shaded my eyes and looked around.

"Where's Dad?" I wondered out loud. "He said he'd be here."

I turned to walk back to sit on the school steps and started slightly, because a man was standing there.

"I, uh, can I help you?" I asked, nervous despite myself. He can't hurt me. My power will stop him.

"Taylor?" he asked. "Taylor Hebert?"

I began to get a major creep-factor alarm right between my shoulder-blades. "Who wants to know?"

"Your dad sent me to pick you up. He said to say he was gonna be late."

Yeah, right. This was about as believable as a three-dollar bill. "Sure he did. I think I'll wait right here, thanks." I began to back away from him.

"No, seriously," he insisted. "I'm Lee. Lee Adamson. I'm a Dockworker. I work for your dad."

I began to reconsider my earlier judgement. Maybe I was a bit hasty. He had the look of a Dockworker, all right. "Uh, what's his secretary's name?"

"Louise," he replied promptly. "And the carpet in his office is green. The visitor's chair has a wobbly leg."

He was right about all those details. "Okay, Mr Adamson, looks like you're on the level. Let's go."

"Great." He looked relieved. "My car's just over here."

I followed him to the car; he opened the driver's side door and got in. I walked around the car to get into the front passenger side seat, then paused as I saw that there was someone in the back seat. My creep-factor alarm started going off again, as the back door opened and the man got out.

I had never seen him before in person, but I recognised him easily enough. He wore no shirt; on one bicep he wore a tattoo of a wolf's head superimposed over a swastika. On the other, a letter and two numbers. E-8-8. Empire Eighty-Eight. Over his face, he wore a metal mask fashioned to look like a wolf's head.

"Oh, shit," I muttered. "You're Hookwolf."

"Correct." His voice was a growl, made more echoing by the metal mask. "Now do as you're told and get in the fucking car."

Rapidly, I sorted through the possibilities. If my powers were still holding firm, I could get away easily. If they weren't, then I would be quickly captured. Likewise, if I still had powers, going with them would not pose much of a risk to me. Without powers, going willingly would pose less of a risk than forcing them to catch me.

In any case, I was kind of curious as to how this would play out. So I did as I was told and got in the fucking car.

<><>​

Sophia

"How are you feeling, Sophia? That was such a terrible accident. I'm so pleased that the PRT asked Panacea to heal your injuries."

Sophia forced herself not to snap back at her mother. I'm fine, don't smother me. But Mom did mean well, and what had happened wasn't her fault. So she manufactured a brave smile instead.

"I'll be fine," she replied. "But I'm still feeling a little headachey, so I think I might take a nap."

In fact, the headache was barely there at all; she could ignore that if she had to.

"All right, dear," her mother replied. "I'll knock on your door when it's dinner time."

"Oh, uh, I don't think I'll be very hungry," Sophia said hastily. "If I don't answer, I'll probably be asleep."

"I'll leave a plate in the fridge for you if that happens," Mom agreed comfortably. "I hope you feel better soon, dear."

Mumbling something by way of reply, Sophia climbed the stairs to her room, then closed and locked the door behind her. It was a bitch and a pain to keep her cape identity from her family – Mom knew but nobody else did – but in this kind of situation it paid off in spades.

Opening her wardrobe, she reached in to the back and pulled out a removable partition. Behind that was her original costume, the one she had pieced together long before she was forced to join the Wards. Her old crossbows were here too; she had kept them clean and oiled, just on the off-chance that she would need them someday. Finally, she retrieved a small case; opening it, she counted six arrows, their tips gleaming razor-sharp.

Carefully, she donned the costume, fitting the crossbows into their holsters. The case of arrows went on to her belt. Closing the wardrobe, she frowned. Right now, she had the perfect alibi.

Hebert has to die. Nobody does that to me and lives. But Hebert had some sort of bullshit luck thing going for her. She's lucky, but I'm good. All the same, I might need more arrows. That's fine; I'll raid my stash.

<><>​

"Brockton Control, this is American 732. We're experiencing a pitch problem. Autopilot won't hold a constant altitude. Nose keeps creeping up, over."

"Ah, roger on the pitch problem, American 732. Are you declaring an in-flight emergency, over?"

"Negative, Brockton. But if you could pass that on to Portland, let 'em know that we're gonna need all the runway they can give us, over."

"Roger, American 732. We will be informing Portland that you are experiencing pitch problems. In the meantime, I see that you're in a higher altitude pattern than normal. Could the problem be caused by ice on your control surfaces, over?"

"That could be the problem, Brockton Control. We were assigned this altitude due to turbulence. What's the weather like down there, over?"

"American 732, we're having a nice warm winter's day. No turbulence to be seen. Turn to heading zero four zero and descend to Flight Level two zero zero, that's Foxtrot Lima two zero zero, see if that doesn't help with your problem, over."

"Roger that, Brockton. Turning to zero four zero and beginning descent to Flight Level two zero zero, over."

"I copy zero four zero and beginning descent to Flight Level two zero zero. Brockton Control out."

<><>​

Danny

The tires protested as Danny fishtailed the car into the Winslow parking lot. He screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust; the car was still rocking on its suspension as he jumped out and frantically looked around.

Taylor wasn't there.

"Taylor!" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Taylor, where are you?"

No answer, save his own voice echoing back from the school frontage.

She got tired of waiting, so she took the bus.

It wasn't the only explanation he could think of, but it was the only one he was willing to entertain right then. "Taylor!" he called again.

She still wasn't there.

Trotting up to the front steps, he climbed them and tried the main doors, on the faint hope that she was waiting inside. They were locked. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he put his face up to the glass. The hallway within was empty.

She took the bus and she'll be waiting at home for me. He tried to convince himself of that as he headed back toward the car. It wasn't easy.

<><>​

Taylor

"So what's this all about, anyway?" I asked brightly.

Kaiser looked around at me. Even if I hadn't been told who he was, the metal armour covering every inch of his body would have been a serious clue. Hookwolf stood nearby, but he wasn't the only other cape there. I didn't know the others by sight, but I could make educated guesses.

The young woman with scars here and there on her arms and face, wearing a kind of metal cage around her head, might be Cricket. The PHO boards had no solid information about her powers.

Menja and Fenja were easier to pick out; blonde Valkyries wearing metal armour with closed-faced helmets. One carried a sword and shield, the other a spear. I had no idea which one was which, but I knew they could grow to three storeys tall and got tougher the bigger they were.

The last cape wore no shirt, but he did have a blue and white tiger mask, which made him Stormtiger. Apparently he had air powers, including the ability to slash at people with claws made of the stuff. Of Purity and Rune, just to name two, there was no sign. I was kind of glad of that; my powers might be cool and all but there were limits.

"As I said earlier, young lady, the less you know about the business at hand, the better for you." His tones were cultured, though I thought I detected a slight impatience in his voice.

"Well, hey," I pointed out. "You're the villain, I'm the hostage, you've got me in your secret lair. Why not indulge in a little gloating? Reveal your master plan to me. Come on, you know you want to."

"I would hardly call you a hostage," he retorted, a little more strain showing in his voice. "It's not as if I'm going to be demanding a ransom for you." He gestured around at the airy loft, with the members of the Empire Eighty-Eight sitting or standing around as they chose. "And this is not what I would call a secret lair." Outside, the sound of jackhammering arose as a road repair crew set to work once more. Stormtiger went over to the window and peered down at the street, then shook his head and stepped away again.

I waited till the noise ceased. "Well, you've got me tied to a chair," I said, entirely reasonably, pulling briefly at the ropes binding me. "That says 'hostage' to me, loud and clear. Which reminds me. What if I need to go to the bathroom? Are you gonna carry me there, chair and all? Because let me tell you, that ain't gonna work."

Hookwolf was apparently possessed of far less patience than his boss. "Shut up!" he yelled at me. "Just shut the fuck up, will you?"

I poked my tongue out at him. "You shut up, Hookworm," I retorted. "I was talking to your boss, not you." A couple of the Empire capes chuckled, but I was suddenly seeing the wolfs-head mask from really close up.

"Say that one more time, little girl," he grated. "Just once." Freshly grown razor claws rested on my cheek; I felt the sting of the very tips as they broke the skin.

"Hookwolf." It was Kaiser's voice, low and controlled. "Step back."

"But she just won't shut up!" Even as he protested, the tattooed villain moved away from me. "It's driving me nuts!"

I wasn't quite sure where I was getting it from either. Once upon a time, I had been quite the chatterbox. That was before Emma had turned on me, had gone from being my best friend to my own personal nemesis. Isolated and ostracised, tormented at every turn, I'd had nobody my age to talk to and precious little to talk about.

But now it was back. My powers had done more than make me lucky, it seemed; they had also reawakened that part of me, which I had long thought dead and gone.

God, I hope my powers are still working. If one of them goes to hurt me, I'll never be able to stop them.

Kaiser turned to Lee Adamson, who was sitting nearby with a mobile phone. "Try the house again. He's got to show up there sooner or later."

"Yes, sir." Lee pressed the dial button once more. I gave him a glare, which he carefully ignored.

<><>​

Danny

He wrenched open the door and stumbled inside. "Taylor?" he called out. "Taylor, are you home?"

Silence greeted him. It wasn't the silence of a house with someone asleep upstairs, but the silence of an empty house, one where nobody had been home since the morning.

"Taylor!" he called again, hopelessly. Oh god, I screwed up. I let them take Taylor.

And then the phone rang. The sudden noise was shocking in the silence; he jumped and stared at it. Again it rang, and again.

Jolting himself into motion, he lurched forward and wrenched the receiver off of the cradle. "Hello?" he croaked. "Taylor? Is that you? Are you all right?"

"Hello, Mr Hebert." The voice wasn't one that he recognised. "Are you ready to talk business now?"

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where's my daughter?"

"I'm the man who's got your daughter. That's all you need to know. She's safe and alive and well. Although a little bit mouthy."

Danny took a deep breath. "Prove it." Oh god, Taylor, please let your powers still be working.

There was a rustling sound, then Taylor's voice. "Dad?"

"Oh god, are you all right?"

She sounded positively chirpy over the phone. "Yeah, I'm fine. They've all been kind of polite about it. Except Hookwolf. He's a bit of a douche."

There was shouting in the background, then another rustling sound. "Taylor? Taylor, are you there?"

"She's fine." The man's voice was a little more strained. "I can't guarantee that she'll stay that way if she keeps mouthing off, though."

"I knew you were Empire Eighty-Eight," Danny accused him. "I'm guessing that I'm talking to Kaiser."

"Very well, let us drop all pretence," Kaiser agreed. "This is indeed an Empire Eighty-Eight operation. I have your daughter. You will reinstate Mr Adamson on your workforce and cease querying his activities; in return, you will get Taylor back unharmed. As an added incentive, I'll make sure you get the five thousand, plus another five thousand each month."

In the background, he heard Taylor's voice. "Tell him to shove it, Dad!"

If Taylor believes that her powers are still working, then I have to believe also.

"Kaiser." He kept his voice tightly under control. "I have a counter-offer. You release my daughter, right now, with apologies for the inconvenience, and we can both forget this ever happened. Don't release her, and I can't answer for what's going to happen to you."

There was a long pause. "Was that a threat? Are you honestly threatening me?"

"No. That was a warning. Unless you release my daughter right now and back the fuck off from the Dockworkers, you seriously will not like the consequences."

<><>​

American 732 reached the prescribed altitude of Flight Level two zero zero, otherwise known as twenty thousand feet, as it passed over the mountains that barricaded Brockton Bay to the south. As promised, the air was a little warmer here, and of turbulence there was little compared to the rain squalls further south.

However, as the aircraft passed into the warmer air, the airframe expanded very slightly. This, combined with the added warmth and the greater wind resistance, managed to break the tenuous hold that the mass of ice had on the fuselage.

Within the aircraft, the passengers felt a peculiar jolt, coupled to a thrumming boom as the ice broke away. A few startled looks were exchanged, but nothing else happened.

Checking the controls, the pilots found that the aircraft was no longer trying to climb skyward, a consequence of having mass shifted to a point behind the centre of gravity. Everything seemed to be operating within specs, so they made note of the strange noise and went back to the serious business of getting their passengers to Portland on time.

Below the aircraft, the mass of blue ice, reinforced and added to by high-altitude ice particles picked up on the flight, began a ballistic arc toward the ground, far below.

<><>​

Taylor

Kaiser took the phone away from his faceplate, which I could see now was perforated to allow him to speak properly. I couldn't see his expression, but his tone was one of disbelief. "The man thinks he can dictate terms to me. It's time we changed that attitude. Hookwolf."

"Yeah?" The tattooed man slouched to a species of attention.

Kaiser pointed at me. "Can you make her scream without doing too much permanent damage?"

As with Kaiser, I couldn't see Hookwolf's face, but the sadistic sneer was easy to hear in his voice. "With the greatest of fucking pleasure."

I watched as a blade, long and obviously very sharp, slid out of his forearm and ended up as a knife in his hand. He started toward me, Kaiser at his side.

"Now, Mr Hebert, listen very closely," Kaiser purred into the phone. "This is what happens when men like you overreach themselves."

"You don't want to do this," I stated, a little more boldly than I felt. "This is a really bad idea. Trust me on this."

Come on, powers. Come on. Please come on …

Behind me, Lee cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, hang on. You're not really gonna hurt her, are you?"

"Cricket." Kaiser didn't even break step. "Make sure that Mr Adamson doesn't interfere."

I tried to lock eyes with Hookwolf through his mask. "I'll say this one more time. This is a really bad idea for you."

"Oh yeah?" he sneered. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

<><>​

"Kaiser!" yelled Danny into the phone. "Don't do this! I'm warning you!"

"Nobody warns me, Mr Hebert," Kaiser replied. "This is the -"

And then, with a tremendous CRASH, his voice was cut off.

"Kaiser!" Danny shouted. "Taylor! What's happening?"

<><>​

I had no idea what had actually happened until much later. All I heard was the tremendous CRASH as the roof caved in; something huge and blue blurred past me, taking Kaiser and Hookwolf with it as it punched through the floor and kept on going. Bits had broken off on impact with the roof – smaller ones, only the size of a human torso – and took on their own lethal trajectories within the loft area.

Hookwolf's knife had left his hand on impact; it travelled through the air in a brief arc, ending up point-down between the rope and the chair. The rope parted almost immediately and I moved my arms out to the side to free myself. As I did so, Kaiser's phone dropped into my hand.

Looking at where Hookwolf had gone, I raised an eyebrow. "Something like that, maybe?" I suggested facetiously, then lifted the phone to my ear.

<><>​

"Dad. It's me. I'm fine."

"Oh, thank God." He felt his heart rate decreasing to merely insane levels. "What happened? Was it your powers?"

"Basically, yeah," she chuckled. "Holy crap. You should have seen it. I don't even know where Kaiser and Hookwolf are. Cricket jumped out the window just before it happened. Menja and Fenja … I think they got punched out through the wall. In fact, there's just me and Mr Adamson here."

"Adamson? Lee Adamson?" Danny gripped the phone white-knuckled.

"That's the one."

"Give the phone to him, please."

"Okay-doke."

<><>​

Lee was still staring wide-eyed at the gaping hole in the roof and the matching one in the floor. I turned to him. "It's for you," I told him, holding the phone out.

He took it gingerly, watching me as if I were going to explode or something. I considered shouting 'boo', but I didn't want him to drop the phone. "Uh, yes?" he ventured.

I tuned the conversation out as I strolled around the perimeter of the hole to where they'd dumped my backpack. Slinging it over my shoulder, I leaned over and peered out through the sizeable holes in the wall. Each of them marked the exit point of an Empire Eighty-Eight cape.

One of the Fenja-Menja pair had managed to go head-first down an open man-hole while she was still twenty feet tall; her legs stuck out of the round hole in the pavement, kicking wildly. Her sister was in the next man-hole along. I shook my head. What are the odds …

Smirking at the thought, I looked for Stormtiger, eventually finding him struggling to climb out of what looked like a pool of freshly-poured tar. The workmen were trying to shut off the flow, but through some mischance, the valve was stuck wide open, and more and more of the very hot tar was pouring around him by the second.

Shaking my head, I wandered back to where Lee was still talking on the phone. More accurately, he was sweating profusely while answering 'yes' and 'no' and 'yes sir' to whatever Dad was saying. He looked up as I approached and handed the phone back to me.

"Yeah, Dad?" I asked casually.

"Mr Adamson has agreed to drive you home immediately," he told me. "Do you have any objection to this?"

"None whatsoever," I agreed. "Though I've got to take a moment here."

"Why?"

I grinned wickedly as I started back toward the windows. "Photos."

<><>​

As Lee and I exited the building, the roof fell in, then the entire building began the process of collapsing in upon itself. Lee stared at me, wide-eyed, then back at the slowly imploding structure.

"Lucky, huh?" I asked cheerfully. "Good thing we decided to go when we did."

"Did you … did you do that?" he blurted.

I rolled my eyes. "I warned him. You heard me warn him."

"Uh, yeah …" he mumbled. "But we didn't think you were serious."

I sighed. "People never do." Glancing down, I added, "Hold on."

My shoelace had come undone; bending over, I went to re-tie it, just as something whickered over my head. There was a thunk, and I saw a throwing blade stuck in the brickwork just about chest height. "That wasn't there before," I remarked as I straightened up.

Looking the other way, I saw the origin of the blade. Cricket, minus her face-cage, looking somewhat battered and bruised, hobbling toward me. In her hand was another throwing blade. She drew back her hand to throw …

… and a bus came around the corner, attempted to brake, skidded on some bluish slush, and ploughed straight into her. The impact threw her thirty feet into the back of another bus; she flopped to the ground and stayed there.

I turned to Lee. "So, about that lift."

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Gotta be quick about this. Get to Hebert's house, kill her, get home again. Tell 'em I was asleep the whole time. They'll never be able to prove otherwise.

Sophia eased her way on to the rooftop and skulked around beside the air-conditioning vent. The grille looked securely attached, but one of the screws holding it on turned easily and she was able to lift it off and away. Reaching in, she lifted out a backpack and placed it next to the aircon vent.

Arrows, arrows, arrows.

Reaching into the backpack, she rummaged through the contents. Spare mask, spare costume, first aid kit … where were the damn arrows?

Finally, losing patience, she dumped the pack out on the rooftop. The arrows were nowhere to be seen.

"The fuck?" she muttered. "I know I had some -"

The scrape of a boot on gravel caused her to whirl around, bringing both crossbows up in a practised move. Even when Armsmaster stepped into view, she didn't relax, though she did lower the crossbows.

"Oh, hi," she greeted him insincerely. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied grimly. "Were you looking for these?" He held up two of the arrows that she had been seeking, twin to the ones in the case on her belt.

"Uh, no," she replied, thinking quickly. "I had a spare phone in here. Or I thought I did." She made a show of peering at the arrows. "Those look like the ones I used to use, before I joined the Wards. I got rid of all those."

"Evidently not," he said. "These have your fingerprints on them, and the heads have microscopic traces of blood. Pretty sure we'll be able to match these with mysteriously injured muggers on nights you were out on patrol on your own."

"Uh, no," she began, tensing to turn and jump off the rooftop. "You've got it all wrong -"

A tremendous CRASH, not all that far away, startled her; she glanced in that direction. That moment of inattention was all it took; the next thing she knew, she was wrapped in a sturdy cable.

"I wouldn't try phasing," Armsmaster warned her bluntly. "The cable carries a charge."

And try as she might, Shadow Stalker could not think of a way out.

<><>​

Taylor

I climbed out of the car, then slung my backpack over my shoulder once more. Leaning back in through the open door, I gave Lee a tight smile. "You stood up for me with Kaiser," I told him. "That's the only reason you're still upright and breathing. But you helped kidnap me, which puts you on my list. Kaiser was on my list. You don't want to be there. I'd advise you to leave town."

"Leave town?" He gulped. "I'm leaving the friggin' state."

"Gooood idea." Standing up, I closed the door; from the way he burned rubber, it seemed as though he was intending to leave town today. This minute, even.

Which I was just fine with. Strolling up the front path, I noticed the car alongside the house. The front door opened as I approached; Dad stood there.

"Taylor," he breathed as I jumped over the rotten step and joined him. "You're all right."

"Yup," I grinned and held up the phone. "And trust me, you should see the other guys."


End of Part Six

Part Seven

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Seven: Mopping Up


[A/N: The PHO boards section is composed of entries adapted from real comments on real boards about this story. Usernames have also been adapted.]


Emily

Upon responding to the call, the strike team located a collapsed building, with four members of the Empire Eighty-Eight outside it. These were FENJA, MENJA, STORMTIGER and CRICKET. None of these were capable of resistance or escape, as they were all hampered or injured.

FENJA and MENJA were found trapped upside-down in manholes. Both of them were unable to get free, as the shin-guards on their armour had hooked identically on the rims of said manholes, in such a way that it was impossible for them to escape on their own. They were assisted out of their predicament and taken into custody.

STORMTIGER was found covered in tar due to an unfortunate encounter with a road repair crew and a faulty valve on a tank of boiling tar. He was taken into custody and given what medical attention was possible at the time; Corpsman O'Reilly estimated that he has sustained second and third degree burns over most of his body, as well as several suspected broken bones. More will be known once the tar is removed.

Emily stopped reading briefly to allow herself a shudder. Boiling tar. Good god. Picking up where she left off, she resumed reading.

CRICKET was unconscious when we arrived; according to O'Reilly, she has suffered multiple instances of massive blunt force trauma that left both arms, both legs, all of her ribs, her pelvis and a few other bones broken in several places. He also suspects internal injuries. Witnesses reported that she was struck by a bus and thrown into another bus. She was taken into custody and given what medical assistance was possible.

Witness statements all agreed that the Empire capes had been thrown from the collapsed building at the same time as an explosion or impact on the building itself, and very shortly before the collapse. FENJA and MENJA maintained that two more capes, KAISER and HOOKWOLF, were still unaccounted for. With the assistance of the road repair crew, the building was investigated and the cause of the collapse determined; a mass of blue ice composed of water, disinfectant and human excrement. It had broken up on impact, but the original impactor had to weigh at least one ton.

Emily stopped reading again. Blue ice. Christ. She'd heard stories about chunks of blue ice falling off of airliners, but nothing over a hundred pounds. A ton ... how is that even possible? And so precisely targeted … A pause, as she thought about that. Targeted. Strange and unusual circumstances. Wait a minute …

She took a moment to scribble Taylor Hebert? in the margin of the report, then kept reading.

Digging down through the rubble, we reached the basement area. There we discovered KAISER and HOOKWOLF. They were both alive, although KAISER apparently has many broken bones and HOOKWOLF seems to have encased himself in a metal shell and is not responding to outside stimuli.

Witness statements mentioned seeing two people leaving the building just before it collapsed, a male and a female, both Caucasian. The man was in his twenties, of average height and solid build, with either red, brown or dark blond hair. The woman was skinny and either a tall teenager or twenty-something and petite. She did not seem to be under duress. She wore glasses, had long dark curly hair and carried a backpack over her shoulder. They got in a car and drove away; nobody could recall the make, model or license plate of the vehicle.

A throwing blade was discovered embedded in a wall nearby, provisionally assumed to have belonged to Cricket, given that she has been known to use them in the past …

Emily slapped her hand on the desk and re-read the description. Tall teenager … glasses … long dark curly hair. Putting the report on the desk, she gazed into space. It has to be her. There's no other explanation for it. A precision strike on the Empire Eighty-Eight with highly improbable and coincidental results. "I bet Cricket threw that blade at the Hebert girl just before something happened that broke all her bones," she muttered. "I would put money on it."

Picking up the phone, she pressed a few buttons. "This is the Director," she said. "I need you to determine what aircraft were overflying Brockton Bay at precisely …" She checked the report. " … fifteen twenty-five this afternoon. Special attention to large aircraft, such as airliners. Contact the airlines in question and find out all details of said flights, if anything at all unusual happened in conjunction with those flights. Get that report to me soonest. That is all."

Putting the phone down, she steepled her fingers and stared over them at the door. I wonder what Kaiser did to require a ton of ice to land on him from a great height.Strike that; a ton of frozen human excrement. Involuntarily, she shuddered. I'm not even sure that I want to know how she arranged that.

Her phone rang; she glanced at it in surprise. For just a moment, she imagined that it was the Operations officer ringing back with the report she had requested, then she shook her head. Picking up the receiver, she cleared her throat. "Director Piggot."

"Ma'am, are you looking at the PHO boards?" It was Triumph, sounding a little strained. There were odd noises in the background, which she couldn't quite make out.

"I have better things than to look at the ParaHuman Online boards all day," she replied severely. "As do you."

"Yes, ma'am, I totally agree. But you need to look at them now. Check the recent posts. There's something there that you really do need to see."

Such was the tone of his voice that she did not question him. "Very well," she agreed. Without putting the phone down, she moved the mouse to wake up the computer and clicked on the required tab. Then she clicked on to the Recent Posts list and started scrolling down. Her eyes widened after a moment, and she clicked on an icon.

"Oh my god," she muttered. "Is that …"

"That's what it looks like, ma'am," agreed Triumph. Again, the strange sounds occurred in the background. She finally identified them; it was the sound of several people laughing uproariously.

"Thank you, Triumph," she managed. "That will be all." Putting down the phone, she turned her full attention to the photos that had been posted to the site. Without a doubt, they were of the scene described in the report. Pictures, she discovered, were indeed worth a thousand words.

"Oh my god," she said once more. "She got photos."

Shadow Stalker, she decided, got off lightly.

<><>​

"Seriously, wow, I don't believe it." Kid Win leaned back in the chair he had been using for monitor duty, holding his ribs.

"Guys, we should be treating this more seriously," Triumph told them sternly, putting the phone down. "They could've been hurt or killed. Stormtiger's got third degree burns there, for a certainty."

"So what?" asked Aegis, still chuckling. "They're a bunch of racist pricks. Any one of them would do their best to kick my head in if they got a chance, because of my skin colour. Pretty sure that whatever did that to them, they deserved it."

Triumph shook his head. "Missy, back me up here." He looked around. "Missy?"

The youngest member of the Wards was lying on the floor in a foetal position, arms around her knees, giggling hysterically. As Triumph moved toward her, she gasped out, "Head … first … down … manhole …" then went back to giggling.

"Clockblocker?" Triumph's voice was resigned; it was the redhead who had told them what the blue ice really was. But he had to try to appeal to their better nature.

Minus his helmet, Dennis was lying on his back on the floor, not far from Missy. He was cackling loudly, rolling from side to side. "They got shat on from a great height!" he managed, then went back to his mirth.

"And Kaiser's under it," added Missy, in between giggles.

Still laughing himself, Kid Win began to scroll through the comments that had begun to appear beneath the initial post. Some of them he read out loud, as best he could. This did not help anyone stop laughing.

<><>​

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♦Topic: Empire Eighty-Eight - FAIL!

In: Boards ► Brockton Bay ► Cape Doings ► Villains ► E88


CleverGirl95 (Original Poster)

Posted on January 12, 2011:


So the Empire Eighty-Eight decided to kidnap me to put pressure on my dad to do them a favor. Not saying I'm a cape, and not saying I'm not, but this is what happened. Just saying. [link]

P/S: Kaiser and Hookwolf are *under* that.


(Showing Page 2 of 31)

Walpurgis

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Okay, that's so very satisfying, right there.



SenpaiSan

Replied on January 12, 2011:

You're not wrong. I like this. I like this a lot.



Bookworm419

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Blue ice ... wow. I thought they'd fixed that particular problem.



ElectricPenguin (Moderator)

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Heh heh heh. Hookwolf and Kaiser both?

OP's dad must be someone pretty important.



Imitator

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Okay, if this is a power, I wonder if something similar but more powerful could be pulled on an Endbringer. Like a meteor strike or something.



Glitcher

Replied on January 12, 2011:

So a plane full of people suffering from gastric distress just happened to fly overhead at just the right time? And Kaiser and Hookwolf got shat on from a great height? Mwahaha.



Zarb

Replied on January 12, 2011:

If this is a power, it's awesome. And kind of scary. But mainly awesome.



Vier

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Ow, my sides. Laughing too hard.



DarkHawk

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Are there more pictures? Please tell me there are.



lostallhope

Replied on January 12, 2011:

This is awesomely hilarious. Only in Brockton Bay.



AnAesopMoment

Replied on January 12, 2011:

So, the Empire Eighty-Eight just got taken out by an icy BM? Priceless.



CleverGirl95 (Original Poster)

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Being kidnapped and driven to a secret base: $2.00 worth of fuel.

Phone call to my dad for the demands: 48 cents.

Watching an airborne poopsicle the size of a Buick take out the Empire Eighty-Eight and demolish their headquarters: PRICELESS.



Counter_Guard

Replied on January 12, 2011:

Five minutes, still laughing. Too funny.

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4 ... 29 , 30, 31

<><>​

Emily

Later that Night

She looked around the table at those seated there. A few were in the loop already, and their worried expressions mirrored her inner feelings. Others were not; they merely looked puzzled. This would change.

Taking a deep breath, she began to speak. "Some of you may be wondering why you were called here. It's very simple. There's a new parahuman in Brockton Bay."

The senior PRT officers, seated down one side of the table, didn't change expression. New parahumans, after all, showed up in Brockton Bay with almost monotonous regularity.

Major Holden cleared his throat. "Ma'am, that's nothing really new. Or is this parahuman something special?" They had better be, he didn't have to say.

"Allow me to clarify," Emily said. "There's a new parahuman in Brockton Bay, and she's perhaps scarier than any I've encountered yet." A pause, as she let them absorb that. "And yes, I am including Nilbog in that total."

That got their attention. Nilbog, one of the few Class S parahumans allowed to exist unmolested on American soil, was walled about and kept under constant guard by the PRT in what was once the town of Ellisburg; he and his creations had been in that situation for the last ten years. The Director, as everyone had to know, was one of the two soldiers who had faced Nilbog and survived to tell of the experience.

"What the hell -" That was Holden.

"You can't be serious -" Another PRT officer.

"Scarier than Nilbog -" She thought that might be Assault.

"We've heard nothing -" That was possibly Velocity.

"Quiet!" Armsmaster had risen to his feet. "Let the Director finish!" He banged the haft of his halberd on the floor for emphasis.

The babbling died off and people sat back in their chairs, looking a little sheepish. Armsmaster sat down once more and nodded at Piggot. "Director?"

"Thank you," she replied. Picking up the remote that sat before her, she clicked a button. The projector mounted in the ceiling hummed to itself, and a picture of Taylor Hebert sprang to life on the far wall. It had been lifted from security footage of the day before, when Taylor and her father had visited the PRT headquarters. She was smiling at something, her eyes alight with amusement behind her glasses.

"Take a good look," Emily ordered them. "Commit that face to memory. Her name is Taylor Hebert. Remember that too. Do not write it down. You will not be getting a copy of that picture. I don't want the face or name getting out to anyone."

Major Holden turned back to look at her. "But why?" he asked. "Okay, she's a parahuman. I get that we don't out her, but why shouldn't we let our people know that she is one?"

Emily fixed him with a hard stare. "Because she's the scariest parahuman I've ever met, or perhaps you didn't hear me before." She clicked the remote again. "Ten days ago, she was shut in her locker and presumably underwent her trigger event. Since then, there have been several attempts to continue what seems to have been an ongoing bullying campaign. This is what happened to the bullies."

Silence fell as the pictures flicked up on the screen. A red-haired girl, stuck vertically, upside-down, beside a toilet. A brunette, wedged butt-first into another toilet, with a container of chocolate pudding upside down on her head. Chuckles began to arise from her audience.

"Think that's funny?" asked Emily caustically. "How about this?" She clicked the remote again.

"Holy crap," Assault commented as he studied the picture. He turned his head to one side, as almost everyone else was also doing, his expression becoming a frown. "How did they even …"

"Running with duct tape, chasing the Hebert girl," Emily said. "One tripped, the rest followed, and somehow …"

"Wait." That was Battery. "That girl looks familiar."

"She should." Armsmaster spoke up. "That's Shadow Stalker. She was in on the bullying from the beginning. In fact, we suspect that she was the driving force behind it. She then went to the Director to attempt to slander Miss Hebert."

Everyone turned to look at Emily; Triumph, at the end of the table, breathed out a sigh of sudden comprehension. "Wait. The thing with Aegis?"

"Exactly," Emily agreed. "Aegis accidentally put her through a wall before she could communicate her view of things to me."

"So how did you get a picture of her?" asked Assault.

The Director smiled tightly. "Miss Hebert herself came to see me, with her father. It was a very … illuminating … conversation."

Major Holden cleared his throat. "Uh, Director … a few minor incidents doesn't make her as scary as you say. Unless there's more?"

"Yes, there's more." She clicked the remote. More pictures showed up. The PRT men blinked.

Holden turned back to her, his eyes wide. "Wait, she was there?"

"She was indeed there," Emily confirmed. "Apparently they kidnapped her. But about fourteen hours before they kidnapped her, there was a power spike at a food storage facility in Miami. The spoiled food was supplied as airline meals to passengers on a plane that overflew Brockton Bay. They … shall we say, filled up the toilet tanks. These leaked – apparently, this has been an ongoing problem that hasn't quite been bad enough to get fixed, until now – and formed a mass of ice on the underside of the plane, roughly one point two tons in weight. When it passed over Brockton Bay, it fell off. With, as it happens, pinpoint accuracy."

Assault spoke next, trying to keep some strong emotion out of his voice. "One … point … two … tons?"

"That's the number our analysts gave me," the Director confirmed.

"Fourteen … hours?" That was Major Holden.

"If you two are going to keep repeating everything I say, we're going to be here all night," Emily replied caustically. "Yes, one point two tons. Yes, that's an order of magnitude larger than any other chunk of blue ice that's ever been recorded. Yes, these events were put in motion more than half a day before she was ever put under threat. And yes, there's a very good chance that she was asleep for some of the time that her power was setting up the situation."

She looked at each person there in turn, her stare unflinching. "According to her, and I have no reason to disbelieve her, she has no conscious control over her powers. If her power sees someone as an enemy, that is what happens to them. So far it's been non-lethal, albeit extremely humiliating. I have no reason to believe that it will stay that way, especially if someone comes after her with lethal force."

Assault chuckled. "Not sure if Kaiser wouldn't prefer death. After all, he just got publicly sh- oof!"

Battery elbowed him in the ribs and he broke off with a gasp. "Shut up," she hissed. "Not here, not now."

"Precisely," the Director agreed. "There's a time and a place for jokes of that caliber. Here and now is not it." She drew a deep breath. "I am assigning her the provisional codename Butterfly. This will be in force until I have a chance to ask her if she would like a different one. What you will be doing about her is … nothing."

"Nothing?" Major Holden had a hard time controlling his tone. "You've just demonstrated exactly how dangerous she is! A threat assessment -"

"Will not be made." Emily put all the steel into her voice that she could. It was sufficient; Holden wilted back into his seat. "Making a threat assessment requires that we think of her as a threat. And then we start thinking of how we could deal with said threat. We build a model of how we could potentially defeat her." She held Holden's gaze as she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "Do you want to be the one her power decides is her enemy in that case?"

"Shit." Assault leaned back in his chair, his voice filled with realisation. "We can't even think about how we might beat her. Because if we do, we have to assume that her power started planning how to beat us yesterday. Holy shit. You said she's scary." A broad grin spread across his face. "I think that's all kinds of awesome."

"This is no time for jokes," Armsmaster chided him.

"I'm not joking," Assault insisted. "Seriously, I'm not. If people don't screw with her, they're fine. If they do, they end up duct-taped to a bunch of guys or stuck in a toilet or getting a ton of blue ice in the back of the neck. Oh man." Turning to Emily, he put on a beseeching tone of voice. "Can I please please please have the assignment of following her around with a video camera? And can I get an advance on my pay? I'm gonna be buying a lot of popcorn."

"No and no." The Director's voice was firm. "Nobody will be following her around for any reason. We still don't know exactly what triggers her power to think someone's an enemy. The only person who's going to have contact with her is me."

Most of Armsmaster's face was covered by his helmet, but he still managed to look startled. "Ma'am?"

"Yes." Piggot put both hands flat on the table. "I intend to go around to her house and ask, very politely, if I can buy Kaiser's phone from her." She nodded curtly. "In the meantime, you have your orders. Butterfly is strictly hands off. You don't make threat assessments, you don't assign threat ratings -"

"Uh, already done," Assault interrupted. "Shaker: nope."

A few of the PRT officers chuckled; Battery tried to hide her smirk, even as she elbowed him again. "Seriously?" she whispered.

"That's as good an assessment as any," Emily allowed begrudgingly. "But no following her, video camera or otherwise. That's an order." She rose to her feet. "Dismissed."

One by one, they filed from the room. The picture of Taylor Hebert was once more being projected on the wall, and they paused to look at it before leaving. The last PRT officer to go paused longer than most, then turned to leave.

Well, well, well, thought Thomas Calvert. How very interesting.


End of Part Seven

Part Eight

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Eight: Double Trouble


"I want no distractions for at least the next five hours." Coil's voice was firm. "Is that totally understood?"

The mercenary captains nodded. "Understood, sir," one of them replied. "What circumstances will warrant us contacting you?"

"Only something that threatens this base," Coil said. "Anything less can wait."

"Roger that, sir." The mercenaries trooped out. Coil shut the door behind them, then sat down in his office chair. It had been custom built to accommodate his height, allowing him to lean back and enjoy the comfortable padding.

Moving the mouse on his computer, he clicked the unobtrusive icon that locked the door. Now it would take heavy equipment – or high explosive – to get through it. They could contact him from outside, and he could always call out, but nothing could physically reach him unless and until he willed it.

I have to be very careful about this.

<><>​

From the start, he had been intrigued by the possibilities of Butterfly's power. Director Piggot had been annoyingly imprecise about its exact limitations and parameters but then, he supposed that she hadn't spent any time figuring them out. He suspected that she hated capes so much that she didn't actually stop to think about how to better make use of their powers.

If she had her way, all capes would lose their powers tomorrow.

To him, that was amazingly short-sighted. Powers existed for a variety of reasons. The best reason, of course, was 'to further the aims of Thomas Calvert'. With his power, he could improve the utility of virtually any other power by at least a factor of two, by giving any cape a second chance at whatever they were trying to do. Of course, that cape would have to be working for him at the time; what would the point be, otherwise?

Inserting a thumb drive, he called up what little information he had gleaned on Taylor Hebert, and began digging through publicly accessible files for more. Where she lived, what school she went to, family situation, and so forth.

Once he had all the information he could get about her, then he could begin planning on how to best make use of her power. For his benefit, of course. There would be no real point, otherwise.

<><>​

The rain system which had disrupted the smooth running of American 732 had been moving north. As it did, New York got intermittent showers, Boston had its gutters cleaned out and Brockton Bay began to undergo the first of several days of torrential downpour. Fortunately, being Brockton Bay, it wasn't totally freezing.

At first, all went well. The stormwater drains initially handled the load while the freshwater reservoirs filled to capacity. But the rain kept falling. Captain's Hill and the surrounding high ground captured water and directed it downhill, into Brockton Bay. This also went into the stormwater system, which began to find itself a little overwhelmed. Just about the time that the first minor flooding began to be reported – a few streets had up to a foot of water on them – the storm intensified and there were a few lightning strikes. But then it settled down, and the rainfall lessened slightly.

<><>​

Coil looked around as the lights flickered off and on again. He waited; the flicker did not happen again. Opening a new page, he checked the local weather bureau and discovered for the first time that it had been raining for the past four hours.

Although his base was well below the local water table – anything below cellar depth threatened to reach the water table – he had ensured that it would take a great deal of flooding to reach any of the access points. Lightning shouldn't be a problem either, given that he had surge protectors in place. His computer might pick up a minor spike with a big enough lightning strike, but that was a hazard with any computer, anywhere. In any case, all of his files were backed up in secure storage.

He went back to work, carefully planning out a series of stimuli with which to apply to Butterfly and test out the limits and reactivity of her power. After all, this was not someone he could simply have grabbed off the street; that would be the absolute height of stupidity. The Empire Eighty-Eight had amply demonstrated that. He would have to be more subtle about it.

In the meantime, let it rain. It wasn't his problem.

<><>​

The section of the stormwater system under the building where Taylor had been taken by the Empire Eighty-Eight was not so very near Coil's elaborate underground base, but it wasn't so very far off it, either. More to the point, the impact of one point two tons of blue ice had damaged the drain that ran under the building. After a few hours of being filled to capacity, the rushing of the water through the concrete conduit loosened a slab which promptly fell into the flow, blocking a good deal of it. Water backed up, hard.

An interesting fact about water is that it is almost totally incompressible. This is why an underwater explosion will kill fish and people alike; the shockwave is not absorbed by the water itself. That particular fact gives rise to the phenomenon called 'water hammer', which is why a rattle of water in the plumbing can actually cause pipes to burst if not treated carefully.

Some of the water gushed up into the ruins of the building from which Hookwolf and Kaiser had been rescued not so long ago. Manhole covers also popped off as water forced its way upward to relieve the pressure. But this was a minor part of it. Most of the water pressure went another way, down a spur line. Which led, as matters would have it, directly toward a large underground base which the city planners had no idea was there.

In building the base, Thomas Calvert's construction engineers had had to reroute several sewer lines and storm drains; it would have been astonishing if they did not. But in this particular instance, a stormwater line had been altered so that it turned almost ninety degrees and also reduced somewhat in diameter. It hadn't been seen as a problem at the time; it was on a spur line, while a much higher capacity storm drain was able to reroute flow safely past the base.

Or it would have been, if a concrete slab hadn't inconveniently blocked it.

Even then, disaster did not strike immediately. The fast-moving water hit the turn with the force of a thousand high-pressure fire hoses every second, eroding away at the concrete. It was tough material; it could take a lot. But it could not hold out indefinitely. And just a few yards away were the lower sections of Coil's base.

If the rain kept up, if the water kept flowing, the consequences could be … interesting.

<><>​

That night, the rain continued to fall. Thomas Calvert, in his base, gave orders for all of his other operations to be put on standby; he didn't want anything to go awry if he had to unexpectedly abort a timeline. Double-checking to ensure that his directives had been followed, he split the timelines.

In one timeline, he stayed in the base, monitoring events in and around the city. He was a man who believed that one could never be too careful.

In the other timeline, he went home, ate a light meal while watching TV, then went to bed early.

Timeline A

Morning dawned, although the residents of Brockton Bay would have been hard put to notice it. The rain had only eased slightly overnight, and seemed to be invigorated with the coming of the new day. He drank his sixth cup of coffee as he continued to keep an eye on what was happening around Brockton Bay. His endeavours had not been overly hampered by the slowdown; everyone was staying indoors, due to the rain.

Timeline B

Thomas Calvert rose bright and early, as was his habit. He ate a filling breakfast, then drove into the city. Parking in the underground carpark, he reported in for duty. Nothing was scheduled for his strike squad today, so he decided to catch up on the never-ending paperwork.

He was unaware that a flaw had developed with the air-conditioning and drainage systems in the PRT building overnight. Water running off the flat roof was supposed to be directed into downpipes and thus flushed into the stormwater drains. However, a tiny seam had split, and all night, water had been dripping into the interior spaces of the building, finding its way down between the walls and through openings between the floors, to pool on top of a particular ceiling tile in a particular office.

Due to the humidity, the air-conditioning had been hard put to remove all the moisture from the air. This water was also dripping into the interior spaces. By a staggering coincidence, it was collecting in the same place as the water from the leak was. Nobody had yet noticed that the ceiling tile in question was starting to develop a distinct bow. Amazingly enough, it had not yet begun to leak through.

Timeline A

Calling up the Butterfly file, Coil noted the first point to deal with.

Find out if her effect extends to others.

If, for instance, her luckiness did not protect her father, then there would be little reason to ingratiate himself with her. She would still be a potential stumbling-block to his plans, so a scholarship to one of Boston's more prestigious schools – it wasn't as if she had many ties in Brockton Bay any more – might be the way to go.

Overhead, although he didn't hear it, the storm intensified. The lights flickered again, then settled down. Another power spike tested his surge protector. For the most part, the electrical surge was absorbed. But just enough got through to play a very specific type of havoc with his computer. Among other things, the links to sensors in the very bottom levels of his base were cut.

Timeline B

Thunder rolled; Thomas Calvert heard it clearly. He didn't know it, but in his base, in his office, where he was not, his computer had just woken up in response to a power surge. Almost of its own accord, it began to set up a connection, to the last system that he had been connected to. This happened to be the PRT building, where he had been accessing privileged information from the servers.

Picking up his phone, he sent an innocuous text message. The man who received it had gotten strict orders the night before. Danny Hebert is to be roughed up, but not killed. No permanent damage. The content of the text was irrelevant; the fact that it began with one letter of the alphabet and not another meant Go rather than Abort Mission.

<><>​

Danny Hebert shrugged into the rain poncho. "Just going out to walk the rounds," he told his secretary. Not much was going to get done in rain like this, but he liked to make sure that nothing untoward was going on anyway. Too much equipment disappeared at times like this.

Stepping out into the rain was like walking head-first into a vertical ocean with slots in it. It wasn't just pouring; it was hammering down. Within two paces, his glasses had fogged over. He took them off and put them away; it wasn't as if he was going to be inspecting anything closely anyway.

His route took him along the side of the docks; he looked over the ships and the equipment as best he could. The rain hampered his vision as much as his lack of glasses, but he did his best anyway.

He was peering under a shading hand at one particular crane when a dark figure approached him stealthily from behind. The man could have been dancing the macarena and waving lit firecrackers and Danny still would not have seen or heard him, but he approached stealthily anyway. In his hand was a short length of pipe; he considered a broken collarbone to be non-permanent.

The man was just three feet behind Danny, arm raised to deliver a carefully calculated blow, when lightning struck the crane that Danny was examining. The current had plenty of water and metal to conduct it, but one minor tendril of electricity still managed to arc out, miss Danny by mere feet, and ground through the pipe into the would-be attacker.

Fortunately for the man, the current was attenuated by all the water, but the shock still knocked him off his feet and over the side of the dock. Danny didn't even hear the cry of alarm and pain, let alone the splash, given that a lightning strike had just occurred within yards of him.

Louise looked up as Danny staggered back into the office. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I just heard the most godawful crack of thunder."

"What?" Danny replied, loudly and nasally, holding his hand up to his ear. "Sorry, I nearly just got struck by lightning. My feet are still tingling, and I can't hear a thing." He pointed at his office. "I'll be in there if you need me."

<><>​

As Thomas Calvert awaited the report on the assault on Danny Hebert, he saw a very dim flash of light through the heavy rain, in the general direction of the Docks. He never heard the thunder, for at that very moment, the ceiling tile above his head gave way under the weight of water. He was deluged from head to toe; part of it sluiced into his computer, which gave up the ghost in a crackle of sparks. This arced out and knocked him off his chair, leaving him flat on his back, wondering what had hit him. It was only when he went to get up that he found that there was something seriously wrong with his right arm; any time he tried to move it, there was a stabbing pain from the shoulder, radiating in all directions.

Timeline A

Wait, what the hell just happened?

Coil leaned back on his chair and considered the ramifications of what had just occurred in the other timeline. Help had arrived in response to his strangled cries for assistance; his other self was being half-carried to the infirmary.

Either that was a most spectacular piece of bad luck right on cue, or that was Butterfly's power rebounding on me, even though I wasn't the one about to harm her father.

Piggot didn't mention this. He gritted his teeth. And I can't even complain about that, because I'm not supposed to be interacting with the girl.

Leaning forward to the keyboard, he started typing. Initial testing indicates that Butterfly's power will seek out those who initiate hostile action against her, even at a remove. The results of the attempt to cause minor harm to Danny Hebert are as yet unknown, but I suspect that it will be unsuccessful, and that the attacker will have suffered a mishap of unknown magnitude.

Further tests will have to be carried out with th

There was a frantic pounding on the door; he looked up with irritation. Moving the mouse, he brought up the base security feeds. One and all, they refused to load.

A frown creased his brow. That's not right.

Clicking on another icon brought up a speaker symbol; he picked up the microphone from his desk and spoke clearly, "Identify yourself. Who is this?"

There was no response, not even a crackle on the line.

The pounding continued as he got up. Lifting his pistol belt from the back of the chair, he buckled it on then drew the pistol. Carefully, he tapped in the code to open the door. Nothing happened.

That's really not right.

More carefully, he tapped in the code again. The lack of result repeated itself.

Doing his best to ignore the chill that was running up and down his spine, he opened a panel beside the door and engaged a manual crank, proceeding to unlock and wind the door open with muscle power. There's no such thing as being too cautious.

Gradually, the door cranked open. Coil recognised his head of security, face wearing an expression of extreme agitation. He kept cranking. "What's the matter?"

"Sir, we have a bad problem."

Shit. Shit shit shit. "What is it?"

"The base is filling with water, sir."

"What?" But even as he asked the question, he could hear the sound, in the background, of swirling water. This was a noise that he never wanted to hear inside an underground facility.

"How?" he grunted, continuing to crank.

"Not one hundred percent sure, sir. There's a hole in one of the lower level rooms, with a lot of water coming through at high pressure. If I had to guess, I'd say a stormwater line has ruptured, and burst through the wall of the base."

"What's the rate of rise?" He nearly had the door open by now.

"About a foot every two minutes."

He stopped cranking. "Say that again."

"About a foot every two minutes, sir," the security chief repeated. "The lower level is about half-full."

"Christ." He stopped cranking, dashed back to the computer. A click brought him over to the sensors that were supposed to detect excess dampness in the lower level of the base. Nothing was coming back from them. Then he called up the command menu for the drainage pumps that he'd had installed. A click of the mouse sent the signal for them all to start pumping. On the screen, a row of green dots popped up, indicating that pumping had begun.

He'd only just begun to relax when the 'all stop' command popped up on the screen. One by one, each pump flicked from green to red. Frantically, he clicked the 'all start' command once more. They all started then, about ten seconds later, the 'all stop' command repeated itself.

He began to swear; three more times he sent the 'all start' command, only for the pumps to turn themselves off at the spurious 'all stop' command once more. On the fourth time around, he didn't click anything; sure enough, every eleven seconds, the 'all stop' command popped up anyway.

Stepping over to the door, he finished cranking it open and stepped outside. Looking over the catwalk rail, he saw the water, roiling with the force of the stream pushing it into the base.

Good thing I hadn't dropped the other timeline quite yet. But there's still stuff I can try.

Dashing back to his room, he hit the power button on his computer. Maybe if I reboot the system, the pumps will also reset themselves and get rid of that recurring command.

It seemed to take forever for his computer to restart. After a minute, he started fidgeting. After two, he lost patience and hit the power button to manually restart.

Absolutely nothing happened. Not even the power light came on.

God dammit. He squeezed out through the door and went to the rail. The water was noticeably higher. The money I spent on this fucking place.

A thought struck him. I wonder …

Timeline B

Thomas Calvert stirred and groaned.

"Hold still, sir," the medic warned him. "I'm just setting your collarbone. You've got a nasty break. The edge of that roof tile hit you just so."

"Phone," he mumbled, head made fuzzy by the local anaesthetic. "Need my phone."

"Sorry," the orderly standing by reported cheerfully. "It got totalled."

"Borrow yours," Calvert told him groggily.

The orderly looked at the medic, who shrugged. Calvert read the look as if it'll shut him up, sure. Whatever the orderly read it as, he also shrugged and dug out a battered smartphone. Entering the PIN code, he handed it over.

Clumsily, Calvert entered the number one-handed; twice he slipped up and had to go back. But finally, he had the number dialled in. Holding it to his ear, he waited as it rang.

"Who is this?" demanded the watch operator in his base. "How did you get this number?"

"It's me," Calvert stated. "Sigma three Alpha zero."

There was a pause as the operator checked the code book. 'Sigma three' meant 'commander/lost normal means of communication' and 'Alpha zero' meant 'hurt/safe'.

"Right, sir. Got it. How can I help you?"

"Status report," mumbled Calvert. "Complete status. Any problems?" Is the base flooding?

"Status nominal, sir. No problems."

"Please repeat. I copy you as saying 'no problems'."

"That is correct, sir. I have the head of security with me now. He concurs."

"Understood." Calvert fumbled with the phone until the number had been wiped from memory, then handed it back to the orderly. "Thanks."

"No problem, sir."

Calvert let himself relax as much as he could. The base is flooding in the other timeline but not this one. I have a broken collarbone in this timeline but not in that one. This is also the timeline where I tried to have Butterfly's father harmed.

Timeline A

The water was lapping at the catwalk and showing no sign of slowing its rate of rise when he came to the conclusion. My collarbone will heal a damn sight faster than trying to rebuild this base. And in the meantime, I've learned my lesson. I don't try to affect Butterfly by harming her father.

He dropped the timeline.

<><>​

When Deputy Director Renick tapped on the door to Emily Piggot's office, he heard murmured voices inside, then her raised voice. "Come in."

Opening the door, he looked into the office to see one of the techs from Analysis sitting half-behind Piggot's desk on one of the guest chairs, open laptop balanced awkwardly on the corner of the desk. He was tapping away intermittently at the keyboard.

"Oh, Renick," Piggot greeted him almost cheerfully. "Come on in. You might want to see this."

Curiously, he came all the way in, closing the door behind him. The tech – an acne-scarred twenty-something with zero social skills and more computer science doctorates than Renick had imagined possible – barely glanced up as Renick rounded the desk.

"What am I looking at?" he asked, glancing from the tech's laptop to Piggot's computer screen.

"Over here," the Director said, gesturing at her screen. On it, a wireframe diagram was displayed; she tapped a key and it rotated to a new alignment.

"What is it?" he asked.

"An underground supervillain base, if you can believe it," she informed him with some satisfaction. "Right here in Brockton Bay."

He took a long moment to assimilate that. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Not in the slightest. We only stumbled across it through the weirdest kind of luck. Their computer system started trying to handshake with ours. A prompt actually popped up on my screen. At first I thought it was some sort of virus, so I had Johannsen here run some tests. He said it was a genuine contact, so I had him trace it back and start digging through their files. We've got base plans, mercenary payment information, body armour, details on Tinkertech weaponry. Everything except the name of the villain, and I'm pretty sure we can make an educated guess on that."

"Coil," Renick agreed immediately. "No-one else hires mercenaries, and we're pretty sure that he does."

"Exactly." The Director seemed to be almost bubbling over with secret amusement. "And what's more, I think I know why this fell into our laps."

"Okay, you've got me there."

Emily stretched her arms out before her, fingers interlaced. "Tell me, who's been causing a series of unfortunate events around town for people trying to mess with her?"

It only took Renick a moment or so to connect the dots. "Coil's been trying to do something, and her power has objected?"

"That's my guess." Now Renick could understand her amusement and satisfaction. "God, it's good to see karma happen to someone else."

"True," he agreed. "Talking about a run of bad luck …"

She looked up alertly. "I'm listening."

"You know how you asked me to see if anyone from that meeting suffered any mysterious ill-fortune which might indicate that they were going against orders?" He didn't need to explain exactly which meeting, or what orders.

"Yes … ?"

He cleared his throat. "Just a little while ago, Commander Calvert was sitting at his desk when a large amount of water which had apparently accumulated on the ceiling tile directly over his chair … came down. Along with the ceiling tile. He was soaked, his computer was shorted out, which then zapped him clean off his chair, his phone was destroyed, and the ceiling tile broke his collarbone."

She blinked. "That's a pretty definitive run of bad luck. Anyone else report water leaks?"

He shrugged. "I asked around and checked with Maintenance. Nothing."

"So he'd be in the infirmary now?"

"Last I checked, they were setting the collarbone," confirmed Renick. "He expressed a wish to go home once they were finished."

Piggot showed her teeth as she stood up. "I think it might be a good idea to go and ask Commander Calvert some serious questions about his activities in connection to Butterfly, before he leaves the building."

<><>​

I looked up from the sofa as Dad paused at the back door and folded his umbrella. "Hi, Dad. Good day at work?"

"Wet," he grunted. "We had some idiot sneak on to the docksite. He got turned around and fell in the water. Idiot managed to break his collarbone. We caught him trying to sneak out again and handed him over to the police for trespassing."

"Wow," I marvelled. "We just had a few pop quizzes. And a library period for World Affairs. The cops are asking the teachers a lot of questions, and I don't think they like the answers."

"Good," Dad said with feeling. "Oh yeah, you want to tell your power to be a bit more careful. I nearly got struck by lightning. It came so close I could smell the ozone."

"Jeez, are you all right?" I jumped up off the sofa and went to him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. My feet tingled for about the next half hour, and I couldn't hear anything for about ten minutes afterward, but I'm good now." He paused. "Oh, and my hair was standing on end for most of the day."

I smirked, then tried to hide a chuckle. "Sorry. But it's kinda funny."

"Not if you're on the receiving end," he assured me.

"But you're not hurt?" I asked.

"Nope. Just scared the bejeebers out of me." He paused, then added, "I have to say, it was quite a shocking experience."

I groaned but hugged him anyway. "That was bad. But I'm glad you're okay. And hey, what if you were going to get struck by lightning and this was my power saving you?"

"Huh." His voice was thoughtful as he hugged me back. "I never considered that."

"Yup." I was in no doubt at all that this was what had happened. "Because my powers are awesome."

He ruffled my hair. "No argument here."


End of Part Eight

Part Nine

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Nine: Anvilicious


Monday Morning, January 3, 2011
Brockton Bay

It started with a sneeze.

Mary Worthington was brunching with her best friend, with her baby in the stroller beside her, when the sneeze spontaneously erupted. It was a genteel sneeze, barely worth the name, but she did not manage to cover her mouth in time.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, mortified. "I am so sorry, Katarina. Whatever must you think of me?"

Katarina Aramis gave her friend a tolerant smile. "I think that you must be tired and a little worn down. Because no matter how delightful babies are – yes, yes you are," she cooed, reaching down to tickle little Heather under the chin, "they do take up your time and effort, don't they?"

Pulling out a tissue, Mary blew her nose. "I suppose so. But every time she smiles at me, it makes it all worthwhile." She took hold of Heather's tiny hand, her expression melting as the exquisitely perfect fingers grasped her pinky.

"I can see that," Katarina agreed. "I would so like one of my own, even with all the difficulties and lost sleep. But James is just so busy all the time. It's as if the gallery is his baby."

"Then make time," Mary told her firmly. "If you want it, go and get it."

Katarina nodded firmly. "You know, I rather think I will."

They parted ways shortly thereafter. Mary went on to her favourite spa, where the attendants were sure to fuss over Heather as much as over her, while Katarina returned home. Mary would spend the next week sneezing occasionally, then it would go away, a mild winter cold come and gone.

It just so happened, however, that Katarina had inhaled a particularly virulent batch of the virus; it encountered a vulnerable section of mucous membrane and went to work. By the time her husband came home that evening, she had a cold well on the way. She was, although she couldn't know it, quite contagious.

She was also, due to her interaction with Heather, feeling in a mood to get closer to her husband. Ten years of marriage had not yet produced a baby, but then, they had never really tried for one before. The oncoming cold was leaving her slightly light-headed, not helped by the glass of red wine she had at dinner, so that night she gave it her not inconsiderable all.

Surprised and pleased, he responded well; what happened between them that night did much to rekindle the romance in what had become a rather routine marriage. By morning, she wasn't pregnant, though that would happen in time to come, but he did have a head cold.

Both of them ignored the symptoms on the first day, but on the second, they were too much to ignore. Katarina took to her bed, where the maid brought her regular infusions of steaming chicken soup; James, wearing slippers, a heavy bathrobe and with a blanket tucked around him, took up residence on the sofa and watched the news and other daily events while trying to come up with a new exhibition theme for the gallery. It was a slip of the thumb on the elaborate remote control that gave him his inspiration; instead of switching to the worldwide stock market pricings, the TV instead flipped on to a Western. At that moment, the scene was of a blacksmith shoeing a horse as the hero rode past into town.

He paused, watching the movie as it unrolled. His focus wasn't on the surprisingly clean-shaven and well-attired protagonist, but the surroundings. Wooden boardwalks, saloons with batwing doors, stagecoaches, the whole nine yards. After a while, he picked up the notepad that lay at his elbow and began jotting down notes. By the end of the movie – which he didn't bother watching – he had a plan firmly roughed out. The exhibition would concentrate not on the over-glorified violence and danger of those days, but the mundane daily lives that most people went through. Most especially, it would showcase those jobs that had been superseded by the march of time, but which had once upon a time been an essential part of society.

Blowing his nose, he picked up the phone and began to make some calls.

<><>​

Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tennessee

The Tennessee Iron Works Foundry had not matched up to the grandeur of its name when it first began operations, and it had declined considerably since then. Its origins dated back to the Civil War, turning out repeating rifles and revolvers and smaller paraphernalia for the war effort. Raw iron had come in; horseshoes, buckles, nails and dozens of other items had been produced and taken away.

Following the cessation of hostilities, the foundry had struggled on. There was always a market for nails and horseshoes, whether a war was being fought or not. Guns, too, were in demand, just not as much as before. Eventually, however, it had had to close its doors, as more modern methods of production had overtaken it. Grass had grown between the cracks of the concrete and the well-used tools and dies had languished in their various storage bins.

For decades, the property teetered on the brink of being demolished in place of something more upmarket, but it always seemed to be just a little more profitable to keep it on the books as a tax write-off than to actually do something with it. And then it was sold off. For the first time in years, the new owners actually came through and looked at the place.

These were people with vision. They had the building brought up to spec; the old tools were repaired, the dies brushed off and in some cases recast. When the foundry went into operation once more, it was again producing the iron nails and other items for which it had originally been constructed. But instead of going to hard-working farmers or new recruits to the Army, they went to collectors and re-enactors; people who liked to immerse themselves in a world long gone, perhaps to escape the grim realities of the present day.

A few days before, they had received an order for iron nails and replica blacksmithing tools. These they could supply. The client had also asked them if they could come up with a selection of anvils. Unfortunately, anvils were just a little out of the weight range that the foundry was used to dealing with, and so they were unable to manufacture them on site. However, making use of their widespread network of contacts, they were able to source no less than nine antique anvils.

In the meantime, the rest of the order would be much easier to fill; at that moment, the foundry was in the process of producing a run of nails. However, the rain system that had spread up the east coast from Miami was intensifying and although the damage of long disuse had been repaired, the roof was still old and water still found its way in. There it happened to find a section of wiring which had fallen prey to the local rodent population. Water dripped on to exposed copper, sparks flew and a short-circuit ensued. Throughout the building, the lights flickered, but there was no other result.

Or so they thought. As it happened, the equipment designed to ensure that cavitation did not occur within the metal being poured into molds had turned itself off to avoid damage from the power spike. Of the last few dozen nails made, a certain number ended up with a flaw embedded within them. Although invisible to the naked eye, these flaws ensured that the nails would break if and only if shear stresses were applied from a certain direction and over a certain amount of force.

When the short-circuit was discovered, the nails were, of course, randomly checked for problems. However, by sheer chance, those nails that were picked out were perfectly sound; all of the substandard ones slipped by and were thus packaged up. These were sent on to the next location. There they would be used to fasten together a heavy wooden table, which would then be transported north.

The anvils, on the other hand, were crated up and shipped directly to Brockton Bay. The smallest weighed in at seventy-five pounds, while the largest massed two hundred pounds of solid iron.

<><>​

Friday, January 14, 2011
Forsberg Gallery, Brockton Bay

James Aramis pointed. "Okay, set the table up over there."

The table in question was large, requiring eight men to move it. This was because it was built from very thick planks, planed smooth by hand instead of machines. Heavy iron nails held it together; it would support the anvils which had been procured for the exhibition.

The anvils and the table were not the centrepiece of the exhibition; that would be the artworks which would surround and counterpoint them. Actual sculptures made of wrought-iron by those same blacksmiths who had used such anvils, paintings of the men at work, and other such pieces would be placed in this area of the exhibition.

'Over there' ended up being near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The men hefting the table set it down with a sigh of relief.

"No, no," he said. "Turn it ninety degrees, so that the end is toward the window. I want people walking around it, not past it."

The shift boss nodded. "One, two, three, lift," he ordered, and they lifted the table. Carefully, they shuffled around, turning it so that one end was near the window, then set it down again.

"Better," noted Aramis. "Now, the anvils are crated up in the loading dock. I'm going to need you to uncrate them and set them out on the table. I've got place cards so that you know where to put them."

The men headed for the elevator. Once they were out of earshot from the gallery director, one of them shook his head slightly. "Anvils?" he muttered.

"Yeah, anvils," the shift boss agreed. "We use the trolley jack and we take it real careful. One of those things lands on your foot, you won't have a foot any more."

Nobody argued with that.

<><>​

The PRT Building, the previous day

"Commander Calvert."

Thomas looked up from the form he was awkwardly filling out with his left hand. "Yes, Director?"

Emily Piggot stepped into the sickbay and sat down in the chair next to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

He could tell from the tone of her voice that she couldn't care less how he was feeling, but he went along with it. "I've been better," he said non-committally. "They gave me something for the pain, and the sling helps. But a broken collarbone is no fun at all." He paused a beat, then added, "Thanks for asking."

From the twist of her lip, he could tell that she had picked up all the nuances of what he was saying. For his part, he resolved to think carefully about what else he said; the local they'd given him for the pain wasn't fuzzing his thoughts too badly, but he still wasn't on best form.

"Well, it could have been worse, I imagine," she noted. "So tell me, what the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Director," began the sickbay attendant. "Commander Calvert is -"

"In my chain of command. As are you." Piggot's eyes never shifted from Calvert. "Kindly absent yourself. He will still be healthy when you return."

The tone of her voice would have etched steel; from the corner of his eye, Calvert saw the man exiting the room with some haste. He watched her take a digital recorder from her pocket and thumb the switch on. "This is the record of an interview between Director Emily Piggot and Commander Thomas Calvert on Thursday, January thirteen, two thousand and eleven," she enunciated. "Commander Calvert, please identify yourself for the record."

Taking a deep breath, he cleared his suddenly-dry throat. "This is Commander Thomas Calvert, Parahuman Response Teams," he said clearly. "What do you wish to know?"

"I will repeat my earlier question," Piggot replied. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Splitting timelines was second nature for him by now. In both of them, he was still sitting on the bed with the clipboard on his lap. The delay with the sickbay attendant had given him time to think, and he had used it well. There are two ways I can go from here. Fortunately, I can try them both.

<><>​

Timeline A

Agree agree agree.

"You're right, Director," he agreed. "It was my fault. I screwed up totally."

A blink was the only indication he got of her surprise. "Keep talking."

"You warned us," he expanded. "You warned us about considering her to be a threat. But I was a field agent, like you, back in Ellisburg. You know how hard is is for us to not see a powerful parahuman as a potential threat."

He could see her struggling not to empathise with him. It was hard for her, because her feelings toward capes started at 'mild distrust' and went up from there. He had picked this approach for that very reason.

"You know that I feel that way," she snapped. "You've always struck me as being more of a moderate in the matter."

"Just because I don't distrust them all the time doesn't mean that I don't see the threat that they pose," he shot back, having anticipated such an answer. "I'm pretty sure that you've got a black file somewhere around here. I know that I have."

Her lips pursed even tighter, confirming his supposition. The term 'black file' was only used between non-parahuman members of the PRT, referring to a file composed of ways to take down currently-friendly members of the Protectorate and other teams, should they ever turn on their allies. Such a file was in no way sanctioned at any level of the PRT, and was never officially acknowledged. By mentioning it, Calvert had just rendered the recorded interview null and void.

"Fine then," she muttered, turning off the recorder. "But you were ordered not to run a threat assessment."

"But I didn't," he protested, his expression and tone conveying – he hoped – innocence. "I never wrote a single word down, never gave an order to anyone." He tapped his temple with his left forefinger. "It was all in here. A thought experiment, you might say. Daydreaming, even. Woolgathering. Just thinking about ways that it might just possibly be viable to take down such a cape, should she turn out to be hostile."

"And look where it got you." Piggot nodded at his sling. "Electrical burns and a broken collarbone."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "And you were right. I have absolutely no intent of ever attempting anything hostile against her. Which I suppose is the point of what happened to me. I'm totally convinced that it's a really bad idea to even consider trying to take her down."

"Which I could have told you before," Piggot pointed out. "In fact, I believe that I did. Specifically." Despite herself, he could see, her attitude toward him was softening. He had screwed up, taken the hits, and admitted his error. It's hard to stay angry at someone who keeps agreeing with you.

"Yes, you did." He gestured at his injured shoulder. "And you were totally right. I didn't see how right you were, before, but now I do."

"Good." She stood up. "You're not going to try this again?"

His laugh was short, totally lacking in humour, and absolutely sincere. "Do I look like a suicidal moron?"

Her answering smile was dry. "I had wondered. Consider yourself on leave until that shoulder heals." Standing up, she moved toward the door. "And Calvert?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Sometimes I do actually know what I'm talking about. You might want to consider that."

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Slowly, he allowed himself to relax. Well, that could have gone worse.

<><>​

Timeline B

Deny deny deny.

"What do you mean, what the hell was I thinking?" He matched his tone to hers.

"I mean," she snapped, "that very shortly after I warned you against antagonising a reality-manipulating cape, you obviously did exactly that, considering the situation that you ended up in."

"Obviously?" he retorted. "So what, just because you have the theory that someone may have triggered with omniscient reality-manipulation abilities, as soon as someone has an accident thereafter it's because they did something to upset that cape?"

"The timing is pretty damn suspicious, Calvert," she said hotly. "As are your injuries."

"What about my injuries?" he asked. "My computer short-circuited and zapped me, and I fell off my chair and broke my collarbone."

She leaned forward, her glare becoming more intense. "We think that there was an attempted attack on Taylor Hebert's father this afternoon. Police arrested a stranger found in the dockyards. He had electrical burns and a broken collarbone. They also found a steel pipe with burns on it that could have been made by a lightning strike. Also, Hebert reports nearly being struck by lightning. My theory is that this stranger was about to attack him and was struck by lightning. At almost exactly the same time, as far as we can tell, you had your mishap with the computer, suffering near-identical injuries. What do you say to that?"

"I think," he snarled in reply, "that coincidences still happen, reality manipulating cape or no. Electrocution is a very common form of injury in the home. And the collarbone is one of the easiest bones in the body to break." He waited till she opened her mouth to speak, then went on. "Has anyone checked the background of that supposed assailant? That might be an easy way to find out who's paying him to attack Hebert and why – if, in fact, that's what he was there for."

Her eyes promised him dire retribution for cutting her off, but she nodded reluctantly. "The police say that he's a known member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, but that he says he quit the gang after Kaiser was captured."

Calvert snorted. "Yeah, anyone can say anything. I think that's case closed on that one, yes? The Empire kidnapped the Hebert girl and got hammered. One of the members didn't get the memo and went after her father."

He held up a finger as Piggot went to answer. "Now, I'll admit that the lightning strike seems a little coincidental, but it could have happened that way, especially if this guy was holding a steel pipe over his head like a lightning rod. But what I will categorically deny is that I had anything to do with it. Why would I even want to attack either the girl or her father? You gave us chapter and verse on her powers. It sounds like the height of stupidity to me."

"I have no idea why you'd want to be so idiotic," she agreed, "but the truth remains that your injuries correlate closely with the intruder's, and so does the timing. I think you went after Daniel Hebert. I just don't know why."

"Well, you can think all you like," he told her, "but unless and until you get solid proof that I've got anything to do with this – any proof, any at all – I would advise you to refrain from throwing wild accusations around. Because no matter what you might decide it looks like, having an odd accident happen to someone is not actually proof of anything except that they've had an accident."

"Yes, but -" she began, but he overrode her.

"And even if it is this Hebert girl's power at work, there's still no proof that it's a result of me trying something against her. Maybe she's had a bad day and her power's acting out. Maybe it's malicious and likes to target people for no good reason. Maybe it's inaccurate. Maybe it's got backsplash. All you've got is the supposition that she's reacting to a potential attack on her, that her power's able to target just those involved, and that it's responding in a proportionate manner. None of which you've got any proof for. Have you?"

She paused, apparently waiting for something. When nothing happened for a long moment, she spoke, her voice low and deadly.

"No, Commander Calvert. I have no proof for it. I have a lot of examples of her power reacting in a timely and deserved manner. I can't prove that her power only ever works in that way, but I believe it. So you can bet that I will be opening an investigation into you, into every facet of your life, turning over every stone, until I find evidence that either proves or disproves my belief once and for all." She paused then, like him, spoke just as he was about to make a comment. "You've got sick leave. Use it. But don't leave town."

"With pleasure." He deliberately left it vague about which part of her statement he was referring to.

"Good." She stood up. "This ends the interview." She clicked off the recorder, then turned toward him. "Are you working for Coil?"

The suddenness of the question startled him into a laugh. "Ha – no, Director. No, seriously. That's the last thing I'd ever do. What makes you even think of that?"

Her eyes narrowed, leaving him wondering what was going on behind them. "No reason. But we'll be checking that angle too. Whatever you are up to, we'll find out."

She moved toward the door; as she opened it, he spoke up. "Director, just one question. Why are you telling me all this? Why let me know what you suspect me of?"

Her head turned, her eyes raking over him. "Because I know you've got every second file clerk slipping you information. It's the way you work. If we started an investigation on you on the sly, you'd have chapter and verse before the day was out." She showed her teeth in what might have been a smile. "At least this way, I get to watch you squirm."

With that, she left the sickbay, closing the door quietly behind her. Almost, he terminated the timeline. But he didn't. He had learned his lesson.

It's not totally unsalvageable yet.

<><>​

Friday, January 14, 2011
Forsberg Gallery, Brockton Bay

The forklift was small enough to fit into the freight elevator. Its tyres were large and soft, the better to travel over the polished-marble floors without leaving marks. Upon its tines rested a forge to go with the anvils. It was actually a genuine forge, built from fired clay bricks, and looked authentic as hell, despite being only about fifty years old. Once it was put into place, the bellows and blacksmithing tools would be set up around it.

"Set it up at the end of the table," James Aramis directed the driver. "Careful, now."

Yeah, yeah, careful is my middle name, the driver thought sourly, but he schooled his features to politeness. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "Careful it is."

Manipulating the levers of the forklift with all the skill at his command, he eased the small vehicle forward, the electric motor humming audibly. The forge was resting on a pallet, which would be concealed with window-dressing once it was set on the floor, but the problem was that he had to get it dead straight to start with; any attempt to move it might just scratch the marble, and Mr Aramis would go ballistic.

Brow furrowed with concentration, he lined up the forklift and brought it in toward the table. Just as he was about to lower the forks and see how that looked, he was distracted by a fluttering motion out of the corner of his eye. Looking around, he jumped as a large monarch butterfly flitted right into his face for just a second. "Whoa!" His hand brushed one of the controls and the forklift jolted forward slightly, bringing the forge sharply into contact with the end of the table.

Normally, this would not have been an issue. The table was three feet clear of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined this floor of the gallery; the impact should have moved it barely an inch. The forge was unmarked by the collision, the rugged brickwork shrugging it off.

But with a sound like several simultaneous gunshots, a number of nails gave way all at once; the table lurched forward, the far legs folding underneath. With a loud crash, the end of the table hit the floor, forming a ramp that ended right next to one of the windows.

The first anvil, the smallest one, began to slide down the table, then the second. And then they were all in motion. There was a certain inevitability to it, the only thing standing in their way being the tempered glass of the window.

Aramis' mouth was opening, whether to shout orders or to say something else, when the smallest anvil hit the glass, side on.

The glass cracked, but the anvil stopped.

<><>​

Coil's Secret Underground Base
At the Same Time

Timeline A

Thomas Calvert climbed from the back of the van. It had been an absolute pain – quite literally – to get into the costume with the broken collarbone hampering his movements, but sacrifices sometimes have to be made. Into the base he strode, his mercenaries stiffening to attention as he passed by. He nodded in return; the base seemed to be in good order, although he made a mental note to check on the moisture detectors, and to have the wall in the lower levels reinforced, just in case.

He'd had to wait a day before returning to his base, just in case his movements were under observation. But it seemed that his conversation with Piggot had had the desired effect, and that any suspicions had been diverted from him. Though where they got the idea that Thomas Calvert was working for Coil, I have no clue.

That was something he would have to investigate, he decided. It probably wasn't something that he could glean from his network within the PRT – while Piggot knew about it, it wasn't exactly breaking the rules to find out information through backchannels like that – so he would have to use more illegal means. Fortunately, I have just the thing.

Entering his office, he closed the door before sitting down at his computer. Typing left-handed would hamper him a little, but he could manage, he decided. But first things first; he hit the power button to wake the computer up from its electronic slumber.

Except that it wasn't slumbering. Almost immediately, the screen came on; lines of data were scrolling up the screen, almost as if he were performing a search. But I just got here. His expression went from puzzled to horrified in seconds as he realised just what was going on. Someone's tapped into my system from the outside and is going through it.

"Shit," he muttered. "No … no … no." His left hand flew over the keyboard, shutting down windows as fast as he could. Whoever was on the other end would know something was going on, but right now, cutting off the leak was of prime concern.

<><>​

Timeline B

They'll be watching me.

He didn't know that for certain, but he would have done it in Piggot's place, and she was at least as paranoid as he was, perhaps more so. Ten years of running the local PRT station, while the city slowly went to hell around her, would not have served to make her any kind of complacent. So he had planned on being under surveillance, and was working on being the most boring target for such in the history of espionage.

The previous night, he had slept in his own bed. It had been an uncomfortable rest, due to his injury, but he had gotten through the night. In the long hours before getting to sleep, he had planned out his next moves.

Wander around town for the next few days, while gathering my resources. Then leave town. Between the mysterious and possibly vindictive powers of Taylor Hebert and the suspicions of Emily Piggot, Brockton Bay was getting far too warm for him. He had no intention of drawing the ire of Taylor Hebert again; once had been definitely too much. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

He still hadn't decided exactly where he would move to. A city with a relatively high parahuman population would be ideal; one with a strong crime index would also be helpful. Boston would be too close, New York too large.

Still considering his options, he strolled down the street in the general direction of a good restaurant that he knew. The Forsberg Gallery was just up ahead; the display banners outside described an upcoming exhibition. He briefly considered attending; if he was under surveillance, it would make an ideal time to break away from his watchers.

He never heard the window break, far above.

<><>​

Timeline A

When the last tab had closed, he used the trackpad to select an icon and click on it; this showed him that the firewalls were down and his computer was fully vulnerable. He clicked again to reactivate them.

A window popped up. AUTHENTICATE USER.

Of course. Changing security settings – such as turning on the firewall – required a password to be entered. How it had been turned off was something that he would have to find out. Is there a traitor in the base? He would have bet good money that there wasn't, but stranger things had happened. Now I'm going to have to vet them all. Again.

Working as quickly as he could, he tapped out the authentication code with his left hand, then reached across to hit Enter. However, instead of showing up USER AUTHENTICATED as it should have, instead the screen flashed red.

INTRUDER DETECTED, the words spilled across the screen accusingly. ENTER AUTHENTICATION CODE IMMEDIATELY.

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he re-entered the code more carefully. I don't know what's going on, but I can't make any mistakes now.

For a long moment after he hit Enter, the screen went blank. When it came back on, his blood ran cold.

INTRUDER INTRUDER INTRUDER.

BASE SELF-DESTRUCT ENGAGED.

DESTRUCT IN 15:00:00.

"What?" he blurted. "No! I did it right!"

Ignoring his words, the numbers began counting down, the two digits on the far right whirling so fast they were a blur. Outside his office, a siren began whooping in the tone he had selected for 'evacuate the base immediately'. The drills he had held were paying off, he noted absently; running boots outside the door indicated that nobody was standing around asking what was going on.

But he didn't move from the chair. I can still fix this.

Forcing himself to stay calm, he carefully entered a second code. This would freeze his computer; it would take several hours to unlock it, but in the meantime, he would be able to go into it and manually turn off the self-destruct directive. Double-checking each of the memorised characters, he finally nodded and pressed Enter.

HACKING ATTEMPT DETECTED.

SELF-DESTRUCT IN 05:00:00.

"No!" he shouted. "No! What's going on?" At the back of his mind, he knew, but he didn't want to admit it, not quite yet.

There was one last code he could enter. This would wipe the entire system, force a reload from backups. He would lose everything that hadn't been backed up in the last week.

Christ. It's a rock and a hard place.

Her power is trying to force me to drop this timeline.

This is the good timeline.

Fuuuuck.

Gritting his teeth, he entered the final code. With his forefinger, he stabbed at the Enter key.

NICE TRY, SUCKER.

SELF-DESTRUCT IN 01:00:00.

For a long moment, he stared at the message on the screen. "But I didn't even code that in," he protested. "Who wrote that?"

Then his survival instincts kicked in; leaping from the chair, he darted to the door. Almost a minute to go. Maybe I can still make it.

But the door refused to unlock, even when he frantically tapped out the code on the keypad. After two further attempts, he gave it up and turned back to the computer. There was less than thirty seconds to go. Hopelessly, he watched the numbers scroll down to their inevitable conclusion. With less than ten seconds to go, he raised his eyes and one fist to the ceiling.

"But I wasn't going to do anything!" he screamed.

When the explosions went off, he lost consciousness almost immediately, so he was never quite sure whether it was the shockwave that killed him or the falling rubble.

<><>​

Timeline B
Forsberg Gallery

"Stop – stop it!" James Aramis' voice rose above all others, but it was too late. The second anvil hit the first, transmitting the shock of impact through to the window; what had been a few cracks spread almost too fast for the eye to see, and became a hole. The first anvil slipped through and disappeared, falling toward the pavement far below. But the second anvil was a little larger, and hung up just for a moment … until the third anvil hit it.

One by one, they slid down the length of the table. Had the slope been a little less pronounced, or the craftwork on the table left it a little rougher, disaster might yet have been averted. But such was not to be. Two men each tried to grab an anvil, but the handholds were not good and the momentum too great; one was dragged along briefly by the mass of metal, while the other lost his grip immediately.

One by one, in a stately train of destruction, each anvil hit the hole in the window, opening it ever so slightly more, then vanished through.

Finally, in counterpoint, the blue monarch butterfly that had caused the entire debacle floated to the hole in the window, hesitated there for a moment, then flitted outside.

In the silence that followed, James Aramis broke the habit of many years.

"Fuck."

<><>​

The first that Thomas Calvert knew of anything amiss was when the anvil landed in front of him. Had he not paused to read the banner, it would have crushed him utterly; as it was, it punched its way into the concrete with a shattering impact, sending cracks radiating in all directions.

Instinctively, he split time; one version of himself stayed where he was, while the other leaped backward. That one died, as an anvil landed right on top of him.

Another split; a leap to the left. Another anvil, another messy death. A leap to the right. A fourth anvil landed, once more a direct hit. He stopped splitting time after that, staying right where he was, as four more anvils rained down around him, filling in the gaps between the first four.

His ears were still ringing from the tremendous crashes, his throat scratchy from the concrete dust thrown up by the impacts, but he vaguely registered that he was standing in a circle of eight anvils, each with its horn pointed directly at him.

Anvils? The fuck?

And then the last one landed, on top of the first. It smashed down so hard that the first one was driven below ground level, the ringing of metal on metal so loud that it overrode the previous clamour in his ears.

I'm still alive. Resolutely, he ignored the warm trickle down his left leg and repressed the whimper that arose in his throat. Still alive. Oh god. I was nearly killed. By anvils. Falling from the sky.

It took him a few moments to notice that the last anvil wasn't pointing its horn directly at him, but somewhere off to the side. He leaned forward and looked along the line, to see what he had already half-expected. With renewed purpose, he stepped over the closest anvil and set off in that direction.

<><>​

Amanda Curren stifled a yawn.

It was a slow afternoon on the reception desk at the Brockton Bay PRT building. School wasn't out yet, so the teenagers weren't flooding through the lobby and buying posters and such at the gift shop. There hadn't been any alarms; the guards in the lobby, as bored as Amanda was, were watching the newsfeed on the screen in the corner or chatting in low tones, not made any easier by their full-face helmets. She glanced around to ensure that her supervisor was elsewhere, then tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Up in one corner of her screen, a small window opened, with a classic comedy espionage show. She'd channel-surfed on to one of the episodes a week ago, and had become quite addicted to it.

Just as she did so, the slightest of shudders went through the building. It was there and gone in an instant, leaving her wondering if she'd even actually felt it; a few moments later, she thought she heard a very distant explosion, or something like it. Pausing the show, she clicked the button on her headset that allowed her to listen in on the guards' chatter. "You guys hear that?" she asked.

"Yeah," the corporal in charge answered. "What was it? Any alerts?"

"Not yet," Amanda told him. "Might want to look alive, guys. Someone's gonna come make sure we're all doing our jobs." As she did so, she minimised the window with her show. Then she maximised the window with current alerts. Nothing was showing up.

Since Kaiser and the bulk of the Empire Eighty-Eight had gone down – she still got the giggles when she thought about how – the rest of the gang had been very quiet. The ABB and the Merchants rarely did anything in downtown. And surely if there was a cape battle going on, someone would have phoned it in.

"Kowalski, report." That would be the lieutenant who had just stepped out of the elevator. Amanda knew what the report would be, so she clicked over on to her regular channel and did her best to appear alert and on the ball.

And not a moment too soon; a few seconds later, George stepped up behind her. He wasn't bad as supervisors went, although he would have a few choice words for her if he caught her watching TV shows on duty. No matter how boring it was.

"Anything on the alert feed, Amanda?" he asked quietly.

She checked it again, although nothing had popped up since she had last looked. "Nothing. But whatever that was, it was either really big or fairly close."

"And we should've gotten a notification either way." He sounded puzzled. She could understand why.

"I don't know either," she offered. "Maybe it wasn't a cape battle?"

He snorted. "What else sends a shock wave like that?"

"Maybe someone blew up a bank?" She figured it was safe to make a joke.

"We'd still get an alert in that case." He paused. "Let me check something." She leaned out of the way, vaguely aware of the guards forming up under the lieutenant's direction, as George tapped a few keys on her keyboard. Opening a window on her computer, he went through a series of menu choices that she hadn't even known were there. A map of the surrounding area popped up, with a series of radiating circles centred around a specific spot.

She blinked. "What … ?"

His tone was pleased. "They installed a seismograph last month. Seems like it's paying off."

She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the map. "Why, that's the Forsberg Gallery. What could be happening there?"

"I'm not certain," he mused. "But whatever it was …"

He trailed off as honking horns and screeching tyres, audible even through the two sets of automatic doors, drew their attention.

"Uh, maybe something is happening out there," she ventured.

"Here," he muttered. "Let me see." Going through yet another set of menu commands, he brought up the feed from the outside security cameras. Cars were indeed stopping and swerving, all to avoid a pale figure, almost skeletally thin, that was walking in a direct line across the road toward the PRT building. Oddly enough, he had his right arm in a sling.

The image was black-and-white, but Amanda was pretty certain that the person – cape, whatever – didn't have a normal skin tone. And he was walking steadily, with purpose, ignoring traffic utterly. Which meant a certain fixity of intent, or the ability to not have to worry about such things as a car hitting him, or both. Either way, this was serious business.

George obviously thought so too. "Lieutenant!" he called out; the officer's head turned. "Incoming. I'm putting it on the screen." All five guards looked at the screen in the corner; with a few more keystrokes and a mouse-click, George had the security feed up there.

"Hutchins! Jensen!" The orders were loud enough for Amanda to hear them without being patched into their channel. "If this guy causes trouble, foam him down!" She guessed that he was addressing the two guards equipped with containment foam dispensers.

"Should we drop the shutters?" she asked quietly. Containment foam was a part of the induction at the PRT building; every employee had to undergo being encased in the off-yellow substance, just so they knew what it felt like. It was guaranteed non-carcinogenic and non-toxic, but nobody actually liked it. For her part, Amanda had still been scrubbing the residue out of her hair a week later; she didn't want to go through that again.

"Let's wait," George decided. "It might provoke him into doing something. Maybe we can calm this situation down without resorting to harsher methods."

The honking and screeching ceased as the tall form reached the pavement. Still moving at that same implacable pace, he walked up to the automatic doors, which of course parted for him, as did the inner set. Amanda saw the guards become more tense as he entered the lobby proper. It looked to her as if the man had been doused in a greyish powder from head to toe, clothes and all.

A moment later, the ominous atmosphere was dispelled as the man stopped and sneezed violently, the very action shaking powder from his clothing. A second sneeze racked his body, then a third.

Abruptly, the lieutenant gestured for his men to lower their weapons; Amanda couldn't hear what he was saying over the radio, but she guessed that he had given an order, because the guns and foam sprayers were pointed at the ground. The officer stepped forward to face the newcomer.

"Commander Calvert?" he asked. "Is that you?"

<><>​

Calvert repressed another sneeze, and looked at the blank faceplate. "Yes, Lieutenant, it's me," he said thickly. "I need to speak to Director Piggot."

"I … yes, sir," the lieutenant responded. Stepping back, he gestured to his men, who stood down from their various positions of readiness.

Stepping forward, Calvert approached the desk, where a well-groomed older man stood beside the receptionist. "I need you to contact the Director immediately," he instructed them. "Tell her that it's Thomas Calvert, that she was right, and that I will tell her everything."

The woman glanced at the man – obviously her supervisor – and he nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied belatedly. "I'll do that immediately."

She must have been a little flustered, because when she hit keys on her keyboard, the first thing that Calvert heard was the soundtrack from a TV show. He recognised it almost immediately from the main character's catchphrase: "Good thinking, Ninety-Nine!"

The supervisor, his expression unimpressed, cleared his throat sternly; the woman, looking mortified, shut off the sound and tapped a few more keys. "Uh, Director, this is Amanda down in Reception. Yes, I have Commander Calvert here to see you. He says to say that you were right and that he'll tell you everything."

He was barely listening; the sense of relief washing through him nearly made his knees buckle. That was no accident. I'm where I need to be.

"Uh, sir? Commander?" Abruptly, he became aware that she was addressing him.

"Yes?" He pulled his attention back to the here and now.

"You can go straight up. She'll be waiting for you."

Not bothering to answer, he turned on his heel and made for the elevators; behind him, he heard the supervisor say ominously, "Amanda. My office. Now."

But her fate was not his concern. Thomas Calvert only had one person's well-being in mind at the moment. He stepped into the lift; the doors interleaved shut behind him.

<><>​

When the knock sounded on her office door, Emily turned on the voice recorder and assumed an expression of polite interest. "Come in," she called.

The door opened and an apparition in grey stepped inside. Emily stared. It was Calvert, of course, but …

"My god, what happened to you?" she blurted.

"Anvils," Calvert replied hollowly, and somewhat obscurely. "Too many anvils."

Anvils? She eyed him as he came closer, shedding a coarse grey powder. She recognised the smell of it from across the room, along with another one, more acrid. "Is that … concrete powder?"

"Close." He collapsed into a chair, coating it with more of the grey stuff. "It's concrete dust. Anvils." The last word was a groan.

As curious as she was, Emily decided to cut to the chase. "You said that I was right. Explain."

He took a deep breath, then coughed a few times. Finally clearing his throat, he looked at her. "You were right. I was trying something on Taylor Hebert. Specifically, I wanted to see how well her power protected her father. The man on the Docks, he was in my pay."

Her eyes widened slightly at the frank confession, then narrowed once more. "Keep talking. I need to know why."

He nodded. "I'm Coil."

It took a moment for her to register his statement. "Wait – the supervillain Coil?"

Jerkily, he nodded. "I think I'm supposed to tell you everything. Well, that's it. I've got powers, I'm a supervillain. I tried to find out whether Taylor Hebert's powers protect her father. Apparently, they do, quite well."

Emily paused for a moment to take this in. "And what was the aim of that?"

"If they did, my plan was to ingratiate myself into her life until her powers protected me as well," he explained frankly. "I severely underestimated the scope and power of her abilities. She saw me coming long before I'd ever even heard of her."

A dry smile twisted Emily's mouth. "Not the first time I've heard that of her," she agreed. "So what made you think you could even get away with attacking her father like that?"

For a long moment, he hesitated, then spoke. "I have powers."

She put aside her surprise at the admission to address the concern behind it. "So does Kaiser. He didn't fare very well either. What made you think that you're different?"

He grimaced. "My power lets me try out an option then drop it if it doesn't work, with nobody the wiser," he admitted. "But her power gets around it. She hit me in both timelines." His voice rose. "This is the first time that's ever happened! It's not fair!"

She fought down her amusement. "You broke your collarbone in this, uh, timeline. What happened in the other one that made you pick this one?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh god. Everything."

Emily was starting to see where this was going. "So a series of unfortunate accidents led you to this point, right?"

"Not accidents. Never accidents." He shook his head violently, showering concrete dust on to her desk. "All planned. By her power. Days ahead of time. Waiting for me to find out about her and go after her father."

"Okay," she said. "So what happened to you today?"

"Anvils," he replied. "Eight of them. No, nine. They fell out of the sky, outside the Forsberg Gallery. Around me. A neat circle. One after the other. The ninth one landed on top of the first one. It was a message." He stopped, apparently reliving the experience.

"Message?" she prompted.

"I can get you any time, any place," he stated. "No matter how far you run, I will get you. And you will never see me coming."

"Sounds about right," she agreed. "But what I'm curious about is why now? You said yesterday that you weren't going to go after her any more. Why did you?"

"But I didn't," he insisted. "I was actually making plans to leave town. I wanted no more to do with her."

"And then a bunch of anvils landed around you."

"And then …" He shuddered. "Yes."

"So what do you think it means?"

He raised haunted eyes to hers. "I think it means that her power knows about my power, and wants me to spend the rest of my life giving her the best life she can have."

She pursed her lips. "Or she just wanted you to come in and give yourself up. You've already admitted to being a supervillain, so I could have you placed under arrest -"

At that moment, the lights in her office flickered and buzzed. Without missing a beat, she went on, "- but on second thought, I think it would be amusing to watch a former supervillain work to make someone else's life better for a change." Her smile became razor-edged as she added, "Without ever letting her know what you're doing."

The buzzing stopped, as did the flickering. She let herself relax slightly. That was the right call.

Resignedly, he nodded. "Well, I suppose that I'd better get to it." He stood, then paused. "There's something that I want to know, but I'm not sure that I want to know. If you know what I mean."

Emily gestured. "Spit it out."

He grimaced. "If I had ignored the anvils … what then?"

It was a good question. She typed rapidly, bringing up the Forsberg Gallery website. "Ah, so that's where the anvils came from. A pioneer days exhibition." She clicked on a tab. "And … ah ha."

"Ah ha?"

She turned the screen so that he could see. "Antique pianos. About six of them. Answer your question?"

"Oh, yes." The hollow tone was back. "It does indeed. She even had that planned out."

She raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe they were just there to answer any doubts that you had."

"Is there a difference?" He turned and made for the door.

As he put his hand on the door handle, she cleared her throat. "Oh, and just by the way? We know about your base."

He nodded. "I know. Leave me some of my assets so that I can do what I've been told to do?"

"Certainly." Her tone was magnanimous. "We might need you to do work for us too, once in a while. So long as it doesn't interfere with your new job."

He turned to look at her, his expression that of a man with his unmentionables caught in a slowly tightening vice. "You don't give an inch, do you?"

Hers was that of a well-fed cat, with canary feathers in its whiskers. "In your case, not on your life." She paused a beat, for perfect timing. "And Calvert?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to change your pants. I believe you've wet yourself."

"Anvils!" It was a wail.

The door closed behind him; Emily checked the website and dialled a number into her phone. "Hello, yes. This is Director Piggot of the PRT. I'd like to talk to your manager, please. Yes, it's about the anvils. Yes, I'll hold."

As she waited, she leaned back in her chair and allowed herself a smile.

Anvils. Well, she's got style, I'll give her that.

<><>​

Later That Evening
The Hebert Household

"Hey, Dad, check this out."

Danny stepped through from the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. "What is it?"

Taylor pointed at the TV screen. A reporter was pointing at a circle of what looked like anvils embedded in the concrete; she had the TV muted so that the woman's lips were moving soundlessly. The caption read Amazing Escape from Death. "Does that look like something that would happen normally?"

Danny stared at the screen. The concrete was cracked around the anvils, but they were placed with almost millimetric precision in a circle, the pointy bits – he had no idea what they were called – aligned inward.

"Yeah, no," he agreed. "That could very well be your power at work. Has anyone been hassling you recently?"

She shrugged. "Nope. The new teachers at school have been really good at keeping an eye on that sort of thing."

"Huh. Well, let me know if anything else like that happens."

"Okay."

He went back to cooking dinner, and she went back to her homework. Life went on in the Hebert household.


End of Part Nine

Part Ten

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Ten: Draggin' Ass



[A/N: This chapter has been beta-read, and considerably improved upon, by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Monday, January 3, 2011

CHICKEN

IT'S NOT JUST FOR DINNER

Capping the marker pen, Joe Pullman sat back and looked at the mock ad he'd just sketched out. "No," he muttered. "It's not enough."

As the head of one of the largest poultry concerns in New England, he was trying to work out a way of educating his fellow Americans about the fact that allowing a chicken to lay eggs instead of being slaughtered for its meat would supply far more than its own body weight in nutrition over its lifetime. Everywhere he went, fast-food places offered a dozen varieties of chicken burger or deep-fried wings or two-for-one drumsticks, while about one in ten offered any sort of egg as part of a meal. They eat eggs for breakfast and chicken all day long.

He leaned forward again and put the sheet of paper down on the coffee table, weighing down the top half with a folded paper bearing a headline about the decline of American horse racing; specifically, the Grand National. They're not the only ones. He stared again at his bold words, trying to see them with the eye of a consumer and work out what would make people want to buy eggs instead of chicken. The wording's wrong. I've got to put it some other way.

Grace, his wife of twenty years, entered the room with another newspaper in her hand. "Hon," she said. "Can we go to the Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year? They say it might be shutting down in the next few years, and I want to see it at least once."

He looked up at her, a smile crossing his lips. "You just want to see the shirtless street dancers." His tone robbed the words of any sting.

"And you don't want to see the topless women?" She sat on the sofa beside him and put her arm around him.

"Pretty sure that's a myth." He leaned into her. "But I'll make you a deal. If I can pull off some sort of ad deal that brings eggs back into the public eye, we'll go to Mardi Gras."

"Deal!" she said immediately. As she tossed her paper toward the coffee table, a random gust of air caught it, flipping it over in midair. Having read the paper earlier that morning, he knew that the headline read 'Mardi Gras Festival Declining', but the way she'd folded it, the first two words ended up on the underside as it landed on top of Joe's mock ad.

Joe stared at the table. The upper paper had the word 'National', then there was the word 'Chicken' in his own writing. Finally, on Grace's paper, was the word 'Festival'.

"National Chicken Festival," he said out loud. "Grace, you're a genius."

"I'm what again now?" she asked.

He grabbed her and kissed her. "We're going to Mardi Gras!"

"Woohoo!" Unsure what had brought this on, she nevertheless whooped and kissed him back. "You're the best, honey!"

Another thought struck him, and he picked up the phone. "I've gotta make some calls."

"Don't be too long." Grace got up from the couch. "I'll be in the bedroom. Come find me when you've finished your calls. We'll have a Mardi Gras of our own." She sashayed out of the room, casting her best impression of a sultry gaze behind her.

He gulped and stabbed numbers on the phone. He'd make the calls short.

<><>​

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Mayor Roy Christner pushed his reading glasses up his nose and peered at the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he looked up at the group of people standing uncertainly before his desk. "So … a chicken festival." He kept his voice non-committal.

"That's right, your honour," Joe Pullman said. "We represent poultry interests across the state. People aren't buying as many eggs as they used to. Too much pre-digested fast food. We want to show people that, far from being just one meal, a chicken can supply eggs over and over again. So we want to portray chickens as being a supplier of food rather than the food itself. Alive, rather than dead. When was the last time you saw a live chicken?"

"Right, right, I get it." Roy glanced down at the paper again, and made some mental calculations. "All right, then. How long will you need to get set up?"

Pullman turned to the rest of the group; they whispered together briefly. Then he turned back. "A week, maybe a week and a half," he said.

Roy nodded and checked his calendar. "All right. You can have Monday the seventeenth. Start setting up Sunday evening, be cleaned up and gone by Tuesday morning." He made a note on his desk pad. "Is that satisfactory?" His tone said It had better be.

"That's perfect," Pullman said. "Thank you. Thank you so much." He stepped forward and extended his hand; Roy stood and shook it. "This means a lot to us."

Roy tilted his head as the group moved toward the door. "Just one thing."

"Yes?" Pullman turned back.

"Uh … I've never heard of this 'chicken festival' before. How long has it been going on?"

"Oh," said Pullman with a grin. "Me and my Grace had the idea yesterday morning. It just happened. Thanks again, sir. You won't regret this."

Roy watched the door close behind them. I hope not. Slowly, he sat down again. Chicken festivals. What next?

<><>​

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

"Bro, we got us a problem."

Harry Block, part owner of Block & Tackle Party Hire & Supply, frowned at his brother in law. "Elias, I do not like it when you say that."

Elias Tackle shrugged. "Sorry, dude. But a problem is what we got." Fifteen years younger, his easy-going attitude was somewhat grating on Harry. He never seemed to be able to bring himself to care about anything important, though he did carry out his duties reasonably well. Harry handled the money side of things, while Elias took care of inventory. And, if Harry was truthful with himself, Elias was a positive genius when it came to locating the best inventory at the lowest prices.

"What is the problem?" Harry peered at Elias over his glasses.

"It's the Chicken Festival thing." Elias showed Harry a sheet of paper. "We can't source enough helium to fill all their balloons. Not from our regular suppliers, anyway. That rain belt's been disrupting things so they won't be able to get enough to the city in time."

"Elias." Harry sighed heavily. "It is your job to find what we need to have, or tell me that we can't do a job. Are you telling me that we can't do the job?" His tone indicated disappointment.

Elias tilted his head slightly. "Actually … you know what, bro? Forget I said anything. I got this."

"Is this going to cost us more money?" Harry was somewhat leery of anything that cost more than it should.

"Nope." Elias grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "I gotta go make some calls, but don't sweat it. We got this."

"If you say so, Elias." Harry went back to the bookwork. For a moment, he wondered if he should ask more questions, but then a notation popped up on his computer about an unpaid bill.

By the time he dealt with that, he'd forgotten all about the conversation with Elias.

<><>​

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Brockton Bay was not the best city in which to have a sudden influx of heavy rainfall. The water table, never very low to start with, was known to rise almost to street level if too much water went into the storm drain system at once. This put a lot of strain on the system, which was outmoded and in need of upgrading as it was. The overstretched and underfunded city council had, unsurprisingly, settled for merely fixing visible problems, year after year. This allowed more subtle problems, such as ongoing leaks and weakening of pipes, to worsen from neglect. In years of low rainfall, there wasn't much of a problem, as the system could handle it. However, the current downpour had stretched its diminished capabilities. Rainwater had leaked from the pipes and leached into the surrounding soil, some of which was unfortunately prone to being washed away. This could, as some people would find out, have the effect of leading to subsidence. Or worse.

Francis Garibaldi did not have the limitations of the stormwater system on his mind as he went about his morning deliveries. A tall, stout man with a permanent five o'clock shadow and male pattern baldness, Francis was the sole delivery driver for the eponymously named Garibaldi's Bakery. Unfortunately, while he worked for the bakery, he did not happen to have a stake in the business.

Garibaldi's was owned and managed by Francis' cousin Paul, who had reached his current level of success by never letting go of a dollar that he didn't have to. This was why Francis was employed as a driver rather than a full partner. It was also the reason that the delivery truck was in such poor shape. Despite its rather shaky brakes and faltering engine, Paul chose to keep it on the road rather than buy a replacement or even pay for anything more than the most superficial of repairs. But that was Cousin Paul all over.

Francis grumbled to himself as he drove. Grumbling was his main hobby these days; it cost nothing and made him feel good. Chief among his subjects was his cousin and employer. Paul might be five years older than Francis, but that shouldn't give him the right to lord it over his own flesh and blood, docking his pay for every late delivery. By rights, Francis should be allowed to buy into the business and have his own say on how it was run. But of course, Paul would never allow that.

The truck was another major point of contention. Francis had argued with Paul more than once on the subject. Its tyres were worn almost to the point of baldness, while the aforementioned brakes and engine needed a gentle hand so as not to fail at any given point during the day. The truck was so decrepit that if the police took an interest in it, they would almost certainly declare it un-roadworthy. The question—and the only reason why he wasn't flagging down the first police car he saw—was whether he'd be penalised for being the one caught driving the rattling death-trap in the first place. Which was why he chose to drive through the back streets on his deliveries, rather than take the main roads.

This particular back street was one which had been underwater for a day or so after the rain. In fact, there was still water standing in the gutters at some places. Ignoring that, he concentrated on picking his way between the pot-holes, as the suspension of the truck also needed work. Any sort of bump was likely to put his tailbone up between his shoulderblades. As the car in front passed a particular spot, water seemed to well into the pot-holes from beneath, as if a sponge had been squeezed. But he didn't notice, as he was both concentrating on his driving and relieving his stress by ranting about penny-pinching cousins and dilapidated trucks.

Thus, it was rather a surprise when the worn and cracked asphalt began to give way under his front wheels. Water, and rather a lot of it, appeared as if from nowhere and swirled across the street, getting deeper by the second. If the truck's brakes had been less worn, Francis may have stopped and reversed in time. On the other hand, had the engine had been in better condition, he might have accelerated across the crumbling section of street before it collapsed altogether. Unfortunately for him, neither one happened. What did happen was the brakes juddered as he tried to apply them, then the engine coughed asthmatically as he attempted to power forward. Francis let out a not particularly manly scream as the truck tilted head-first into the rapidly-widening hole in the road. Water covered the windshield and began to pour in through the gap in the partly-open window, soaking his left shoulder and pants. It was freezing cold, and it reeked of dead things.

Fumbling hastily with his seat belt, Francis looked around for a way out. The doors were both under water by now. He recalled reading about how it was impossible to open a car door against the water pressure unless the vehicle was also full of water. Fuck that. The cab was already half-full of water, and he strained back against the seat until the belt clasp finally came undone. It was pitch dark in the front of the truck by now, and he was starting to feel disoriented, with the water rising up to his chest. It didn't help that his ears felt funny with the air pressure.

The inspection hatch. It was an idea born of desperation, but he latched on to it like … well, like a drowning man. The hatch was a small opening into the rear of the truck to allow the driver to check on the load without getting out of the vehicle. It wasn't designed for people to climb through, especially not people as heavily-built as Francis, but he didn't care. Bracing his feet on the dashboard, he scrabbled at the hatch. By the time he got it open, the stinking floodwaters had risen to his chest once more. He stuck his arms through first to narrow his profile, then tried to climb through himself. At first, he was impeded by loaves of bread and other examples of the baker's art, as they were equally intent on joining him in the cab. Grimly, he pushed them aside and tried again to wedge himself through the hatch. By dint of straining, some lost skin, and an adrenaline rush born of sheer blind terror, he managed it … barely. As he pulled his legs out of the hatch, the floodwaters began to encroach into the rear of the truck. It was hot and stuffy in the back of the truck, and his eardrums felt as though they were trying to meet in the middle of his head. But he knew he couldn't give up. Escape was directly over his head; he just had to reach it.

The racks and shelves on either side of the truck had never been intended as a ladder. This didn't bother Francis in the slightest, as he had long since discarded all ideas that didn't involve survival as a key point. As he scrambled upward, he felt metal bending under him. He couldn't see what he was doing so he had to literally play it by touch, feeling blindly upward for the next handhold. When a brace snapped under his foot, he blindly grabbed for whatever was there, dangling agonisingly by his arms until he managed to get another foothold. His foot splashed in water, spurring him upward once more. The air pressure was almost intolerable by now.

It came almost as a surprise to reach the door at the back of the truck. This close, he could hear hissing all the way around the seal as air forced its way out. Panting harshly from his exertions, he took a firm grip on the nearest rack and ran his free hand over the inside of the door until he found the latch. Without pausing for an instant, he twisted it to open the door. Despite being aware of the oppressive atmosphere within the truck, he was unprepared for what happened next. The door flew open at the blast of released pressure, nearly taking his fingers with it, and he was blown out through the opening like a cork from a bottle. Landing with a bone-rattling thump on the broad rear of the truck, he lay there for a moment. The air out here was cool, though just as permeated by the stink of the freshly-released floodwaters, and he sucked it in greedily. After a few moments, he sat up and looked around.

The back of the truck was about level with the surrounding roadway; that is, about a foot above the water level. The rear door stood open, with water lapping inside to the same depth. Loaves and croissants floated forlornly within, now undoubtedly ruined by their soaking. Francis decided that he couldn't give a shit about the bread. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. However, unless the truck chose to keep sinking, he was going to sit right here for a little while longer, if that was okay with the universe. He had, he decided, earned a rest.

About ten minutes later, a car slowed to a halt with a squeak of brakes. Francis looked around to see that the vehicle had stopped well short of the sinkhole. A wise decision, in his estimation. Not speaking, not even caring enough to get up, he watched as the driver got out and cautiously approached. The man looked at the truck, then at the dirty water lapping alongside the sunken vehicle, then finally at Francis himself. As he opened his mouth, Francis had a sudden flash of insight as to what was coming next. Don't say it. Just don't.

But the newcomer was apparently unable to read minds. "So, uh, buddy," he said diffidently. "Stuck in a sinkhole, huh?"

Francis looked sourly at him. "Nope," he said. "I was havin' a swim an' this truck just plain popped up outta nowhere." It was mean of him, he knew, but the look on the guy's face was absolutely worth it.

<><>​

Thursday Afternoon, January 13, 2011

"A sinkhole." Roy Christner refrained from rubbing at his forehead with his fingertips, but only just barely. "The whole street, you say?"

"Near enough," Don Hammett, the Director of Public Works, stated with dour satisfaction. "It ate a whole goddamn delivery truck. So now can we get some funds to fix it? It's been a thorn in our sides for years."

"That depends on how much money you want," Roy hedged. "I don't want to empty the discretionary budget over this, Don." After all, he had several months to go before the end of the financial year, and anything could happen in that time. Especially in Brockton Bay.

"Let me see." Don put on a thoughtful expression, although Roy was almost certain the public works man had already calculated the costs down to a cent before ever walking into his office. "We're gonna have to drain the hole, dump in enough gravel to fill it, then cap it off with concrete. Oh, and I'll need a tar truck as well." As he spoke, he ticked his points off on his fingers.

"What?" Roy thought he felt a headache coming on. "You can't possibly put asphalt over it until the concrete sets, right?"

"Yeah, no, that's true." Don tapped his clipboard. "But I've got half a dozen other damaged road sections in the general vicinity. May as well knock 'em all out at the same time."

"When exactly were you planning on doing this?" asked Roy suspiciously. "I know you can't get everything together before Saturday night."

"Well, your Chicken Festival is on Monday." Hammett almost managed to sound reasonable. "I figured that you wouldn't want us getting in their way, so I was going to authorise a couple of crews to do Sunday shifts and get it all out of the way before the crowds start gathering."

Roy nearly burst a blood vessel on the spot. "What? Like hell! There's no way I'm gonna let you charge me triple time and a half to get some basic roadworks done. You'll do it on Monday. Standard rates."

"Yeah, well, this means that my road crews'll be out and about while the Festival's going on," Hammett pointed out. "You sure you want that?"

"We'll survive," Roy said, trying not to sound sulky. "Unless you're gonna tell me that the street the Festival is on also needs repairs?" His glare said you'd better not.

"No, no, I already checked," Don assured him hastily. "That one's actually been done recently. It's got no problems at all."

"Good," Roy said bluntly. "So long as you can cover the rest of them, we'll be fine."

Don threw him a mock salute. "You're the boss."

As the door shut behind the man, Roy groaned and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. At least someone thinks that around here.

<><>​

Monday, January 17, 2011
Coil's Base

" … and that's the last of the details on my mercenaries," Calvert said with a grimace. "I've just sent them to your inbox." He now felt that he knew the truth of the saying 'pound of flesh closest to the heart'. Passing off his mercenaries to the PRT was the definitive statement of surrender. Without them, he only owned as much power as the PRT permitted him to have.

"I'm opening the message now," Director Piggot said. "I see that you've tagged the names of the ones who are in the country illegally. That's good." Somehow, even her professional tone managed to sound smugly satisfied. This wasn't surprising. If our positions were reversed, I'd be gloating for all I was worth.

"Yes," he confirmed unhappily. "I've also marked out the ones who have active arrest warrants in the United States." He didn't want to do this, but he suspected that Taylor Hebert would want him to, and he couldn't bank on her power ignoring it. The image of anvils falling all about him still caused him to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

"So I see. I'll be going through these and deciding which ones we want to pick up." Piggot's voice was brisk. "So, what are your plans for making Butterfly's life better?"

"I, uh, I was thinking that I know nothing about her," he said diffidently. "So I was going to have some people I know befriend her and find out her likes and dislikes, and work from there." Tattletale would be the best bet for that, he decided. They were around the same age, and probably had things in common. What that might be, he had no idea, but he was sure they'd find out.

"The subtle approach. Good, I like it. You can be sure that I'll be watching. From a safe distance, of course." She was smiling now, he could tell. Her enjoyment of his predicament was as grating as it was obvious, and as unsurprising.

"Of course." He bit the words off. "One more thing. Do you happen to know of her current whereabouts?" Though he was tempted to make a comment to the effect that if the PRT had allowed him to keep his mercenaries, he'd be able to keep tabs on Taylor all by himself, he restrained himself. Antagonising Piggot, with the vice-grip she had on his short and curlies, could only end badly for himself.

There was no answer for a second, but he heard the rattle of computer keys. Then she came back on the line. "She's apparently attending the National Chicken Festival with her father. Good luck. I'll talk to you again later."

As he put the phone down again, he was gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt. Piggot had to be loving this, and he couldn't do a thing about it, and … graaaah! Unfortunately, he had learned the hard way that he couldn't even work off his tensions in a 'safe' timeline. He couldn't guarantee that Butterfly's power wouldn't cause him to close the wrong timeline at the wrong time, just to fuck him over.

He took a deep breath and placed his hands flat on the desk. The tensing and twitching gradually eased off as the urge to strangle something faded away. He was almost tempted to take out his pistol and put the barrel in his mouth, but for the certain knowledge that Butterfly would do something to screw even that up. And if he survived, he'd still be expected to keep helping out Taylor Hebert.

Okay, time to get to it. He picked up his phone and dialled Tattletale's number. If anyone can figure out how to get on the good side of a near-omnipotent teenage girl, it's her. The phone rang several times, and his frown deepened a notch each time. She'd better not be ignoring me …

Then the phone was answered. "Hello?" Tattletale seemed to be breathing hard, and there was wind rushing past the phone.

"Listen carefully," he said without preamble. "I'm about to send you a photo of a person. You are to become that person's very best friend. This is not a scam. You must never harbour any ill-will toward this person. Do you understand?" Internally, he cringed at the certain knowledge that Tattletale would quickly divine his catastrophic mishaps regarding Butterfly. With any luck, she would fall off the damn dog laughing.

"Uh, boss, slight problem. You know how we were casing that casino of Lung's for a future job?"

He frowned. That didn't sound good. "Yes?"

<><>​

Rooftops
Tattletale

Lisa hung on to Judas as he leaped across the gap between two buildings. "Well, he caught us at it!" she yelled. "Sheer bad luck! Wrong time, wrong place! And now he's chasing us!" Lung roared from behind them, and she glanced over her shoulder. The metallic form, wreathed in a heat haze, seemed to be catching up.

There was a ping from her phone, and an icon popped up to show she'd received an image. "Find that person," Coil said, barely audible over the thunderous panting of the dog she was riding. "Her name is Taylor Hebert. She'll be at the Chicken Festival. She'll help you."

"But this is fucking LUNG!" screamed Lisa. Unbidden, her thumb tapped the icon to reveal a picture … of a lanky-looking teenage girl with long curly hair and glasses. "What the fuck's she gonna do against him?"

"The same thing she did to Kaiser and Hookwolf." His voice was firm. "Now stop wasting time and go find her. And just remember—be very polite."

The call ended, leaving Lisa's mind awhirl. She'd heard of what had happened to Kaiser and Hookwolf; after all, who hadn't? This girl did that? The part of her mind that was always analysing what was going on told her that yes, Coil was telling the truth. Also that he'd had a close encounter with Taylor Hebert's power himself, and come off a distant last. He's serious. He wants me to be her best friend. He's terrified of her. He thinks she can beat Lung. He thinks she can beat Lung without even trying.

"Guys!" she yelled. "New plan!" She pointed off to the side, where a couple of festively—if oddly-shaped—balloons could just be seen above the rooftops. "We're going to the Festival!"

"What?" bellowed Grue, who was astride Angelica with Regent behind him. "Lead Lung to a bunch of innocents? Are you nuts?"

"Trust me, I've got a plan!" Lisa called back. "We've gotta get over there now!" She pointed again at the balloons, then nearly lost her balance and grabbed for a bone spur.

Rachel, at least, appeared to believe her. The stocky auburn girl turned Brutus and urged him at the gap that separated the building from the ones across the street. Judas, whom Lisa was riding, turned to follow, almost causing Lisa to fall. She flailed for a hold, and realised that one hand just wasn't going to cut it. At this juncture, she had the option of retaining the phone or grabbing on with both hands. She tried to do both, and felt the phone slip from her hand. Grabbing on more securely just before Judas launched himself across the gap, she looked back to see her phone come to rest just short of the guttering. Crap. I liked that phone, too. At that moment, a gust of hot air buoyed the stench of boiling tar to her nostrils. Clinging to her handholds, she looked down. Below, a public works truck was applying tar to some serious cracks in the road. She had no desire to fall into the open-topped truck, so she gripped Judas even more tightly and braced for the landing.

Unfortunately, the shift in balance had impaired Judas' takeoff, and she realised that she wasn't going to make the edge of the roof. Closing her eyes, she hung on for her life. The impact was crushing, but she didn't let go, even though the edge of the bone spur felt like it was slicing through her fingers. Judas dug in with his claws and clambered up the side of the building, kicking brickwork free to smash on the pavement below and causing the roadwork crew to dive for cover.

As the massive dog reached the edge of the roof and scrambled over, Lisa saw that the other three members of the team were waiting for her further up the roof. Behind her, with a scrape of claws on tiles, Lung arrived on the opposite building. He roared in triumph and flung himself forward, obviously intending to leap across the same gap and attack in full force. Lisa knew that she couldn't get away, but she urged Judas forward anyway. Scrabbling at the roof tiles, the massive dog gave it his all. Lisa looked over her shoulder, in time to see Lung reach the edge of the far roof – and just as he made a ferocious bound to cross the distance, his foot flew out from under him. With mounting astonishment she identified a tiny glinting speck, arcing into the far distance, as her phone. He stood on it. What are the odds?

The loss of traction was Lung's undoing. Far from the powerful leap she expected, his slip forced him to take a header into the street below. She waited for the sound of metal impacting asphalt, but instead was treated to a tremendous, if gloopy, splash. A single tendril of tar rose up above the roof edge, and splattered on the tiles. Are you fucking kidding me? He fell in the tar truck! A bubble of laughter rose up in her chest, but she suppressed it. That's not gonna stop him. "Guys!" she yelled. "We gotta go!"

A roar from behind her punctuated her words and by the time she reached the others, they were already moving. "We still going to the Festival?" asked Grue.

"Oh, hell yeah," Lisa stated definitively. "We gotta find a girl called Taylor Hebert. She is now officially our best friend." Because if she did that—and I'm pretty sure she did—I love her style.

"Hey, did Lung really just fall in the tar?" Regent's voice held more glee than she'd heard from him in some time.

"Yeah," Lisa said again, laughing out loud. "But less talk, more running. Lung's gonna be seriously pissed."

"He was already pissed," Grue pointed out, accurately. "He wanted to kill us before this."

"More pissed," Lisa clarified. "Much, much more pissed."

The figure that leaped on to the rooftop behind them managed to verify her words far more thorougly than any amount of normal explanation. Lung was now black from head to toe with runny, sticky tar, covering his shiny silver scales. On a normal person the tar would've been cooling and hardening, but thanks to Lung's internal combustion, it was becoming even more liquid, leaving splattery footsteps behind as he ran. If his incoherent roar was anything to go by, he was angry enough to chase them across the country and back again to get his revenge.

"We need to go faster," Grue agreed. "Definitely faster."

"Faster is good." Regent's tone managed to combine fear and amusement at the same time.

Rachel gave a sharp whistle, and the three dogs increased their pace. Not that they needed the encouragement.

<><>​

National Chicken Festival
Brockton Bay
Taylor

The sandwich smelled of fried egg, which wasn't a surprise, as that was the main ingredient. I sniffed at it, decided that it was worth a try, and took a tentative bite. Flavour filled my mouth. "Damn." I looked at it with surprise and respect.

"Good?" asked Dad, then took a bite of his. As I had, he gave his sandwich a second look, then took another bite.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "A lot better than I expected, actually." I took a second bite of mine, savouring the taste. "This is actually really good."

"Thanks," said the vendor who'd just sold them to Dad. "I use a little sage and black sauce. It really hits the taste buds, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," I drawled, attacking the sandwich again. Dad and I walked a little distance while we finished our sandwiches.

"So what do you think of our father-daughter day out so far?" he asked.

I wiped my mouth with the supplied napkin before answering. "Well, if you'd asked me yesterday if I'd be having a good time at a chicken festival, I would've been really doubtful. I mean, this is kinda weird, even for a street festival." I spread my arms to illuminate my point. "There's even a guy selling pet chickens!"

"Those aren't pets," Dad corrected me gently. "Those are egg-layers. And no, I'm not going to buy one for you. They take care and attention."

"I wasn't going to ask," I told him, though my attention was momentarily stolen by a cage of baby chicks. They looked so adorably fluffy that I wanted to pick them up and cuddle them all day long. Dad probably wouldn't let me get one of those, either.

The Festival was appropriately … festive. There were pens of chickens, elaborate displays showing that eggs were much healthier than most people seemed to think, along with enormous … chicken balloons. That is, Thanksgiving-style parade balloons shaped like chickens. Plus one or two shaped like egg-cartons, which was definitely something I'd never seen before.

Here and there, stands were selling foodstuffs, mainly based around eggs rather than chickens, which I found kind of odd. Little kids were running around with their own miniature chicken balloons, in all the colours of the rainbow. And of course, people roaming the street in chicken costumes. It was definitely festive, though a little weirdly so. Other people were wandering here and there, listening to the cheerful music and looking at the chickens as if they weren't quite sure what was going on. I knew that I wasn't.

Then I heard the shouts and screams at the other end of the festival, and I knew that something was going wrong. I knew about shit going wrong. This was familiar territory to me. "Get behind me, Dad," I said quietly. Okay, power. Time to do your thing. I'd be really unhappy if anyone got hurt here today. I didn't even know if it would make a difference, but I concentrated on that thought as I stared toward the sounds of disturbance.

Whatever I expected to see, it wasn't weird dinosaur-lizard-dog … things. There were three of them, bounding one after the other down the street toward me and Dad. Riding them were four costumed figures, hanging on for dear life. To their credit, they were dodging around (and in some cases, leaping over) the pedestrians in their path. However, this seemed to be mostly the dogs' doing. The riders were spending more time looking over their shoulders at something.

Shading my eyes, I saw it. An immense black figure, easily twelve feet tall, was rampaging down the middle of the street in pursuit, leaping over and through displays as it went. At its discordant roar, people scattered. I watched as it slammed into a cable holding a balloon to the ground. The impact snapped the cable off its base, but instead of pulling free, the cable wrapped around the black figure, somehow sticking to it. Go get 'im, power!

Probably hampered by the cable wrapped around its left leg, the figure tripped and fell out of sight. Feathers arose, along with a huge amount of clucking; the latter almost drowned out the roaring of the monster. When it rose into sight again, it was covered in even more feathers. I suppressed a giggle. Damn, I love my power.

Not deterred in the slightest, it lunged forward once more, hampered somewhat by the cable still wrapped around its leg, and the balloon it was towing. Apparently so enraged that it didn't see the next cable, it blundered into that one too. This one snapped with enough force to wrap around its entire body. One balloon had not been sufficient to support its weight, but with the second one, this all changed. I watched with fascination as, struggling and raging, the feather-covered monster lifted clear of the ground and drifted away over the rooftops.

<><>​

Lung

The more he struggled with the cables, the tighter they seemed to wrap themselves around his leg and body. He tried to pull them free, but the tar on his hands was just as slippery as on the rest of him. Which was irritating, because it also seemed to be protecting the feathers that were now stuck all over him. Twisting around, he did his best to send a blast of flame at one of the ridiculous balloons that were supporting him in midair. It missed by a wide margin.

In the next instant, his faithful lieutenant Oni Lee appeared, holding tightly to one of the cables. Lung felt a surge of triumph. He would be down on the ground in moments, and then he would return to destroy all who had seen his moment of humiliation. "Burst the balloons!" he tried to shout, but his mouth was not well shaped for words at the moment.

Nonetheless, Lee seemed to get the idea. Pulling his pistol with his free hand, he aimed it at the nearest balloon and opened fire. Several small holes opened up, and the gas hissed out. Lee's body crumbled to ash as he teleported to the other balloon and pressed the barrel of the gun against it.

Far from the simple gunshot that Lung expected a moment later, the balloon erupted in a massive explosion. Shreds of charred rubber—and possibly Oni Lee—went past Lung in all directions as he was flung out of the fireball. All of the tar and feathers had been charred from his body on one side, though the balloon cables had managed to wrap themselves around him even more thoroughly than before, so that he was somehow bound hand and foot. Still, it wasn't a real problem, he told himself as he tumbled over and over through the air. He was still bulky enough to weather the impact, and once he hit the ground, he'd be able to work his way free of his bonds. One way or the other. And then the Undersiders will pay for this.

<><>​

Taylor

The three dog-things and their riders were bearing down on me and Dad. The crowd, finally realising the danger, were scattering in all directions. Even the guy in the fried-egg sandwich stall bolted. I saw a dark stain washing out over the asphalt in front of the stall, and wondered what he'd spilt as he ran for it.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. The three dog-things were moving in a rough triangle formation, with a stocky girl wearing a Rottweiler mask on the one in front. As that one came level with the stall, its front paws went out from under it, eliciting a thunderous yip in response. The dog went over sideways, tripping the other two in the process.

All four riders flew off their mounts, landing in a pile that reminded me of the incidents with Emma, Sophia and Madison. Over and over they tumbled, until they came to a halt before me. The stocky girl, apparently dazed, was entangled with a guy in biker leathers, while under the both of them groaned a skinnier guy wearing a now somewhat less than pristine Renfaire outfit. In front of them, a girl in a skintight purple costume rolled to a stop more or less at my feet. She sat up, shaking her head groggily, then stared at me, her eyes wide.

"Ah," she said hesitantly. "You'd be Taylor Hebert, then."

I had no idea how she knew me, but I suspected it was my power at work; the tell-tales were fairly obvious. Raising my eyebrows, I gave her an appraising look. "Uh huh. Mind filling me in on what's going on here?"

<><>​

Miss Militia

Hannah climbed out of her Hummer and marched over to the edge of the sink-hole, her eyes taking in every detail. The heavy pump which had obviously emptied the hole of water. The dump-truck full of gravel. The loader with a bucket full of the same gravel. The cement truck alongside the hole, with damage to the control levers. The sinkhole itself, which was almost full of partly-set cement, radiated a heat that Hannah could feel from where she was.

In the middle of the drying cement was a hole about a foot across. As she watched, a fist lashed up out of the hole, smashing a chunk of cement away and widening the hole. Her weapon reformed in her hand, and she waited.

It didn't take a genius to see that Lung had come in on a ballistic arc. He hit the truck and damaged it enough that it somehow started pouring cement, then bounced into the hole. Something stopped him from climbing out while the cement poured in. He was lucky enough to keep his head above the level of the cement till it stopped pouring. She grinned to herself. Hello, Butterfly.

She knew that Lung's size tended to reduce back to normal when he didn't have a powerful opponent to face. As far as she could tell, this was the case now. The cement appeared to have dried overly fast due to his heat, which would have happened before he went back to human size. So he's in there now, and he's not trapped. He'll be out of there in minutes. And it looks like he's stronger than normal, or the cement's a lot weaker than it should be. Did drying really fast weaken concrete? It was something she'd have to look up later.

In any case, Lung was going to be breaking free of his ad hoc prison very soon. The only flaw in the plan was that the foreman had contacted the PRT even while he was driving the hell away from the sinkhole. And I intend to be a very big problem indeed.

The fist punched another chunk of concrete out of the hole. Then the hand took hold of the edge of the hole, and Lung heaved himself into view. He was halfway up out of the hole before he realised she was there. She wasn't sure what expression was on his masked face as he turned to face her, but she would've put money on a serious level of aggravation.

"Lung," she said levelly. Her weapon, a Brute-scale taser, was aimed right at him. Enough of these were manufactured for the PRT that she was able to duplicate them.

"Miss Militia." His voice was gravelly and strongly accented.

"You gonna surrender peacefully? Kind of got you cold, here." She gestured slightly with the taser.

"I am due for the Birdcage. I will not surrender for that." With a burst of explosive power, he came around with a chunk of cement the size of her head in his hand. His arm came up, but before he could complete the throwing motion, she fired her weapon. The two wires shot out and lodged into his ribs. An instant later, electricity crackled through the Asian crime lord, making him convulse and jerk spasmodically. The piece of cement rolled to her feet and stopped.

She let up on the taser. A second later, his eyes opened and he ripped out the wires, yanking hard on them. She released the weapon, letting it dissolve into its green-black energy. The taser reformed in her hand a moment later, and she shot him again.

It took three shots to put him down for good. She hit the trigger a few more times, watching his body jolt with the current, but he was out cold. She could tell from the movement of his chest that he was still breathing. Carefully, she walked a little closer, intrigued by something that she could see. Reaching up, she pressed the button on her lapel radio. "Miss Militia here. I've got Lung, over."

"Control calling Miss Militia. Please say again, over." The voice sounded a little incredulous.

"Miss Militia here. The tip-off was on the money. Lung is down. You can send someone to pick him up. Bring plenty of containment foam, over."

"I copy Lung is down. Sending pickup. Plenty of confoam, roger."

"And one other thing." Hannah leaned in close to verify what she thought she'd seen. There was a streak of a familiar-smelling black substance on his mask, with a tiny charred stub of a feather stuck to it. "Put this down as a verified Butterfly incident, over."

A new voice broke in brusquely. "Director Piggot here. Can you definitively confirm Butterfly involvement, over?"

Hannah smiled behind her scarf. "Affirmative. From the evidence, he was tarred and feathered before being stuck up to his neck in cement. Over."

There was a burst of static, which she interpreted as a sigh. "Understood. I'll write it up accordingly. Piggot, out."

"Roger and out." Hannah settled down to wait. Occasionally, she snickered. Tarred and feathered. God, I hope someone got footage of that.

<><>​

Taylor

"Hey, this is really good." Tattletale took another bite of the fried-egg sandwich.

"I know, right?" I petted the cheeping chick that I had cradled in my cupped hand while I thought about what to say next. While I wasn't quite sure how the cage had busted open, I'd found the chick perching on my shoe and looking up at me forlornly, so of course I'd had to rescue it … permanently. I just had to get Dad on board with that.

Off to the side, Dad and Grue were helping the stall owner scrub up the spilled cooking oil. It turned out that he'd opened a ten-gallon container of the stuff only seconds before the Undersiders showed up. Most of it was spread across the asphalt, but the steady scrubbing seemed to be doing the trick.

Regent, according to Tattletale, had tried to be a douche when he first got up. He had powers that affected peoples' nervous systems, which he'd tried to use on me. I'd wondered why he was thrashing on the ground like an idiot. Apparently his taser-sceptre thing had been damaged in the fall and had short-circuited at the appropriate moment. Now, after being slapped upside the head by both Tattletale and Grue, he just sat and stared sulkily at the ground, shaking his head. Occasionally, he looked warily up at me and muttered, "Bullshit. Just bullshit."

Bitch, on the other hand, hadn't tried anything like that. Once Tattletale explained the situation, she seemed to be happy to sit with her three dogs, which by some weird power thing had reduced back to normal size by now. The dogs also seemed to like fried-egg sandwiches.

"Let me see if I've got this right," I said at last. "Your boss, who's a supervillain whom I've never heard of, told you to find me and be my very best friend." Peep-peep, went the chick.

"Exactly," she said earnestly. "He was clear that this wasn't a scam. This is my job from now on. But he's not a supervillain any more. He's given it up."

I frowned. "That's the bit I don't get. Why's he given it up? Why tell you to be my friend? I don't even know him. I barely know you." Though having a teenage villain as a best friend seemed to be about par for the course for me, these days.

She chuckled. "He didn't say, but I can guess. He's the sort of guy who likes to have his finger in every pie. When he heard about you, he probably thought he could get ahold of you and make you use your power for his benefit." I thought I heard an echo of something darker in her voice. Is that what happened to her?

"So you say." I shrugged. "I haven't heard anything about this until now." The chick peeped in agreement. I petted it some more. It really was amazingly fluffy.

Tattletale's chuckle morphed into a smirk. "You wouldn't. He never even got close. You remember seeing a freak accident with a bunch of anvils on the news, in midtown?"

"Uh, yeah." I gave her a dubious look. "I don't see the significance. I wasn't even there."

Her smirk widened considerably. "You didn't have to be. He'd tried and failed, so he was gonna leave town. But your power decided it wanted him to work for you. So, anvils. He didn't want to die, so hi, I'm your new best friend. Especially after what happened to Lung. That was epic."

Most of her rapid-fire explanation went over my head, but I figured I'd extract the details from her at my leisure. "That shit just happens these days. I don't make it do anything. Though I did wonder what that explosion was all about. I thought those balloons were all helium."

Tattletale's expression was composed of pure, distilled smugness. "Someone skimped on the cost and filled one of the balloons with hydrogen. I'd say what a coincidence but I don't believe in them any more. Not since meeting you."

That explained a lot. "Wow. Okay, I'm not surprised. I'm really not."

"Nope, it – oh, shit." The smile dropped off Tattletale's face.

I looked around and saw more costumed figures. In this case, it was Armsmaster, flanked by Assault and Battery. They were striding forward as if they owned the place, and Armsmaster already had his halberd out. With some difficulty, I suppressed a squee of hero-worship.

"Hello, Miss Hebert." Armsmaster gave me a nod. "Are you unhurt?"

This was the second time someone in a costume had known me by name. I decided to roll with it. "Hi, Armsmaster." I waved at him with my free hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. You should really try one of those fried-egg sandwiches. They're very good." Or you can just autograph one for me.

"They really are," Tattletale confirmed, looking from me to the heroes as if trying to figure out what was going on here.

"That's nice." His voice disinterested, he turned his attention to the teenage villains. Grue was looking our way, Regent and Bitch were on their feet, and all four were now tense, ready for action. "We'll be taking the Undersiders into custody now."

I had a split-second decision to make, and I didn't even take that long. "I'd really rather you didn't."

He froze in the act of pointing his halberd at Tattletale. "I beg your pardon?"

I spread my free hand. "I think I spoke clearly enough. I'd really rather you didn't take them into custody."

"Are you certain?" He carefully put the butt-end of his halberd back on the ground again. "They're criminals."

"Not any more." My voice was firm. "You can go and help someone else, now. They're with me."

His gauntleted hand came up to cover his visor. "Of course they are."

Behind him, Assault seemed to suffer an attack of the giggles, not helped by Battery surreptitiously elbowing him in the ribs. I had no idea what that was about.

Armsmaster waited for a long moment, but I folded my arms as best I could and tapped my foot. He stomped on through, smacking his halberd against the ground as if he had a personal grudge against it. Assault and Battery followed on. As the red-clad hero passed me, he offered a quick high-five; bemused, I returned it. The chick cheeped at him, causing a momentary double-take.

Just as Armsmaster reached Dad and Grue, he turned his head to look back at Tattletale and the other two, his mouth set in a grim line. And then, of course, he stepped on the only patch of oil that had yet to be cleaned up. I watched in slow motion as his foot skidded out from under him, and he ended up in a clattering ignominious heap on the ground. To his credit, he neither yelped nor lost his grip on his halberd. As Battery rushed forward to help him up, Assault lost it altogether and ended up leaning against the food stand, shaking with near-hysterical laughter.

Tattletale stared from me to where Battery was assisting Armsmaster to his feet. "What are you, Taylor Hebert?" she asked incredulously. "What the hell are you?"

"Me?" I asked. "I'm normal. Ask anyone."

The response came from her, Grue, Regent, Assault and even Bitch; if I didn't know better, I would've sworn that they'd rehearsed it.

"BULLSHIT!"



End of Part Ten

Part Eleven

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse


[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Allusions that may be made to fictional or non-fictional persons are intended solely as parodies of those persons.]


Part Eleven: Things Get Silly


The Boardwalk
Monday, 17 January 2011
Taylor

The Boardwalk was busy for a weekday. People strolled along, stopping at the kiosks and looking out at the Protectorate HQ under its iridescent force field. Others cruised past on rollerblades, moving with an ease and grace that I didn't think I could manage. Down on the sand, a bunch of guys and girls in their twenties were throwing frisbees back and forth in some sort of complicated, noisy game. In the middle of all this, nobody seemed to notice that I was strolling along with a bunch of super-powered villains, even if they were out of costume at the moment. Or that I had a baby chick on my free hand. Chick Norris, as Dad had dubbed him, seemed to be looking around with interest at everything. I hoped he wouldn't take it into his head to run off somewhere.

" … okay, I get it that you're lucky." Brian leaned against the rail and looked intently at me. "But how does this translate to our boss telling us that we're working for you now?"

I pretended to be engrossed in the soft-serve ice-cream I was eating until I could come up with an answer, although in truth I was lost in admiration for the way his biceps strained against his T-shirt sleeve as he folded his arms. Did you set this up for me, power? If so, nice.

All of the Undersiders had unmasked and de-costumed for the stroll along the Boardwalk. Lisa—Tattletale—had led the way, turning from a smug blonde in a purple catsuit into a smug blonde in stylish but casual clothing. Grue, the imposing figure in the motorcycle leathers and skull helmet, was a tall, well-built black guy with his hair in cornrows, and muscles on his muscles. Alec—Regent—had gone from Renfaire tights and a coronet to jeans and a t-shirt without losing his careless attitude. He was still keeping his distance from me, though. And Bitch—I'd been assured that was her cape name—hadn't really changed her costume, such as it was. She'd basically discarded her dollar-store dog mask, but that was it. Of the four of them, she seemed to be sticking the closest to me as her dogs trotted alongside her. This was possibly because her real name—Rachel Lindt—was already known to the public, so she couldn't go out without the chance of someone recognizing her and causing problems. I'd stood up to Armsmaster on her behalf, so she was treating me as the person in charge. Her choice of ice-cream was vanilla, of which she had two cones. One was for her, and the other was being shared between her dogs.

To be honest, I hadn't known that dogs could eat ice-cream. As an experiment, I offered my cone to Chick Norris. He snapped up a tiny beak-full and swallowed it, then went for another one. Well, that answers that. Chickens eat ice-cream too.

I wasn't quite sure how to answer Brian's question; it was just that I now seemed to have four teenage supervillains at my beck and call. Or rather, ex-villains. Which, given everything else that had happened, still wasn't the strangest part of my day.

"Can I tell him?" asked Lisa, the ever-present smug grin spreading across her face once more. She seemed to be acclimatizing to the new situation very rapidly indeed. Not to mention deriving immense amusement from it. "Please?"

"Sure," I agreed, plonking myself down on a seat where I could enjoy the eye candy without being too obvious about it. Norris went cheep-cheep, so I lowered my hand a little. He jumped down to explore the seat—and decorate it with his leavings. Rachel watched him carefully, then sat down on the other end of the same seat. One of her dogs sniffed at my fingers, then licked them. I scratched it behind its one ear; a back leg thumped against the wooden boards in response. "What's this one's name?"

"Angelica," Rachel said immediately. "She likes you." She had an odd habit of ducking her head when she spoke to me, as if she were looking for my permission first. I hadn't thought I was that scary, but then again, Lung had been carried away by balloons.

"Okay," began Lisa cheerfully. "Gonna need someone's phone, though. Mine got lost." When I looked at her, she shrugged. "I dropped it, Lung stood on it and slipped, and ended up covered in tar."

I'd heard of weirder things. Hell, I'd seen weirder things. Talking of which, the chick was now at Rachel's end of the bench, cheeping at her. The look on her face as she stared at him was just a little amusing. "Go ahead," I said cheerfully. "I'll be wanting him back, though." With the care and attention that she showed her dogs, I had no doubt that she would treat my new pet the same way.

"Okay," she said, a little uncertainly. She fed the last of the cone to another one of her dogs—he crunched it up cheerfully—then put her hand down. Chick Norris promptly hopped on to it. Angelica turned her head in that direction, but a gesture from Rachel had her lying down with her head on her front paws.

"Wow," I said admiringly. "Any chance you can teach me how to do that? With Angelica, I mean."

Rachel looked at me, surprise showing in her eyes.

I blinked. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she said hastily. "No, no, no. I just thought you'd know how to do that sort of thing already."

Now I was the one taken aback. "Uh, why would you think that? You're the one who knows dogs, not me."

"But …" Rachel searched for words. "You beat Kaiser and Lung and Coil. You're more powerful than the rest of us put together."

"Still doesn't mean I know the first thing about dogs," I pointed out. "Can you teach me?"

"If you want to learn, I can teach you," she said. "It'll mean spending time feeding dogs and picking up their shit."

I grinned. "I guess I can handle that." With that in mind, I noted that the chick hadn't left any 'souvenirs' on my hand or Rachel's. Instead, he'd chosen the seat between us to use as his toilet. My power is awesome.

A little reluctantly, Brian dug out his phone and handed it to Lisa. She tapped in the unlock code without any hesitation, which made me wonder if they regularly shared such things, or if she'd used some sort of power to figure it out. She'd already showed an unusual level of intuition, so I decided to go with the latter idea for the moment.

Lisa fiddled with Brian's phone for a moment, then showed us all a picture. I recognized it as the one that had been on the news, with all the anvils. "This is what happened to the boss. He's an asshole who was using us for our powers. He tried to set it up so he could use you for your power, but your power basically laughed out loud and smacked him upside the head. So he tried to leave town, and your power did that. With him in the middle." She handed the phone back to Brian.

He stared at the picture. "Holy shit. I can see how that would make an impression." Lifting his gaze from the phone, he looked at me. "So from that he decided that you were calling the shots?"

Lisa answered for me. "There were a couple of other factors. Icing on the cake, as it were." She looked incredibly smug. "He's basically shut down ninety percent of his operations. The PRT has full control of him, now. He's focusing all of his abilities on making you happy, and part of that involves telling me to be your best friend. And the other guys come along with me. If you're okay with that, of course."

"Huh." So it seemed I now had a bunch of ex-villains as minions. "Well, you know I'd be happiest if you didn't commit crimes any more. Just saying." Well, it was worth a try.

Lisa stretched, catlike. If her expression had been any more self-satisfied, I would've begun to wonder if she was on drugs. "I have absolutely no problem with that. I was only doing it because the asshole had a gun to my head. Brian?"

From his serious expression, Brian was less thrilled with the outcome than Lisa. "I've got family problems. He was helping me with them. So now I'm without any way to do that, unless I go back into business for myself."

"Okay, let's put a pin in that for now." I turned to Alec. "What about you? Any problems with going straight?"

He rolled his eyes as only a teenager can do. "What can I say? I was just looking for the toughest gang around to attach myself to. I guess that's you?" The question was lackluster at best. I got the impression that he rarely showed strong emotion over anything. Even the caramel swirl soft serve cone he was eating. Which was blasphemy; caramel swirl deserved to be treated with the utmost respect.

"No, that's my power," I corrected him. "If I like you, my power won't let anything happen to you that would make me unhappy. And I guess it's already decided that it likes you, seeing what happened to Lung for wanting to kill you." I gave him a bright smile, then turned to the last member of the band. "Rachel, any thoughts?"

Almost guiltily, she moved the hand holding the chick away from her face, where she'd been rubbing her cheek against the little peeping creature's fluffy down. "Uh, I want to keep my dogs safe and be left alone." Leaning down, she let her dogs finish off her second cone so that she had both hands free for Norris.

"Which, up till now, wasn't easy," Lisa put in. "She's got murder charges against her." She crossed her arms. "Trigger event related, but they weren't willing to listen then and they aren't now."

"Oh, really?" I grinned at Lisa and held out my hand for the phone. "Gimme. Lisa, what's Director Piggot's direct number?"

Brian's eyes widened, and Alec managed to look a little startled. Lisa laughed out loud. Only Rachel kept her calm as Lisa rattled off the number, I tapped it into the phone.

The phone began to ring; I tapped the 'speaker' icon and held the phone up in front of me. After a few rings, the Director answered, her tone intense. "Who is this and how did you get this number?"

"It's just me," I answered lightly. "Taylor Hebert. I've got a couple of favors to ask. If that's okay with you." As I spoke, I watched the faces of the others. Lisa had her hands clasped over her mouth, but I could see her eyes dancing with repressed laughter. Brian was staring with blank astonishment, and Alec seemed to be wondering what the hell I was doing. Rachel was just watching.

"Ah, Miss Hebert." The Director cleared her throat. "I apologize for my abrupt tone. Will you be using this number from now on?" She didn't sound worried, just … cautious.

"I'm not sure. I'll take care to let you know what number I do end up with. But I didn't call about that. I wanted to talk to you about the Undersiders." I leaned back on the bench, still a little surprised at myself for being able to talk so calmly to someone in a position of power.

"Yes, I was just reading Armsmaster's report. Apparently they are now under your protection, despite being villains." Her tone was carefully non-judgmental; maybe she'd heard about Armsmaster's pratfall. "You're certain this is the best course of action?"

"Sure." Even though I knew she couldn't see it, I shrugged. "They're my age, or close enough. And I've already asked them not to do any more crime. But apparently there's a few complications." By now, Lisa was leaning against the rail, heaving with silent laughter. Brian and Alec were both regarding me with stares of horrified fascination, only varying in degree. Rachel stroked the chick, which cheeped at her.

If Director Piggot's voice had been bland before, it was doubly so now. "I'm listening."

"Okay then." I took a moment to figure out what I wanted to say. "Grue says that he's got family problems. Would you mind getting the full details from Coil, then somehow fix this for him, please?" Which was probably something that nobody had ever said to Director Piggot before, now that I came to think about it.

"Grue … family problems … fix them …" The Director paused. "Understood. Was that all?" I was no good at reading meaning from tone, but even I could tell that she really, really wanted that to be all. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on her side.

"Actually, no, there's one other thing." I looked at Rachel; the muscular girl's attention sharpened. "Rachel Lindt just wants to be left alone to take care of her dogs. I'd like that to happen, please."

"And I want the other dogs," Rachel said suddenly. Her hands, now curved protectively around Chick Norris, never stopped her careful stroking of his soft yellow down.

"Hm." The Director sounded less than happy. "You are aware that Ms Lindt has pending murder charges against her name?" From the tone of her voice, she wasn't saying yes or no, just making me aware of the fact.

"Yes," I said. "But isn't it true that trigger related events get a pass?" I didn't know whether it was or not, but that seemed to be the context from Lisa's statement.

"Not officially," the Director said reluctantly, "but situations like that are generally taken into consideration."

"Well, from what I understand, they weren't," I said. "I was hoping that you could give the case a fresh appraisal and see what you think about it." I cleared my throat. "Excuse me a moment. Rachel, what do you mean by 'the other dogs'?"

"I mean strays." Rachel's expression darkened. "And the dogs Hookwolf and his asshole Empire buddies have been using in dog fights. All the dogs. Let me take care of 'em and leave me alone, and I'll be happy." Norris cheeped at her and she stroked him again. They were definitely bonding.

"I see." There was a distinct pause from the Director's end of the call. "I can't guarantee anything—it's not in my power to issue blanket pardons—but I will definitely make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, by my order, the Protectorate and PRT will be leaving Miss Lindt and her friends alone. Is that satisfactory?" I had to hand it to her; she was either totally resigned to the current situation, or she was a really good actor. Of course, my power had screwed over the Empire Eighty-Eight and the ABB, so it could've been a lot worse for her.

"It sounds good to me," I agreed. "What about the dogs?" I could tell Rachel wasn't about to let that aspect go. Nor did I expect her to.

"There … we have more of a problem." Director Piggot sighed. "Any dogs currently in your possession, you may keep, of course. And we can turn over Hookwolf's dogs to you. But there are more strays in the city than you could conceivably feed for more than a few days. The PRT does have a discretionary budget, but there are limits to how much of it I can justify putting toward feeding stray dogs. Also, the more dogs you take off the streets and bring back to health, the more they'll be breeding, using up the funds faster than ever. I'm afraid the majority will have to be euthanized, just to make room for the rest."

"But you said -!" began Rachel, but I shook my head. She stopped speaking, looking at me as though I was about to pull the answer from mid-air.

"Let her finish," I said. "Director, you were about to propose a solution?"

"A stopgap, at best," Director Piggot said tiredly. "Every dog you take in, every dog you've already got, has to be spayed or neutered. Unless you're so good you can stop them from breeding as well?"

Rachel grimaced. "I don't—I've never -"

I decided to step in. "Rachel, you've never had to deal with numbers on this scale. In some cities, they've got about one stray dog for every human. Even if Brockton Bay had just a third of that, that's a hundred thousand dogs. If it cost a dollar to feed a dog for a day, you'd go through a million dollars in less than two weeks. And that's if you de-sex the dogs as fast as you get them. If you don't, the numbers will just keep going up."

It looked like Rachel was getting it. "But even if I do, dogs will starve. I won't have the money to feed them." She didn't like that, not at all.

"Director," I said. "How about if Rachel trains dogs for the military and the police? Drug sniffers, explosives sniffers? Service dogs for the blind and deaf? She could do a better job than anyone else, I bet." I didn't know how much that sort of thing paid, but I was certain it wasn't cheap.

"That's a start," Director Piggot allowed. "Once you were up and running, it would make for a good income stream. But before that happens, you're going to have a huge financial hump to overcome. With city funds, and even with PRT assistance, I'm afraid there's going to be a considerable shortfall."

"Not necessarily." Lisa still had tearmarks on her face from laughing so hard, and the grin seemed to be a permanent fixture, but at least she was able to talk now. "Tattletale here. Director, what about Coil's funds? I know he's got eight or nine figures lying around. I've been through his books enough times."

"Tattletale, you should know well enough that the results of criminal enterprises are routinely seized," the Director said sternly. "The majority of Coil's ill-gotten gains have already been frozen, awaiting transferal."

I cleared my throat. "Uh, Director Piggot? I just wanted to point out that without me and my power, you wouldn't have those funds. Or Coil."

"Or Kaiser, or Lung," added Lisa in a mischievous tone. "In fact, you might just say the PRT owes Taylor a huge debt of gratitude. And cutting loose fifty or sixty million to help out the stray dog problem is cheap at the price. Especially since that money isn't actually yours yet."

When the Director spoke next, I imagined her rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Very well. I'll set the wheels in motion. I suggest you locate a property where you can work from. You're about to become the custodian for a great many dogs."

"Good," said Rachel bluntly. That seemed to end the conversation, as far as she was concerned.

"What she means is, thank you," I said hastily. I was fully aware that the existence of my power was the only thing keeping Piggot from ending the conversation on a much nastier tone, but there was no reason to be impolite about it. "And thank you from me, too."

"You're welcome, Miss Hebert," the Director said pointedly. "Was there anything else? I have calls to make."

"Actually, yeah," Lisa said. "Now you've got Coil's nuts in a vice, feel free to use his powers to make your job easier, especially where it comes to making Taylor happier. It's about time the asshole put them to honest use."

"I'll take that under advisement, Tattletale," Piggot said, just a little curtly. "Good day." A moment later, she ended the call.

"Wow," I said to Lisa as I handed Brian back his phone. "You really like yanking her chain, don't you?"

She smirked. "Well, ex-villain here. Also, it's kinda my nature. So, what did you want to do? We could go check out the Market. Or catch a movie. My treat."

Alec let out a really fake-sounding yawn. Either he was bad at it, or he just wasn't trying. I suspected the answer was 'yes'. "Or we could go back to the base. I'm missing quality first-person shooter time, here." He caught the look that Brian and Lisa shot him and spread his hands. "What? Lisa's the cool gal-pal, Brian's the hunky guy she can drool over when she thinks nobody's looking, Rachel's the … uh …"

"The one who'll punch out people who annoy her." Rachel had Chick Norris perching on her shoulder now, and was angling her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to enjoy it there. "Starting with you."

"Ah, yeah." Alec cleared his throat and moved on. "I mean, we've got everyone here we need to keep Her Almightiness Queen Taylor amused. What can I do that anybody else can't do better?" He stood up, and a frisbee hit the ice-cream he was holding, spraying him with the contents of the cone. All he could do was stand there blinking, holding the remains of the cone, his face painted in caramel and vanilla ice-cream. The frisbee rebounded off a light-pole and landed on top of his head, balancing there like a silly hat.

"Well, it looks like you've been chosen for the role of slapstick victim." Lisa, totally free of any such coating despite having been sitting right next to him, eyed him with amusement. "Maybe next time you don't say mean things about Taylor?"

Brian picked up the frisbee from Alec's head and sent it zipping down to the group on the sand. "Is it bad that I'm not sure if I should go down there and beat up the guy who threw it, or shake his hand?"

"What the fuck?" Alec tried to wipe his eyes clear with the back of his hand. Once he'd managed that, he glared at me. "Do you fucking mind?"

I gave him a level stare. "What part of 'not under my conscious control' did you have trouble understanding, genius?" I'd been a bit irritated and embarrassed before the frisbee covered him with his own ice-cream. I mean, yes, I was kind of ogling Brian, but he didn't have to point it out like that. Also, referring to me as 'Her Almightiness' was just rude. Especially when I'd been trying to be polite, dammit!

"Alec." Lisa's voice was calm and controlled. "Apologize." Standing, she backed carefully away from him. "I suggest doing it quickly."

"What? Why the fuck should I? She hit my ice-cream with a fucking frisbee. I was enjoying that ice-cream."

Brian stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "She didn't. A guy down there threw it, and missed where he was aiming. Look around. There's a million things that could be about to fuck you up if you keep pissing her off. I'm pretty sure that the frisbee was just the warning shot." He fiddled with his phone. "Look. This shit happened when she wasn't even aware of Coil."

Alec looked at the photo, the one with the anvils. Finally, realization began to work its way through the natural irritation. "Oh."

"Pretty sure that 'oh' isn't gonna cut it in the apology stakes," Lisa murmured through half-closed lips. "Try harder."

"Um." He turned to me. "I … don't know how to apologize. I've never really done it much. Or ever."

"And isn't that the truth," muttered Lisa, almost under her breath.

"Not helping, Lisa," murmured Brian. "Go on, Alec. You can do it."

Alec tried to look in a dozen different directions, probably to try to avoid whatever doom was bearing down on him. "Um, I …" He paused. "What the hell?" He stared, pointing over my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. "Funny. The 'look behind you' gag was old when my dad was a kid."

"Uh, no." Lisa spoke carefully. "It's not a gag."

Slowly, I turned to look.

<><>​

Fourteen Days Earlier
January 3, 2011
8:31 AM

Detective Larry Calhoun, BBPD, lay slumped up against a set of steps alongside a dented garbage can, pretending to swig from the bottle in his hand. The liquid sloshing inside was only cold tea; the whiskey from the bottle had been carefully poured over his clothing to give him an authentic odor. He'd been wearing the same clothing for a week now, and would happily have killed for a shower, or at least a breath mint. But Larry was a professional; he'd do the job and he'd see it through to the end. Fortunately for his sanity—and sense of smell—the end was in sight.

Drugs were a significant problem in Brockton Bay. Three separate gangs in the city either bought or manufactured product, which they then sold on to their customer base. For the Empire Eighty-Eight, it was a relatively low-end part of their profit margin, although quite a bit of weed and oxy found its way to the rank and file. The ABB was far more into it, with white powders of varying types and levels of potency funneling into the city via their Far Eastern contacts, then spreading out on to the streets. The Archer's Bridge Merchants, otherwise considered a minor group, almost equaled the ABB's volume despite being a smaller operation all round; mainly because they were wholly invested in drug selling and use, with hardly any other organized crime on their books. This wasn't to say they didn't commit crimes, just that they weren't particularly organized about it. Also unlike the ABB, the Merchants largely imported the ingredients rather than the finished product.

Recently, a minor scuffle on the streets had led to the arrest of one of the Merchant dealers. As soon as pressure was applied, he'd folded and flipped on one of the mid-level suppliers, a guy known for some reason as 'the Russian'. The Russian, a real thug, was a suspect in several murders, including that of a reporter. Unfortunately, there was no hard evidence to link him to any of them. He was also thought to be responsible for a lot of ingredients coming into the city; to bust him would severely hamper the Merchants' operations for at least a while. With the dealer as their star witness, they'd arrested the Russian, only to discover the dealer's memory of events beginning to prove less than reliable. While this was almost certainly due to habitual drug use rather than any sort of deception, it was likely to cause the DA problems in court unless they could bring in something more solid. 'Solid', in this case, being evidence toward the half-dozen homicides for which the Russian was a strong suspect. Moving the ingredients for drugs was worth a little jail time, but if they could pin the killings on him, they could put him away forever.

The BBPD had held off on charging the Russian for as long as possible, but now they had a high-powered lawyer demanding that they respect his client's civil rights. Accordingly, they had a limited amount of time to either locate some hard evidence or grab someone who could actually put forth a credible testimony before the Russian walked. If he got to walk, he was going to vanish.

The 'someone' they'd settled on was a guy called Frederickson, the Russian's second in command. As far as Larry knew, Frederickson had no idea his boss was in custody. If their information was right, he'd know everything his boss knew, and had more to lose. If they could get him to testify in return for a reduced sentence, they could roll up the entire operation like a cheap carpet. But first, of course, they needed to get the guy into a nice quiet interrogation cell where they could start applying the thumbscrews.

Which was where Larry came in.

Larry was one of several undercover officers scattered about the area. They knew Frederickson was staying somewhere in the vicinity and they'd all seen pictures of him. All he had to do was pop his head up and the trap would snap shut. Or at least, that was the plan. In Larry's experience, the more complicated the plan, the more likely that some unexpected factor would screw everything up. Or, as he put it: "Murphy's an asshole that way."

He moved a little, trying to get comfortable. Under cover of taking another 'swig', he keyed the radio microphone hidden inside his dirty collar. "Calhoun, here. No sign of him yet." When he got home, he decided, he was gonna burn these clothes. And scrub off the entire top layer of his skin.

"Brandon to Control," he heard over the earpiece. "I got nada." That was Joe, half a block away, spray-painting slogans on a convenient brick wall.

"Francesca, here." Larry sat up just a little at the excitement in Kelly's voice. "He's here. I say again, target is in sight. I've got eyes on him. Coming down towards you, Calhoun." Kelly Francesca was younger and pushier than Larry, but she was a sharp operator and knew her beans. If she said she was looking at Frederickson, then she was looking at him.

"I copy eyes on target, Francesca," Larry replied, holding the bottle in front of his face. "Everyone, you know the drill. Don't spook the asshole before we can grab him. This one's for all the marbles, guys." Turning his head casually, he scanned down the street toward where Kelly was situated. As the acknowledgments came in over the radio, he finally spotted their target.

Some would've said that Frederickson was running to fat. In Larry's opinion, he'd run straight past 'fat' and barreled headlong into 'obese'. Despite that, he was reportedly vain about his appearance. This wasn't hard to verify; the man wore an obvious hairpiece, and his spray-on tan had a distinctively orange cast to it. He also had the stubbiest fingers Larry had ever seen on a grown man. Tiny, piggy eyes scanned the surrounding area suspiciously before returning to the phone that Frederickson was tapping away on. Probably trying to get in contact with the Russian. That phone alone'll be worth a mint in saved data.

"Okay," Larry said quietly, faking another swallow from his bottle. "Calhoun, here. Start closing in, on the quiet. If he comes past me, I'll go for a take-down. Don't go overt unless he makes us."

Again, the acknowledgments came back. Kelly, in her guise as a bag lady, came into sight behind Frederickson, trundling her shopping cart down the road in his wake. Larry couldn't see the other cops on the stakeout, but he knew they'd also be moving to intercept.

Up until now, they'd been lucky as far as traffic went. It was still relatively early in the morning—the concrete he was lying on was fucking freezing—so not many vehicles had come past to obscure his line of sight. But this changed as a sedan cruised past, the driver drinking from a cardboard coffee cup. Larry's nerves were so supercharged that he even heard the soft thud as the car driver tossed the almost-empty cup—musta gone cold—out into the street. That's littering, asshole. But Frederickson was his target, so he didn't turn his head to look. The car engine was quickly subsumed by the motor of a truck, coming the other direction. From the sound of it, garbage collection was late in this neighborhood.

This time, he actually took a drink of the cold tea, just in case Frederickson was alert enough to spot if he was faking. At the same time, he scanned his target and flexed his leg muscles. The last thing he wanted was to get a cramp while trying to tackle this asshole. Frederickson didn't look as though he was packing, but there was a reason frisking was done with the hands and not the eyes. His clothing, except around his expansive belly, was loose enough to hide anything short of a forty millimeter grenade launcher.

"Going for take-down in ten, over," Larry murmured into the radio, then began to clamber to his feet. As Frederickson drew level, Larry gestured with his bottle. "Hey, buddy," he slurred, keeping in character. "Spare ten bucks?"

Just as Larry had planned, Frederickson ignored him. Three steps, tackle, take-down. He had it outlined in his head. But as he took the first step, a cramp twinged in his leg and he stumbled slightly. This was fine; it was even to be expected. However, he put his hand on the trash can to steady himself, and the lid slid half-off with a grating noise, drawing Frederickson's attention. Even then Larry could've carried it through, but for the squalling cat that erupted from the trash can, right into his face. Startled, he overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground. The bottle flew from his hand and shattered on the pavement as the cat bolted off down the street. Staring at the ground, Larry realized the microphone had come loose from inside his shirt and was now lying on the dirty concrete in front of him. The look on Frederickson's face showed that he'd seen it, too. Shit. I'm busted.

Larry began to struggle to his feet again, cursing the dumbass cat that had been hiding in the trash can, but there was nothing for it. Frederickson had obviously connected the dots and was now lumbering off down the sidewalk. Winded as he was, Larry still figured he could catch the guy with relative ease. So long as the asshole doesn't have a heart attack on me first. Still, it was a good idea to call it in.

"Calhoun," he wheezed as he clutched at the mic. "Target made me. In pursuit."

"Francesca. On your six, thirty seconds." Kelly was a fast runner, but even thirty seconds could be the difference between success and failure. He pushed his non-responsive legs into action. Frederickson was ten yards away, and swerving to cross the road. Beyond the fat man, the garbage truck was drawing closer. If he gets across the road and out of sight … no, Kelly'll still have eyes on him. Pride drove him on anyway. He was going to be ribbed enough for falling over; if someone else made the collar, he'd never live it down. "Frederickson!" he bellowed, pulling out his badge. "BBPD! You're under arrest!" Not that anyone ever stopped when I said that …

Just for a moment, Frederickson looked around. In that instant, his foot came down on the litterer's discarded coffee cup, which had miraculously landed upright. It crumpled underfoot, the liquid spilling out and adding just enough lubrication that Frederickson's foot slid sideways in front of him. Inevitably Frederickson tripped and fell sideways, right into the path of the garbage truck.

"Shit, no!" bellowed Larry, lunging forward. He was too far away to reach the fat man. Too far away to do anything. If he gets killed now …

There was a massive squealing of brakes, showing the driver was on the ball. The truck swerved sideways across the street, the front tires narrowly missing Frederickson's head. Moments later, there was a massive CRUNCH as the truck hit a skinny pole that seemed to be supporting secondary electricity lines. The pole lurched and a wire twanged loudly as it pulled free. Larry skidded to an abrupt halt as the sparking cable fell across Frederickson, causing the big man to twitch and jolt. Seeing the entire operation about to go up in smoke, Larry didn't even stop to think about what he was doing. Wrenching his boot off, he hurled it at Frederickson. By more luck than skill, the boot knocked the end of the deadly cable off the convulsing drug dealer. So of course it landed directly on Frederickson's phone, which was lying next to his hand.

Kelly came up alongside Larry as he sat on the curb. He wasn't even going to think about retrieving his boot until they turned the electricity off. "What the hell happened?" she asked. "Is he alive?" Her eyes focused on the boot lying on the road. "What the hell did you do with that?"

He heaved a weary sigh. "He's still breathing. You can see his chest moving. Don't go near him. That cable's live. Call the paramedics, and someone needs to call the electrical company to turn off the power before we can move him. Tell the driver not to leave his truck either."

She stared at him. "What the fuck? Did you just move a live electrical cable with your fucking boot? Are you trying to get fucking killed? What were you thinking?"

He looked up at her, trying to muster all the authority he was due. "I was thinking that I wasn't gonna waste all the time and effort we've put into this goddamn case. Frederickson's scum, but if we can get him talking, he's useful scum."

With a look of exasperation, Kelly shook her head. "You're crazier than I thought. The captain's gonna rip you a whole new one."

"Whatever." He waved tiredly. "Get to it. I'm just gonna sit here."

<><>​

Brockton Bay General Hospital
9:42 AM

"Hey." Larry, now showered and shaved, turned to greet Kelly. "What's the word on the phone?" He was pretty sure he knew what it was going to be, but there was always optimism.

She shook her head slowly. "Sorry. The end of the cable landed right on top of it. It'll make a nice paperweight, but that's about it. It couldn't have been fried more effectively if you'd put it in a microwave. How's Frederickson?" The look she shot him said loud and clear that she hadn't forgotten his act of idiotic bravery.

"Doc says his vitals are strong. He should be waking up soon." Larry was looking forward to this conversation. His ribs were still tender; getting Frederickson to flip on the Russian would make the whole debacle worthwhile. The phone would've been nice, but Murphy's an asshole that way.

Almost on cue, the doctor appeared. "Ah, there you are. Your patient's awake. I suppose you want to talk to him?" He was a tall, spare man, going bald on top. "Try not to excite him too much. He's suffered potentially serious trauma."

"Have you given him painkillers?" asked Larry immediately. If Frederickson was on drugs, anything they recorded in there would be inadmissible in court.

"No," the doctor said. "He said he didn't need them." He shrugged and his brow creased. "He seems to be a very stubborn man."

"Let's see about that." Larry led the way into the private ward. Frederickson looked somehow reduced, lying there on the bed with one wrist cuffed to the rail. The edge of the dressing from the electrical burn was just visible under his hospital gown. He was pallid under the spray-tan, but was still lucid enough to squint suspiciously at Larry. "Hello, sir," Larry said cheerfully. "Do you know where you are?"

Frederickson's voice was peculiarly grating, but held no hesitation at all. "I'm the President. Can you believe it?"

Larry paused, and shared a glance with Kelly. What the fuck is this? Lacking any sort of idea of what Frederickson was talking about, he took a deep breath and forged on. "Uh, no, sir. I can't believe it. You are in fact under arrest for drug-related charges, and you're in a lot of trouble. Unless, of course, you want to cooperate with us." He'd done this dance before. Sometimes they took a while to come around, but they nearly always did.

"No! Wrong!" Frederickson's voice rose. "I'm a big businessman! One of the biggest!" He began to sit up, but pulled up short as the handcuff rattled on the bed rail. "I do very big business all over the world!"

Kelly leaned in toward Larry and lowered her voice. "Does he do business overseas?" He wasn't surprised at the question; the conviction in Frederickson's voice would've been hard to fake.

"Not as far as I know," he replied. "But I don't think we're gonna be getting anything out of him right now. That shock must've fried his brain pretty good."

She grimaced, her expression matching his feelings almost exactly. "Well, crap."

"Lock her up!" shrieked Frederickson suddenly, rattling at the chain. "Such a nasty woman! Lock her up!"

Kelly's head whipped around and she stared at Frederickson. "Excuse me?" She took a step toward the bed. "What did you just say?"

Larry shook his head, hoping Kelly wasn't about to assault Frederickson. "I don't think he was talking to you. Guy's a loony. Let's go."

He led the way out; as Kelly closed the door behind them, Frederickson let out another bellow. "I have the best words!"

Whatever the fuck that's about.

<><>​

BBPD 10th Precinct
10:17 AM

"So, your Hail Mary pass didn't pan out." Captain Reynolds, standing behind his desk, eyed Kelly and Larry keenly, although his disappointed expression was tempered with sympathy. "Did you get anything we can use? Anything at all?"

Kelly shook her head. "No, sir. It was just plain bad luck that he stood on the coffee cup and his foot skidded the wrong way. If that truck hadn't been there …" She trailed off. "Just plain bad luck, sir."

Reynolds grimaced. "Why can't things just go smooth for once? But you're both alive, which is what counts." Larry knew that Reynolds was fiercely protective of his 'crew', as he called them, and the precinct reciprocated the sentiment. All too many higher-ups would be happy to throw their subordinates to the wolves over a screwup like this. "And we'll pin the Russian down sometime. Somehow." The grimace returned in force. "Even if we're letting him go right now." His eyes went to the window separating his office from the precinct room.

Larry turned to look, just in time to see two officers escorting the Russian to the door. "Yeah, sir. We'll get him." He tried to inject the same optimism into his tone that the captain had done.

"That's the spirit." Reynolds fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Francesca, give us the room, please."

"Yes, sir." Kelly retreated, her parting glance communicating somewhere between sympathy and you brought this on yourself. The door clicked shut behind her.

"Detective Calhoun." Reynolds' voice was now a lot harder. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

Calhoun drew himself up to attention. "I was thinking that if we lost Frederickson, we lost the case, sir. And I didn't put all that work in to lose that now."

"Except that Frederickson is now apparently a delusional lunatic, and we have actually lost the case." Reynolds shook his head. "I applaud your dedication, but Christ, I'd rather lose a dozen cases than lose one of my best damn detectives."

Calhoun tried not to sweat too obviously. "Am I suspended, sir?"

Reynolds shrugged slightly. "Would it help?" Before Calhoun could respond, he shook his head. "Trick question. No, it wouldn't. I think I'll put you on another case instead." He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "It just came in a little while ago. You know Winslow High?"

Larry shuddered. "Fuck. That shithole. A gang shooting?"

"You'd think so, but no." Reynolds sat down again. "If we'd got Frederickson talking, this would've ended up on the back burner. It didn't, so it's not. Congratulations. It's all yours."

Taking the sheet, Larry looked it over. "Shit, a girl got locked in a locker? With sanitary waste? For over an hour? No witnesses?" He looked up at Reynolds. "Is this a punishment detail, sir?"

The captain's face didn't give a damn thing away. "Would I do a thing like that?"

In a heartbeat. Larry grimaced. "I wouldn't know, sir."

Reynolds smiled. "Good answer. I await your report."

The dismissal was clear. Calhoun opened the door and left, still scanning the sheet.

I fucking hate Winslow.

<><>​

The Docks, Brockton Bay
Thursday, January 6, 2011

Marcus Kellerman, AKA 'the Russian', crouched beside his disabled car. His driver and sometime bodyguard lay slumped half-out of the car in a growing pool of blood. Shots sounded from the other side of the street, and he cringed as he heard bullets hitting the bodywork. I am so fucking dead.

Kellerman had been born in Compton, New Jersey. The closest he'd come to visiting another country was the six months he'd attended community college, studying foreign theater. However, he knew the value of an exotic background, so when he moved to Brockton Bay, he'd reinvented himself. Gone were the suits and ties and the 'Joisey' accent. Instead, he now favored a long coat with a fur-lined collar and a vague Eastern European accent, relic of the few acting lessons he'd actually retained.

For a while there, he'd actually done okay. Frederickson had been an idiot, but a useful idiot. A failed scam artist, the fat man had an encyclopedic knowledge of the city's underworld. He'd just lacked the vision and forethought to apply his knowledge in such a way that he could make a big score and retire on it. Marcus' vision and forethought had been enough for the two of them, but now Frederickson had vanished and Marcus was worried that the police had him.

None of that mattered now, of course. Wherever Frederickson was, he wasn't here. It's up to me. I gotta save myself. He scuttled over to his bodyguard's corpse and scrabbled for the man's shoulder holster. More bullets hit the car and the windshield shattered, sending fragments of glass raining down on him. He hunched his shoulders and kept looking. Where is it, where is it? Not that he thought he'd be able to do anything significant with it, but Marcus prided himself on never giving up until all was lost.

His hand closed over the butt of the pistol and he pulled it out into the open air. Without hesitating, he raised the gun over the level of the car and fired half a dozen shots blindly back at his attackers. Then he came up like a runner at the starter's pistol and began to sprint down the street. A dozen paces into his run to safety, nobody had shot at him yet. Two dozen, and he was still unscathed. In fact, the gunfire had ceased altogether. Despite the fact that every instinct was screaming at him to keep running, he slowed to a stop. Even now, nobody shot at him.

Okay, I gotta see what's goin' on here. With the pistol held before him like a talisman to ward off danger, he eased back toward the ambush site, using every car, trash can and fire hydrant for cover. No shots greeted his return. Nor were there shouts or the sound of running feet. Finally, with a sense that his bravado was going to kill him, he leaped out into the area where the assholes had been shooting from. His pistol tracked over … six corpses. All lying back with expressions of utter surprise on their faces, each with a neat hole drilled right in the middle of his forehead.

"Wait … the fuck?" The 'Russian' persona was so ingrained, he rarely fell out of character, but what he saw did the job. Six clean headshots … if he were to believe the evidence of his own eyes, someone had just headshot every guy who was shooting at him. Unless, of course, it was him who'd pulled it off. Without aiming, or even looking. He stared at the pistol, then at the dead men. Nah, couldn't'a been me.

Turning, he scanned the rooftop opposite for whoever it had been that sniped these guys for him. "Okay, you can come out now!" he bellowed, remembering just in time to put on the 'Russian' accent once more. "If it is job you want, I will give you job." Anyone who could shoot like that would be well worth paying good money to.

Nobody emerged. He looked again at the pistol in his hand. Holy crap. Did I …?

It was something that he'd have to think about. Over a drink. Or several.

<><>​

Saturday Night, January 15, 2011
The Docks

The bar was a typical low-end dive. It was full of men doing their best to drink away their problems. In such a place, it was usually fairly hard to gain the attention of everyone in the bar at once. Even the 'costume' Marcus had come up with, augmenting the fur-trimmed jacket with a fur hat bearing a star on the front, didn't cause more than a few heads to turn. This changed when he pulled out the revolver and fired a shot into the ceiling. Silence fell; around him, more than a few of the patrons pulled weapons of their own. Knives there were in plenty, as well as a few guns. But he wasn't pointing his pistol at them; he was pointing it at his own head.

"I am Russian Roulette!" he bellowed. "I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!" Theatrically, he spun the cylinder of the revolver; the whzzzzz-clk-clk-clk-click-click-click was loud in the hushed silence. As it ran down, he placed the muzzle against his own temple. "Five bullets," he went on. "One empty. I am so lucky, cylinder is on empty. Watch." His finger squeezed the trigger; everyone seemed to jump as the hammer fell on the spent cartridge.

It had taken Marcus days to convince himself that his luck was truly this powerful. Time after time he'd flinched away. Time after time he'd checked the cylinder to find that the empty cartridge was under the hammer. Every other test he could devise told the same story; his power would protect him. So just a day previously, he'd put the gun to his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. The dry click had been the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Now, after a dozen more tests, he was sure of it. His power would always make the cylinder land on the empty cartridge.

Brockton Bay, hell. I must be the luckiest man in the world. There was nothing he feared, not any more. Except, of course, chickens. When he was very young, he'd been incautious enough to try to pick up a baby chicken at a poultry farm, and he'd been savagely attacked by several of the older ones. He'd been irrationally terrified of the species ever since.

"Fuck you!" yelled one man. "You got empties in all of 'em!" From the sound of it, he was both drunk and aggressive.

Marcus levelled his revolver at a wooden post. "You think so?" he asked. "Count the shots." He squeezed the trigger, and the gun went off once more. Five times he fired, leaving five holes in the post. By the time he finished, his ears were ringing—letting off a firearm indoors was hard on the hearing—but the look of astonishment on his would-be critic's face was gratifying as hell.

"That's fuckin' cape shit!" yelled one burly man. From his attitude, he didn't like parahumans. "Fuckin' cheatin'!" People turned to look at him, just as he stepped in a puddle of beer and slipped. He lurched backward, his arms windmilling, before the back of his head hit the bar and he slumped to the floor. A burbling snore escaped his lips.

"Maybe," Marcus agreed. "But it is very useful cape shit, yes? Anyone goes against me, they are very unlucky."

Another man stepped forward into Marcus' private space. For all that these were the very dregs of society, the patrons of the bar moved aside for him. Part of it could've been that the man was wearing a costume. Another part was almost certainly because he represented the source of the drugs that most of them depended on to get through the day.

"Okay, dicksnot," Skidmark said. "First, you don't pull that shit in my bar. Second …" He stopped to think. "Second, you got no bullets in that fuckin' gun, so you can drop it. Then I'm gonna fuck you up good."

Time for part two of the plan. Marcus raised his hands, the empty pistol dangling from his index finger. His grin was wide and disarming. "At last, I have attention of Merchants! Is good! Have been wanting to work for you for so long!"

This was nothing but the purest bullshit, of course. He'd been happy supplying drugs to the Merchants, but working for them was the last thing on his mind. Especially with the power now at his fingertips. All these assholes should be working for me.

Skidmark stared at him. "You hear what I said, dog-fucker? I said, I'm gonna fuck you up."

Marcus beamed back. "Would you not recruit powerful new Merchant? I am luckiest man alive. Help you kick serious ass."

Come on, take the bait …

<><>​

"In here, assmunch." A hard shove in the middle of Marcus' back propelled him forward. He wasn't too worried about tripping; even with a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back, he knew he was too lucky for that to happen. As he regained his balance, he heard a door shut behind him. Even though the bag muffled the noises around him, he thought he picked up on echoes; it sounded like a large space. Maybe a warehouse.

A moment later, the bag was pulled off his head, and he saw that he'd been partly right. He was in a warehouse, but it was far from empty. Directly in front of him was a hulking monstrosity of a vehicle, its every line shouting that it was a Squealer creation. The Tinker herself was just climbing down from its cockpit, her trashy appearance not helped by liberal smears of oil and less salubrious substances across her face and clothing. A wizened little man in a loincloth and a girl with her hair hanging over her face in best emo fashion were wandering over as well, drawn by the commotion. Mush and Whirligig, I guess?

"Skids, what the fuck?" Squealer ran her hand through her hair, adding another layer of some kind of lubricant to it. Marcus suspected that if a lit match ever came close to her hair, she'd lose the lot in one blinding flash. "Who's this asshole and what's he doing here?"

"New recruit or dead guy, one or the other." Skidmark tossed Marcus' revolver to her, then followed with the box of ammunition that Marcus had been carrying in his pocket. "Load it up. Six shots." Pulling out a folding knife, he cut the cords holding Marcus' hands behind his back. "Don't try anything smart, turd-sniffer. I will wreck your shit before you can fart."

"Do not worry. Will not try anything." Marcus smiled broadly as he rubbed his wrists. He didn't know where his hat was, but he wasn't worried about that right now. "Will show you. Am luckiest man in Brockton Bay. You will see."

Squealer flipped open the revolver and dumped the empties, then expertly refilled the cylinders. Watching her, Marcus figured he could probably do it that fast as well, if he relied upon his luck to do it right. He just hadn't tried it yet.

"Okay, it's full up." Squealer held the weapon nonchalantly in her hand. "What now?" The muzzle wandered in Marcus' direction, almost as if she were expecting to be told to shoot him. Has he ever told her to do that before?

"Gimme the gun," Skidmark ordered. "You guys, power up." He took the weapon from the Tinker, then pointed at the craft. "Get in. Cover him with the main gun. Cock-gargler says he's lucky, let's not give him the chance to be stupid."

Obediently, Squealer clambered back up the side of the vehicle. At the same time, Whirligig had stepped away from Mush and was starting to spin up what looked like her own personal whirlwind. Mush's body, on the other hand, had extruded branching tendrils which were picking up random pieces of trash and pressing them to his body.

The cockpit cover closed behind Squealer, and a large gun muzzle tracked in on Marcus. It looked big enough to insert his head with room to spare. A speaker crackled to life. "Ready, Skids."

Skidmark nodded. "Okay then, wet-wipe. Let's see you do your thing." He tossed the pistol underarm to Marcus, then stepped back in front of Squealer's tank, directly under the main gun. "Show us your luck."

"Certainly," Marcus agreed as the gun slapped into his hand. He suspected that they couldn't have done it better if Skidmark had planned to throw it that way. "I have to fire one shot off first, yes? So we have empty in cylinder?"

"Right, sure." Skidmark pointed. "But point it away from me, or I'll have Mush shove it all the way up your ass."

"Da, da. Of course." Marcus raised the pistol, elaborately ensuring that it pointed at none of the Merchants as he did so. When it was pointing up and backward, he squeezed the trigger. Luck, time to do your thing.

The pistol went off, and his ears rang a little more than before; they still hadn't quite recovered from the bar. He would ever after be convinced that he heard two sharp metallic impacts, almost simultaneous with the shot. Whether he did or not didn't really matter, for even before the sound of the shot died away, Skidmark's head jerked back. Marcus blinked as the leader of the Merchants fell over, his brains painting the front of Squealer's vehicular monstrosity.

The tank chose that moment to lose power; squinting, Marcus thought he saw a bullet-hole between two plates. Smoke was starting to waft out of that hole. He decided that now was a good time to be elsewhere. After all, his luck was no defense against stupidity.

Even as he bent over Skidmark's corpse, Marcus could hear Squealer's muffled screaming as she beat against the cover of the cockpit, which was starting to fill up with smoke. She jabbed buttons and wrenched at controls, but nothing seemed to work.

The keys were in the first pocket he looked in, which was lucky. That is to say, par for the course. He turned and strode out of the warehouse as Mush and Whirligig began to try to get Squealer out of the tank. His hat was still sitting on the passenger seat, but he ignored it in favor of getting the car started.

When he was just fifty yards away from the warehouse, the entire building exploded. A flying piece of debris went through the rear window, whiffed past his shoulder, and stuck quivering in the dashboard. As he drove, he looked in the rear-vision mirror at the mushroom cloud that was slowly growing over the ruins of the warehouse.

Now I can finally recruit my goddamn gang. And remove the pretender to my throne.

<><>​

The Boardwalk
Monday, 17 January 2011
Taylor

I stared at the man. He was wearing a calf-length fur-trimmed jacket, set off by a Russian fur hat on his head. Behind him was a bunch of about fifteen guys, all of whom seemed to be either drunk or high. It didn't take much to identify them as Merchants. Who the guy in the Russian hat was, I had no idea.

"Um, who the heck are you?" I asked. I wouldn't have bothered, except that he was staring at me kind of creepily. Like he wished that I didn't exist or something.

"I am Russian Roulette!" he proclaimed, in the fakest Russian accent I'd ever heard. "You are Taylor Hebert! I am here to prove you are liar and cheat! I am luckiest person in Brockton Bay, not you!"

"I … what?" I was not at all sure that I'd heard right. My power was pretty cool, but I had not asked for challengers to show up and try to … prove they were luckier? "Mister, I have no idea what you're talking about."

In answer, he leveled a pistol at me. "Your luck, it has run out!" Then he pulled the trigger. I flinched, just a little, but all that happened was that it went 'click'. He stared at it with an expression of betrayal. "What is this? I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!"

"Having performance issues?" Alec's drawl hit just the right note. "I hear one in five men get it. Not me, of course …"

"No! I am lucky!" The guy—had he really named himself after a form of attempted suicide?—turned the cylinder a little by hand, then pointed the gun at me again.

"Say the word, Taylor," murmured Brian under his breath. "We'll take this asshole apart."

"Stay back," I murmured back. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"Not empty now!" shouted the man. He pulled the trigger … and the gun fell apart. I was pretty sure that guns weren't supposed to do that, but there it was. He was left holding the butt, which was attached to the frame, but the rest of it was lying on the Boardwalk.

Chick Norris chose that moment to leap from Rachel's shoulder. He hit the Boardwalk, but he was so small and fluffy that he just rolled to his feet. Little tiny wings spread wide, cheeping nineteen to the dozen, he ran directly at the guy with the stupid name.

I started up from my seat, terrified for my little chick pet … but Russian Roulette's face brought me to a stop. The guy's face went from the red of anger to the white of terror without any steps in between. "No … no!" he croaked, all trace of the fake Russian accent gone. "No, leave me alone, don't let it get me!" He turned to bolt, but stepped on the fallen cylinder, his foot shooting out sideways. With a massive thud, he landed heavily on the wooden boards.

I got up then, as the others took that as their cue to go into action. The guy was lying on his back, gibbering in terror, as Chick Norris clambered on to his chest. He could've easily swatted the little fluffball away with one hand, but instead he was cringing away. It was almost funny, in a kind of sad way.

In the background, I heard the sounds of Brian and Rachel taking down the fifteen mooks, with Alec helping here and there. As Chick Norris made triumphant cheeping noises over his cowering foe, Lisa handed me Brian's phone. I shook my head and hit redial.

"Hello, Ms Hebert." Director Piggot's voice was wary. "How may I help you?"

"Um." I paused. "This might sound like a silly question, but have you ever heard of a cape called Russian Roulette?"

Her reply surprised me. "Actually, yes. I received a report about him this morning. He's wanted for questioning to do with the suspicious deaths of several capes. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're really not going to believe this, but …"



End of Part Eleven

Part Twelve

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Twelve: The Saga of the Weird-Shit-o-Meter

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



January 9, 2011

Uber and L33t's Base

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

The high-pitched whine cut through the sounds of electronic combat, startling Uber so badly that he flubbed the perfect sniper shot he'd been about to pull off. "Crap!" he yelled over the noise, throwing down his controller. "Dude, what the hell is that racket? I was one headshot away from a medal!"

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

"Don't look at me," L33t protested, though his eyes shifted to the side. "I don't think I built anything that was supposed to make that sort of noise." He grimaced. "It kind of drills into your head, doesn't it?"

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

Uber fixed him with a steady glare. "Well, it's coming from your workshop, so why don't you go back there and stop whatever it is, before I drill something into your head?" He picked up the controller and discovered that his character was dead, so he shot another glare at L33t, just in case he hadn't gotten the point before.

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

"Fine," sighed L33t, dropping his own controller and getting up from the couch. "But I don't understand why you always blame me for shit going wrong." He shuffled around the end of the couch and headed for the section of the current base they'd decided would be his workshop.

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

Uber rolled his eyes, even though he knew L33t wouldn't see it. "Maybe because it's usually your fault?" he retorted. "Remember the exploding teleporter? Or the power armour that electrified your nuts? Face it, you're my bro, but sometimes what you build is shit."

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

Even if L33t heard him, Uber didn't catch any reply, so he did his best to ignore the continued high-pitched whine. He expected for it to cut off at any moment; while L33t sometimes built stuff that blew up for no reason, he rarely forgot to include an off-switch. What Uber didn't expect was for the sound to get louder, almost as if it were getting closer. A lot closer.

—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

Turning his head in annoyance, he saw that the conclusion his ears had reached was actually true; staring at a PKE meter they'd acquired for a disastrous Ghostbusters show, L33t was heading for the couch. The sound was coming from the meter, of course, and it was even more skull-splitting at close range. The little arms were fully extended, and lights were running up and down them.

—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

"What the actual fuck?" Uber yelled. "I said turn it off, not bring it out here so I can admire it!" He dropped his controller on the couch again and got up, fully intent on taking the noisy device away from L33t and switching it off permanently. He had a sledgehammer somewhere that would be perfect for the job.

—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

"No, dude, it's my weird-shit-o-meter!" L33t shouted back. "It's registering something! Look at it!" Pulling the thing away from Uber's reach, he held it up to reveal a round dial on its face. There was a needle on the dial that kept jumping off the stop and flicking part of the way around its face in sync with the lights.

—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

"Weird-shit-o-meter?" Uber shook his head disbelievingly. "Okay, you've built some pretty weird crap, but that takes the cake. Seriously, the whole idea of a weird-shit-o-meter is a joke." But despite himself, he leaned closer. Instead of numbers, there were words arrayed around the dial, carefully inscribed in L33t's scratchy handwriting. The progression went like this:

ODD

STRANGE

WEIRD

BIZARRE

LAUGHABLE

IMPROBABLE

BULLSHIT

RIDICULOUS

INSANE

JUST NOPE

—EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

L33t flipped a switch, cutting off the noise and letting the needle fall back to the stop with a tiny ping. "It's not a joke," he insisted, while Uber wondered if the ringing in his ears would ever go away. "I started working on it a few days ago, when I was wondering why so many of my inventions screw up so badly. Trying to measure if there was some kind of probability effect influencing my power. Call it a luck detector."

Uber snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sounds better than weird-shit-o-meter, but only just. I can't believe you really built something to try to detect luck. Did it work?" Only L33t, he thought. Only L33t.

"Well, not at first," L33t admitted. "I finished it a few hours ago, and it's been calibrating ever since. To be honest, I had no idea if it'd even pick up anything." He waved it in the air. "But it works! It really works!"

Uber took the device and turned it over in his hands. "And what's this bit?" On the back side of the device, there was another dial. The needle wasn't moving on this one, but it wasn't resting on the stop either. Instead, it was situated about one-tenth the way around the dial. There were percentage markings on this one.

"Oh, shit." L33t grabbed it back from him and stared at it. "Fuck, I totally forgot about this bit. It's storing luck energy. When it reaches one hundred percent, I'll be able to discharge it."

"Discharge it." To Uber, that sounded kind of … ominous. "In a bad way or a good way? And what will discharging, umm … luck energy do?"

L33t shrugged. "I have no fuckin' idea. I guess we'll find out when it happens."

For some reason, that didn't make Uber feel any better at all.

<><>​

January 11, 2011

10:35 PM

Winslow High School

Two and a half days later, Uber still wasn't feeling fantastic about the whole thing. It didn't help that he'd just helped L33t break into a high school in the middle of the night; high school hadn't been his favourite place back when he'd been a teenage gaming nerd, and it didn't look any better now that he was an adult. The echoing corridors and flickering shadows brought back long-buried memories of dodge-ball, wedgies and having his lunch flushed down the toilet. "This is a really bad idea," he hissed.

"Well, it wasn't my first choice either," retorted L33t. "When they had the false alarm with the Endbringer siren, I knew something weird was going on." He gave Uber a dirty look. "But you wouldn't let me investigate the first lot of weird shit I found."

"That's because it was at the top of the goddamn PRT building!" snapped Uber. "It's not like they're going to let you wander around the most tightly guarded building in town with your stupid gadget."

"Yeah, well, they might have. We'll never know now, will we?" L33t replied grumpily, and turned his attention back to the device he held. He hadn't been able to mute the insistent wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee of the weird-shit-o-meter, but plugging a set of headphones in had redirected the sound, to Uber's relief. "We're getting closer. Something weird happened here."

Yeah, two grown men just broke into a high school and now we're investigating a row of lockers. That's pretty fuckin' weird. But Uber didn't voice his doubts. L33t was his buddy. They had each others' backs. "Like what?"

"Not sure." L33t was waving the WSoM (as Uber was now privately calling it) around like a divining rod, or how Uber assumed a divining rod would be used. Zeroing in on one particular locker, L33t ran the device over every inch of it, or near enough, while Uber helped by aiming the flashlight at the worn and dented metal.

Random damage aside, it struck Uber that this was the cleanest locker he'd seen in his life. There wasn't any graffiti. In some places, it even looked like some of the paint had been scrubbed off. Leaning close, he sniffed. "Can you smell bleach?"

"Bleach?" L33t sniffed. "I guess. But bleach isn't very weird. And the meter isn't registering much any more. We must've picked up all the residual luck energy that was hanging around here." Turning the WSoM over, he eyed the storage meter. "Not much. Another couple of percent. We'll be forever at this rate."

"So can we go home now?" asked Uber hopefully. "This place gives me the fucking creeps." Why would the school go to the trouble of scrubbing a locker out with bleach? More to the point, did he really want to know the answer to that question?

"Ooh, just picked up a new focus." L33t headed off down the corridor, waving the WSoM in front of him. "This one's upstairs. Come on!"

So that's a no for leaving. Just great. Heaving an aggravated sigh, Uber followed his buddy down the hallway. "What's upstairs, anyway? Classrooms?" He hoped it was only classrooms. If it turned out to be a science lab of some sort, things could get dicey if there was any kind of adjusted probability going on in the storage cupboard.

"Dunno. Could be anyth—whoa!" L33t stopped, aiming the WSoM at the base of the stairs. "There's another spot, right there. Holy crap, they're all over the place." Jerking into motion again, he hurried over to the base of the stairs. Even from where he was, Uber could see the needle jumping halfway around the dial and back again.

"What the hell would happen on the stairs?" demanded Uber. "Did someone fall up them or something?" He stared at the steps, trying to discern what L33t's device could make of them. They looked perfectly normal, if he discounted the fact that the torchlight flashing back and forth made them look extra creepy.

"You're asking me?" complained L33t. "I just designed it to detect weird shit. I didn't think to put in an instant playback." He took a step up, waving the WSoM around. "Shit, something funky went down here."

"Nah, I really don't think so," Uber told him, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got 'weird', 'bullshit' and 'insane' on that thing of yours, but not 'funky'." He spread his hands as L33t turned toward him with a betrayed expression. "What? It's true." If he had to come along anyway, he decided, he might as well make a joke of it.

"Fuckin' word games." L33t shook his head. "I swear to God, if I built a bullshit detector and pointed it at you, it'd go off the scale." He waved the WSoM around again. "Okay, I've got it all. Let's go." He started up the stairs again, looking almost as if the device were dragging him behind it. Stifling a snicker, Uber followed along behind.

They went up two flights of stairs with no more exclamations from L33t, though the skinny guy was panting a bit by the time they got there. Smugly, Uber surveyed his partner. "You know, you really need to get fit," he observed. "Tinkering isn't going to save your ass every time. Sometimes you've just got to be able to run away."

"Says the guy who can automatically figure out the best fitness plan and adjust it day by day as part of his power," retorted L33t. He waved the WSoM around again. "Okay, it's over this way." Turning his whole body like the WSoM was a compass needle, he started toward one particular door.

"Whoa, whoa, wait," protested Uber, staring at the door in question; more specifically, at the symbol emblazoned upon it. There was a 'cleaners inside' sign, but that was easily stepped around. "The girls' bathrooms? We're going in there?"

L33t, already at the door, turned to look at him. "You're shitting me, right? You have to be shitting me. You're scared of going in the girls' bathrooms?" He held up the WSoM. "Look at this thing, dude. It's going all the way over to 'bullshit'. I'm going in there."

"I'm not scared," Uber said. "It's just … it's wrong. We're grown men, and that's a bathroom for teenage girls. I feel like enough of a creepazoid already, just breaking into the school." He folded his arms. "It's wrong, and you should feel wrong about it too."

"Geez." L33t rolled his eyes. "You want I should protect you from the cooties? We're villains, bro. We already steal shit. Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, the school's currently closed. Our chances of encountering a teenage girl in there is exactly zero. In fact, if you're as good as you keep telling me you are, nobody's ever gonna know we were here." He paused and shook his head. "Never thought I'd have to say this to you of all people, but I think maybe you should grow a pair."

Uber stared at him. "Oh, you did not just say that." He was the brawn in their team. The tough guy. L33t did the Tinkering and worked out the impossible gadgets, and Uber provided the muscle and skills necessary to make them work in their schemes. Telling him to 'grow a pair' was not in L33t's job description.

"Bro, I totally did." L33t gave him a shrug and a sheepish grin. "Sorry, but a guy who can't make himself go into a girls' bathroom really ought to hand in his man card." Holding up the WSoM, he pushed the door open. "Gimme the flashlight."

"No." Uber took a deep breath. Memories were flooding back; unpleasant memories. "I can do it." It wasn't the same school, or even a girls' locker room, but he recalled being forcefully shoved through such a set of doors, once upon a time, wearing nothing but his underwear. Everything else from his high-school years had merged together into one long unpleasant blur, but that had stayed with him, razor-sharp. The stares, the scathing words, the laughter, the sheer embarrassment; they had scarred him for life. Trigger events, he'd learned, did that.

People were more than their accumulated experiences. He had to believe that. Taking one step forward, then another, he pointed the flashlight at the door. He stepped past L33t and pushed open the inner door, trying to see the bathroom as it was in reality, not as his memory insisted it should be. First one step, then another, focusing his attention on the beam as it splashed over the floor and wall rather than on the shadows surrounding it.

There's nobody here. Nobody here. He drew a deep breath, prepared to let it out—then nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand slapped on his shoulder. "Shit!" he yelped, spinning around and nearly falling over in his haste.

"Geez. Dude." L33t stepped back, hands up in surrender. "You were in the way. I asked you to move, but you were zoned the hell out. You all right? Getting enough sleep?" His expression, as well as his voice, showed genuine concern.

"Yeah." Uber let out a gusty sigh. "Bad memories. Long time ago and all that. Let's just get this done." He pointed the flashlight at the cubicles. "Huh. Looks like they were renovating or something. That's been taken apart and put back together." Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Uber was an expert at spotting small hints like that. It wasn't just due to his power; he'd developed it as a matter of self-preservation when L33t began cannibalising household items to build his gadgets. Having a microwave nearly go critical because someone removed certain 'non-essential' components was something he never wanted to go through again.

"Well, it's where the weird shit happened, all right." L33t moved closer, waving the WSoM at the toilet cubicles. Uber considered commenting about how a toilet was one place where it was entirely too possible to find genuine 'weird shit', but decided to refrain. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms, shining the flashlight at the ceiling to give L33t the illumination he needed.

"Okay, done here." L33t emerged from the cubicle he'd gone into, checking the dial on the back of the WSoM. "Damn, up to nearly thirty percent. Whatever happened here, it had to be pretty mind-boggling."

"Yeah, yeah, let's get out of here. Unless you want to break into the gym or something too?" Uber had his creepy feelings more or less under control, but he still didn't like this in the slightest. He didn't mind wandering around a junkyard or even the Boat Graveyard late at night, but a girls' bathroom just jumped up and down on his last nerve.

"Nah, let's go." L33t looked at the dial on the back of the device again, putting Uber in mind of a kid with a new toy. "Wow. Nearly thirty percent."

Uber led the way out of the bathroom, feeling his anxiety levels drop just from that simple action. As they got to the bottom of the stairs, L33t said, "Wait. I think the needle just moved a bit more than normal." He pointed the WSoM farther into the school.

"No. Hell, no. Fuck, no." Uber pointed in the direction of the front doors of the school. "We are leaving this creepy-ass place. Right the fuck now. I don't care if there's a dozen other weirdness hot-spots. I don't care if there's a bunch of Fallen summoning Behemoth in the goddamn basement. We're leaving." He strode toward the exit, determined that nothing would hinder his exit. Except maybe L33t. The little guy could be unreasonably stubborn sometimes. And they were bro's. But he really, really wanted out of this damn school …

"Okay, you win." To Uber's immense relief, L33t came running up behind him. "They're not real strong, anyway. Probably nothing much." He waved the device at the side wall of the corridor. "But if I'm right, there's something in that direction. A bit of a distance away. The bearing isn't changing much, anyway."

"Good. I'll personally drive you there." Uber grinned at his partner, glad they were getting the hell out of Dodge. Though he was starting to wonder exactly why the oddities were showing up in the school. If they were the result of a parahuman in the school, that meant there could be more … oh, god. What if we have to come back?

"Well, duh." L33t rolled his eyes. "You've got the car keys. And you never let me drive anyway." Turning off the WSoM, he shoved it in his backpack. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he looked around at the school, seemingly for the first time. "Y'know, for a place with a reputation of being a total shithole like this one, it doesn't look too bad."

"You don't get to drive because every time you get behind the wheel, you act like you're playing Mario Kart or GTA," Uber countered, feeling more comfortable by the second. "And I'm guessing you didn't see the tags in the side hallways. I suspect this place sees more gang activity than some areas of the Docks." As they exited the school, he paused to re-secure the locks. After all, the place had to be protected from the criminal element. At least, until it showed up for class in the morning.

<><>​

"Wow, your hot-spot must be pretty strong," Uber commented. Casually, he checked the mirrors; nobody else was on the road yet. "We're nearly two blocks away from the school. I—"

"Pull over!" L33t was already scrabbling with his seat belt. "It's right here!" He popped the buckle and yanked the door open, barely waiting for Uber to bring the car to a halt. Even before the car had stopped rocking back and forth, he jumped out and ran back down the road a little way.

Uber got out a little more circumspectly and strolled back to join him. L33t was waving the WSoM around with little giggles of glee, which Uber considered almost as creepy as having to go into the girls' bathroom in the first place. He caught a glimpse of the needle, which was swinging even farther over into the reams of impossibility.

"Wow, holy shit." Finally calming down, L33t eyed the readout on the back of the WSoM. "That was a good twenty-seven percent all on its own. I'm over fifty percent and counting. Whatever happened here must've been epic."

Uber looked around, a memory tickling at his brain. This area looked almost familiar … but why? Closing his eyes for a moment, he ran through a memory-enhancement exercise he'd just come up with. It rose to the surface, waiting to be understood. Then he opened his eyes and looked around again. The memory clicked into place, and he let out a sharp "Hah!"

"What?" L33t looked at him. "What've you got? Do you know something I don't?"

With a devious grin, Uber just dug out his phone. He took his time opening the right page and flicking to the photo he remembered; the look of irritation and frustration on L33t's face was a little bit of sweet payback. "Check it out," he offered, showing L33t the phone. It was the duct tape picture, the one which had gone viral just that afternoon. One girl and four guys, who'd somehow managed to get themselves tied up in duct tape while running down the road.

"What … the … fuck?" L33t stared at the picture, then flicked through the other ones that had been taken at the same time. "Fuck, no wonder the meter started going off like it did. How improbable would it have to be for them to tie themselves up like that?"

"I dunno." Uber stared at the picture, then moved along the pavement and turned so the image on the phone matched with the background. "Okay, the way they've fallen … I'm gonna take a wild guess and say they were running away from Winslow." He checked the timestamp. "And it was just after school let out … and they were running with duct tape." Looking over at L33t, he snapped his fingers. "There's only one reason for a bunch of jocks to run with duct tape. They were chasing someone."

"Who made them have bad luck." L33t could fill in gaps too, it seemed. "So the shit that happened in the school, like the bathroom cubicle that needed to be taken apart, that was more of it." He stared at Uber. "Holy fuck. My weird-shit-o-meter detects the after-effects of this girl's power."

"Girl? Who says it's a girl?" Then Uber's brain caught up with his mouth. "Duh. Girl's bathroom. And if it was a guy, it would be all guys, not four guys and a girl." He paused. "Waiiit a minute." Taking a moment, he checked the tags on the pics, until he found one that had named the reluctant participants. Then he picked out the one girl's name—Sophia Hess—and searched for more pics with her name tagged to them.

What he found made him laugh so hard he had to sit down on the edge of the sidewalk. He couldn't spare the breath to talk, so he just handed off the phone to L33t and lay back on the cool concrete, holding his stomach. L33t joined him a moment later, cackling loudly. The image of the redheaded girl stuck upside down beside the toilet was amazing, along with the look of baffled fury on her face.

"So … so that's why … they had to … pull it apart," Uber finally said as he managed to bring his hilarity under control. "Holy fuck, that's amazing. Whoever that is plays dirty as fuck. I'm in awe." L33t didn't say anything in reply, as he was still chortling madly to himself. Uber helped him up and they staggered back to the car.

They were halfway home before L33t finally got his shit together. "Oh, man," he said happily. "That was so worth it. Whoever's doing this, they've got one hell of a sense of humour. If that Hess girl's some kind of bully … wow, did you see where the tape was right over her mouth, and over her hair too? Boy, she looked pissed. That's what I call payback."

"Yeah." But Uber had been doing some thinking. "Just remember, before we start hanging around where whoever this cape is … remember, she's a teenage girl. A bullied teenage girl. Who got powers specifically designed for fucking over bullies." He gave L33t a sober look. "We can't afford to get on her radar. If she decides we're a threat, it could get really bad for us. So we've gotta be careful. Really careful."

"We don't even know who she is!" protested L33t. "And I don't want to hurt her. All I want to do is harvest the luck she leaves behind." He paused. "Which is something I'm pretty sure I've never said before in my life."

"So what do you want to do with all that luck, anyway?" Uber glanced over at him from where he was driving the car. "Win the lottery? Convince the PRT to participate in one of our shows?" He grinned, knowing what he was about to say was mean, but deciding it was too funny not to. "Finally make something that doesn't blow up in your face?"

"Oh, ha ha." L33t gave him the finger. "Look, if you get any more of those weird-as-fuck pictures, let me know. They'll probably be exactly what we're looking for." He stared at the readout again. "Forty-four point seven percent to go. We can do this shit."

"Just so long as you don't go hanging around teenage girls like a creeper, I'm good with that," Uber told him firmly. "The last thing I want is for one of your gadgets to go off wrong because she decides you're a danger to her, and launch us both in the general direction of Seattle."

L33t didn't look any more thrilled by the prospect than Uber was. "Yeah, no. I'll be careful." Then he ruined it by positively caressing the WSoM and crooning in a high-pitched cracked voice, "Won't we, my precious? Yes, we will …"

L33t, Uber decided as they drove on through the night, didn't need a weird-shit-o-meter. The weirdness was right out there in plain view.

<><>​

Friday, January 14, 2011

West Virginia

Merv's Second-Hand Cars & Trucks

Merv Lambert lifted his eyes from his computer screen as the beat-up motor-home turned off the highway and rumbled into the lot. It bore an odd-looking scorch mark on the edge of the roof, and what looked like a half-melted TV dish on top. Frowning, he abandoned his game of Minesweeper and got up from his desk.

By the time he pushed the door open and exited the building, the motor-home had squealed to a halt—sounded like the brakes needed work, along with everything else—in the main parking area. Being a motorhome, it took up three car spaces. The door opened and a cheerful-looking blond guy swung down out of it. "Hey, boss," he called out. "This is the one from out Huntington way. Little bit of a fixer-upper, but at least she runs."

Ken might've been twenty-something to Merv's fifty-plus, but he was far and away Merv's best mechanic. Still, he was sometimes a little enthusiastic about how he judged the worth of a clunker. On the other hand, he'd coaxed the battered old beast back to the lot, so there might be something in what he said. Merv shaded his eyes and squinted at the motor-home. He couldn't recall anything about Huntington … or maybe he did. There'd been something in the news about a lightning storm over that city. Then he recalled a phone call that had come in yesterday. "Is that the one that got struck by lightning?" It wasn't much of a guess; the melted dish and big-ass scorch-mark kind of gave it away.

"That's the one." Ken laughed out loud. "Radio's fucked, climate control only works on 'arctic' or 'sahara', and the the electronic locking doesn't. Oh, yeah, and the GPS talks like Tweety Bird on crack and thinks north is south and east is west. But it's got a full tank of fuel, the motor runs and the gearbox works. I figure the rest is just details." He reached up and patted the side of the vehicle, and the wing mirror fell off with a clatter. "Uh, I can bolt that back on."

Merv rolled his eyes. "Put it back in the 'maybe' lot." He stumped over and picked up the mirror by its bracket. The glass hadn't broken, which he considered to be a sign of good luck. "Throw this on the seat, and put it back on when we start fixing it up. Right now, I got some other cars that need a bit of work."

"Sure thing, boss." Ken took the mirror and climbed back up into the oversized vehicle. Merv watched him, not without a little paternal pride. Ken might not be his real son, but the boy was coming along real good. In another ten or fifteen years, when Merv was ready to retire, he knew who he was gonna turn the business over to.

<><>​

Later That Night

Jack Slash

The procession that trooped through the dimness would have scared the life out of any sane person seeing them in daylight. Of course, very shortly afterward, that person wouldn't be caring about anything at all, but that was to be expected from the Slaughterhouse Nine. A more careful observer, hiding and listening to what they were saying, would've have had a most educational experience.

Jack Slash didn't care about people seeing them or even listening in on them. He was too angry. Carrying on an argument that had lasted for the previous few miles, he glared at Burnscar, who was trudging along in a resigned fashion. "You asked if you could drive," he snapped. "I trusted you to drive. But I only just managed to get to sleep, and what did you do?"

Burnscar sighed in a defeated fashion. "I crashed the bus," she muttered. "It wasn't my fault." On the palm of her hand, two figures formed out of flame. One was bulky, but still recognisably human, while the other was massively deformed.

"Hey, don't look at us," Hatchet Face grunted, stepping closer so that the image winked out. "You had the wheel. We didn't make you do nothing."

"Yeah," Crawler put in, muting his voice so that it only came out of a few of his mouths. "You didn't have to drive off the road to hit that cat."

"You were both yelling at me!" Burnscar threw up her hands in frustration. "I'm not good at dealing with that kind of thing!" She turned to Jack. "Tell them! They shouldn't distract me while I'm driving!"

Jack wanted to facepalm, but restrained the impulse. "I've already agreed with you on that subject, dear Burnscar, but what possessed you to drive directly into a drainage ditch?" The cat in question had apparently jumped the flooded ditch. The bus … hadn't.

"It was the water!" protested Burnscar. "There was stuff floating on it and it looked solid!"

The argument looked set to escalate some more, but fortunately Shatterbird picked that moment to land near the group. Loftily ignoring the argument, she turned to Jack. "I've found a motor-home," she said. "It's in a used-car lot, not far away. Not even locked."

"There's no way we'll be that lucky," grumbled Hatchet Face. "Fuckin' thing probably won't even run."

"Language!" snapped Bonesaw from her perch atop the Siberian's shoulders. "I'm a little girl. I shouldn't have to hear words like that." The Siberian glared at Hatchet Face.

" … yeah, okay," grunted the brutish man. He'd been wary of the tiger-striped woman ever since he'd tried to get pushy with her, and she'd pushed right back. Jack wasn't entirely sure how she managed to no-sell the power-nullifier's ability, but he had a few ideas.

"We'll go and check it out," Jack said firmly. He looked to the south, where thunder was starting to roll again, and rain could be heard in the distance. "I don't care who drives, but we don't drive off the road to try to hit any kind of household pet. And we're going south-west. No other direction but south-west. Got it?"

Bonesaw raised her hand, like a child in class. "Uh, not arguing, but why south-west specifically? I thought we were heading back up to the northeast. You said a couple of weeks ago that you wanted to go and see old friends."

Jack gave her a stern glare. "I changed my mind. Now let's go."

As they started off, he wondered about his own change of heart, but couldn't pin it down to anything more than simply not wanting to get back to Brockton Bay right then.

<><>​

The Same Night

Brockton Bay

L33t

The weird-shit-o-meter shrilled its high-pitched whine into L33t's ear via the earpiece as he stared at the circle of anvils embedded in the concrete. The needle was moving farther and farther over toward the high end of the scale; from time to time it touched on 'Insane'. He'd never seen readings so high, not even on the collapsed building where Kaiser had been buried under frozen shit.

Uber stood with his hands on his hips, looking up at the frontage of the Forsberg Gallery. "When you say weird shit, you don't fuck around," he murmured. "I mean, holy fuck, how precise was—"

There was a beep in L33t's earpiece and he stared as the dial went all the way back to zero. "What the hell?" Had it broken already? What was going on? "Dude, I think …"

Then there was another beep. This one was more urgent. L33t suddenly realised what was going on, and he turned the weird-shit-o-meter over. On the back, the accumulator needle was resting against the stop, all the way to the right.

"What? What's the matter?" Uber took a step toward him. "What's going on, bro?"

In L33t's hand, the meter started to vibrate, and the whine in his earpiece took on an entirely different tone. "Uh … I think … I think it's gonna …" Fuck, it's going to blow up in my face. I am so—

Bright pink lightning surged out of the weird-shit-o-meter, crawling all over L33t's body. He felt his hair standing on end, but his nerves weren't jumping like they would be if this was actual electricity. Still, it was a fairly unpleasant experience, something like feeling ants run all over his body and shoving his hand into a bowl of warm lumpy jello.

Acrid smoke stung his nostrils, and he looked down to see that the weird-shit-o-meter had given up the ghost. It had measured its last milli-Odd. But that didn't matter; he felt energised. Ideas were sparking through his mind, making his fingers itch for tools and materials.

"Um, you okay?" Uber reached out gingerly. "It's just that your eyes are glowing a bit." He paused for a moment. "Say something."

"I'm fine." L33t knew that he'd never been better. More specifically, he'd never been luckier. "I need to get home. I need to rebuild this. No, I need to improve it. I'm gonna build a better accumulator, with a more efficient dial, and I'm gonna make it so I can shoot bad luck at people! Let them suffer the shit for once!" He laughed out loud, and thunder rolled overhead. Pausing, he blinked. "Whoa. That was cool."

"Fuck, yeah." Uber stared up at the sky. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"I have no idea. Let me try that again." Facing the sky, he clenched his fists. "I will call it—my Luck Gun!" As he raised his voice, lightning crackled across the sky and thunder boomed in counterpoint.

"Fuck, if you can do that on command, our next video's gonna be epic." Uber stared at him. "Can you do that on command?"

Regretfully, L33t shook his head. "I don't think so. I do need to get back to the workshop right now. I need to build the Luck Gun before my luck runs out." He could feel it tingling through his limbs and fizzing in his brain.

"Uh, you can't build stuff that's the same as before. Right?" Uber didn't seem to have figured out what was going on.

"Tonight," declared L33t, "I can." Raising his finger, he gestured toward the car. "Onward!" he proclaimed, just for shits and giggles. On cue, thunder rolled.

He knew it wasn't likely to last, but holy shit, that was a cool effect.

<><>​

The Next Morning

Jack rolled over in bed and lay there, enjoying the comfort of the mattress. He had to admit that Shatterbird had really come through for them this time; the motor-home was just what the doctor had ordered. He'd managed to sleep right through the night and well into the morning, which was good.

On the downside, they'd stopped somewhere. He knew this because he couldn't hear the engine or feel any motion. Getting up, he stretched elaborately and pulled his shirt on. The bathroom was tiny, but it suited his needs. Someone had courteously laid out his cut-throat razor, so he washed his face, lathered up, and had a shave as well. A shower could wait till later, he decided, especially if he had to kill someone first.

After tucking various blades into their hiding places on his person, he wandered down the length of the motor-home and opened the door, to the sound of a low-voiced argument. The motor-home was pulled over into a park, with a city skyline in the background. The humanoid members of the team were sitting around a picnic table, staring at a map. They looked around as he stepped down from the motor-home.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Where are we, and why have we stopped?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Shatterbird answered with some asperity. "We're out of fuel, and there's no landmarks on our map that match the local geography."

"Ah." Jack turned to look at the skyline. A sense of foreboding that had been creeping up on him revealed itself all at once, and he knew where he was. It had been years, there were a few new buildings, but he knew beyond a doubt. "Tell me, from which direction did the sun rise this morning?"

"We couldn't see." Burnscar sounded defensive. "It was overcast and raining pretty heavily. I couldn't even see the signposts properly."

Closing his eyes, Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course you couldn't. So how did you find your way?"

"We followed the GPS," said Shatterbird. "It sounded funny, but at least it's working."

"No," sighed Jack. "No, it's not. I'll tell you how I know." He pointed at the city. His sense of near-dread was stronger than ever, but he forced it down. He was Jack Slash, and he did what he wanted, when he wanted. "See that city over there? More capes per capita live there than in ninety percent of the continental United States."

Turning to the group, he spread his arms. I didn't want to be here, but now that I am, may as well make the best of it. "Welcome to Brockton Bay."



[A/N: Yes, evil cliffhanger is evil.]



End of Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Thirteen: Lucky for Some

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N2: In writing this chapter, I became aware that a couple of dates needed to be adjusted slightly in the last couple of chapters. This has been done. No plot-relevant information has been altered.]



Saturday, January 15, 2011

1100 Hours

On the Road South of Brockton Bay

Don Hammett pushed his hardhat back and scratched the top of his head. "Well, shit," he said. "Christner's not gonna be happy over this one." He looked at his head foreman, who happened to be a very competent woman called Maria. "Any chance I can get you to make the call to him?"

"Hah, no chance in hell," she scoffed. "You're the Director of Public Works, you get to piss off the bigwigs." She folded her arms and looked at where the culvert had come loose, then shook her head. "Helluva thing," she said. "And nobody was hurt?"

"Not a one," Hammett replied absently, digging out his cell phone. To his relief, he had two bars of reception. Not great, but enough. Bringing up Roy Christner's number, he hit the call icon.

"Hello, Don." Roy already didn't sound happy. "I presume you've got a really good reason for calling me on a Saturday."

"Yeah, I do." Don cleared his throat carefully. "We got a busted culvert on the highway south of town, around about the twenty-five mile mark. Something got stuck in there during the rain, just enough to force water to go around the culvert and undermine it without going over the road. One in a million chance. Looks like something heavy came over it last night and shifted it slightly, and it's been subsiding ever since. Right now, it's just not passable. On the upside, there's a bypass road which we can divert traffic on to—to be honest, they're already using it—but on the downside, that road can't handle weekday traffic, so we're gonna have to fix it by Monday morning at the latest."

The silence on the other end lasted so long that Don thought the line might've dropped out, but eventually Roy came back. "Is it fixable by Monday? And does closing the road isolate anything? Truck stops, residential, anything like that?"

Don turned to the hood of his 4x4, where a survey map of the area was already spread out. He put his thumb on the location of the culvert and ran it down the road. "To answer your last question first, there's very little on that section to worry about. A rest area but nothing else."

"And can it be fixed by Monday morning?" The tone of Christner's voice suggested he was fearing the worst.

Don took a deep breath. "Monday midday or afternoon, at the latest. We're gonna have to take a big bite out of that discretionary budget, but if we work through, we can about do it. Might have to hire on some extra manpower to cover us for those roadworks in town, though."

"Fine." From the tone of Christner's voice, it was anything other than 'fine'. But to give him credit, the man knew how to roll with the punches. "Get it done."

"Sir, yes, sir." Don wasn't even being facetious this time. Hanging up the call, he turned to Maria. "We've got a green light. Go."

"You got it." Moving toward where the roadworks crew were waiting by their machines, she started barking out orders. Don folded the map and climbed into his 4x4; he wasn't needed here any more. If he knew his crew, they'd get the job done. All he had to do now was go and close the other end of the stretch of road so that nobody found themselves in a dead end with nowhere to turn around.

But first, he had a phone call to make. Bringing up another number, he hit the call icon. "Danny? Don Hammett, Public Works. Got a question for you. How many of your guys are rated for road construction works?"

<><>​

1500 Hours

Uber & L33t's Base

Uber

Uber had seen L33t Tinkering many times before, and he knew it was a good idea to not wander too far when this was going on. On occasion it did indeed seem as though some malevolent fate wished to exact retribution on his best buddy for some unknown slight. When L33t was Tinkering, things caught fire or exploded, or caught fire and then exploded, for no apparent reason. And if they didn't do it in the workshop, they did it in the field. He'd lost count of the number of times L33t had lost his eyebrows in the previous year alone.

But now his bro had been in the workshop for seventeen hours straight, and the most unnerving noise that had come out of there was the occasional unhinged-sounding cackle, though this was plenty bad enough. Even more unnerving was the answering rumble of thunder, each and every time.

Finally, L33t emerged from the workshop. His hair was standing out in all directions, but this was not in the least bit unusual. He still had his eyebrows, which was unusual, especially following such a protracted burst of Tinkering. And he was costumed up, complete with accessories. "Saddle up, bro," he proclaimed. "It's time we showed Brockton Bay what Uber and L33t can do when we really put our minds to it!"

Uber stared at him and at the baggy khaki jumpsuit he was wearing, complete with the colourful logo on the shoulder. L33t had threatened to burn this particular item of clothing after the last catastrophic attempt to film an episode based on that particular premise, but there it was. And more to the point, there the rest of it was, as well. A futuristic rifle, held one-handed with the barrel resting back on L33t's shoulder, gave Uber a very strong clue as to what the defunct Weird-Shit-o-Meter had been rebuilt into, if he ignored the fact that L33t wasn't supposed to be able to rebuild stuff. From the rifle led a heavy cable which looped around to an ominously-humming backpack, twin to the one that had blown up once upon a time, nearly killing the both of them, at the worst possible moment. Another unpleasantly familiar piece of equipment dangled from his belt, gaudy with yellow and black stripes.

"Couldn't you have just built a duplicate? Or three?" Uber hated the beseeching tone that he heard in his own voice, but he knew that if this ended up nearly as unpleasant as the last time they'd tried it, he'd like to be able to say 'I told you so'. Worse; the last time, the backpack hadn't actually been humming. "And I thought you said you'd never build one of those traps again, after the last one ate half the base."

"Yeah, no, but this one'll work properly," insisted L33t stubbornly. "And I did make a duplicate. Kind of, anyway. Gimme just one second." He ducked back into the workshop and emerged seconds later with another backpack, complete with rifle. This one was also humming. Uber wondered briefly whether L33t had tuned them to sound that scary. "This one's yours."

"Wait, what now?" Uber stepped back, holding his hands up defensively. "You never said anything about fitting me out with one of those things. What if it blows up? What if it blows the city up?"

"It's not gonna blow the city up," scoffed L33t. "The power packs are only rated to hold enough energy to blow up one big building, or two medium-sized ones. But you don't have to worry. You've got the good-luck gun. I'm the one with the bad-luck gun." Still holding his rifle by its pistol grip, he waved the weapon in the air for emphasis. With his finger on the trigger. So of course, it went off.

Uber yelped and dived for cover as a coruscating beam of crackling energy burst from the rifle emitter and struck one of the overhead lights, which promptly let out a shower of sparks and went dead. Nothing else happened, but he chose to stay down a little longer, just in case. "You don't need a bad-luck gun," he accused L33t. "Giving you any sort of loaded weapon is just asking for friendly fire."

"Sorry," L33t said sheepishly. "But I figure that light was already going to go; at worst, I just pushed it along a bit." He offered the other pack in Uber's direction again. "Come on, are you gonna take it or not?" A sly note crept into his voice. "It's pretty heavy, and I don't know exactly what's gonna happen if I drop it."

"Fine," Uber said, hastily getting to his feet and snatching the pack and rifle from the Tinker's hands. He eyed them carefully, looking for signs of imminent catastrophic failure. The only such sign was the same continuous hum as the other one was emitting. No, he realised a moment later. Not exactly the same hum; this one was harmonising with L33t's. The variations were almost imperceptible to the human ear on their own, but when the backpacks were close enough together, Uber could make out a very faint tune. A very apt tune. He gave L33t an incredulous look. "Did you actually set it up so we'd have the theme tune as well?"

L33t shrugged. "Uh … kinda?" He made a careless gesture with his free hand. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. If you're gonna do it, go big or go home?" Cradling the rifle in his hands, he began checking it over. "So, anything important happen while I was doing my thing?"

Uber set his backpack down, then cautiously leaned the rifle against it. "Yeah, actually. We got a phone call. From Skidmark, of all people." He grimaced. "Why we ever gave our number out to that lowlife, I'll never know."

"Because sometimes we need money, and sometimes the Merchants might have a job for us that we don't actually hate enough not to do?" suggested L33t. "What did he want?"

"Nothing good. Want coffee?" Uber headed for the kitchenette. "Apparently he sent a dozen guys over to the Dockworkers Association to try to shake them down for cash. As luck would have it, they showed up about half an hour before a big meeting was due to start, and about one minute before cars started pulling up in the parking lot. Cars full of big, burly dockworkers, to be exact. Big burly dockworkers with no money to give, and no fucks to give either. They beat the living snot out of Skidmark's guys, then tossed them in the harbour. So he's decided the Merchants aren't going to take that lying down. Squealer's got some tank thing she's going to drive through the middle of their offices, and he wanted us along for extra fire support."

"Jesus fuck." L33t slung the rifle and went over to the fridge. "Did he even have a theme in mind? Road Warrior? GTA?" Pulling open the door, he surveyed the contents. "Dude, we gotta go shopping sometime. I think the sandwich meat just blinked at me."

"No theme." Uber sighed, recalling the conversation. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he's got blood in his eye. You ask me? I think he wants to kill someone, just to prove the Merchants aren't a bunch of fucking dopehead losers. In case you're wondering, I told him no."

"Yeah, well," L33t agreed. "Fire support's one thing, but I'm not really on board with the idea of killing someone just because." He shut the fridge again, then looked around at Uber. "You know what? Fuck 'em. If they trash the Dockworkers, that'll bring the PRT and the cops down on everyone in the area. We don't need that sort of heat." Reaching over his shoulder, he tapped the rifle slung there. "What say we go and give this thing a proper field test?"

Uber eyed him suspiciously. "What did you have in mind?" A number of possibilities for the testing of a 'bad luck' gun ran through his mind. Some were interesting, while others were amusing. A few were downright terrifying. "Please tell me you aren't going to see if you can make Armsmaster crash his bike so you can steal his halberd."

To his disquiet, L33t actually looked thoughtful. " … Nah," the Tinker decided after far too long a pause. "Pretty sure he's got some sort of failsafe for that. Otherwise, I'd totally do it." He looked over at where Uber was making the coffee. "I'll finish that up while you go and get changed. Gotta look the part, you know."

"Yeah, but how are you gonna test it? And didn't you already test it on the light?" Uber wasn't proud; he was willing to use any excuse to back out of being in the vicinity when L33t fired off his bad luck gun. Who knows what sort of spread it's got, anyway? "And what good am I gonna do with a good luck gun?"

L33t rolled his eyes. "You shoot yourself, me and any innocent bystanders, duh. Keep everyone except the opposition safe." He sighed as Uber's expression didn't change. "Okay, fine. You can carry the trap, too."

Which didn't make Uber any happier with the situation. "So basically I'll have one potentially unstable power source on my back, and another on my belt. Why do I have a feeling that my life is flashing before my eyes?"

"Wuss." L33t rolled his eyes again. "Shoo. Go get changed, you big baby." He turned back to where the coffeepot was still coming to the boil. "You'll see. This one's gonna be my best invention yet."

"Yeah, like that's exactly a high bar," grumbled Uber, but he went anyway. Besides, he was a little curious about what a 'bad luck gun' would do.

<><>​

Half an Hour Later

"Okay, stop here." L33t indicated the side of the road. "This is perfect."

"Perfect for what?" Despite the question, Uber was already pulling the car over with some relief. He was glad that L33t hadn't insisted on the logo for the side of the car, but that was probably just a matter of time. The whole time they'd been in the car, the power packs had been humming away gently in the back seat, and L33t had been singing along with the tune generated by the harmonics. Uber had never been closer to punching his partner.

"See that building there?" L33t pointed at one building, slightly more dilapidated than the others around it. "That's where the Merchants are crashing right now." Opening the back door, he pulled out his power pack. Pausing to check the name-tag he'd stuck on it—as he'd confided to Uber, shooting someone with good luck when he meant to use bad luck would really suck—he slung the pack on his shoulders and hefted the rifle. "Okay, atomic engines to power and phasers to stun."

Uber shook his head, wanting to facepalm. "That's two totally different franchises, and you know it. Anyway, what're you gonna do to the Merchants from over here?"

"Make them unlucky as fuck, that's what." L33t fiddled with the rifle, then raised it to his shoulder. "Wide-beam for the win." He pulled the trigger, and the same beam burst from the emitter … except that this time, it fanned out from the point of firing, enveloping the whole building in a ghostly purple glow. Nothing else seemed to happen, at least for the moment.

After a few seconds, L33t let up on the trigger. The beam winked out, leaving behind the smell of ozone. "Okay then," he said briskly, removing the backpack. "Let's get out of here. I can't imagine that they didn't notice that, and I don't want Skidmark pissed off at us, too."

"Smartest thing you've said all day," Uber said with a certain amount of feeling. "So when's the bad luck supposed to kick in?" Opening the driver's side door, he climbed in and had the car started by the time L33t got in on the other side.

"Fucked if I know," L33t admitted. "If the building was crappy enough, it should've fallen in on them. Or maybe they'll just stub their toes for the next week. If they're naturally lucky, maybe not even that. It's not an exact science, you know."

"Figures," Uber complained as they pulled away from the curb. "You build a device that measures luck, and even stores luck energy. But can you predict what it's gonna do? Friggin' typical, that's what I call it." For all his complaining, he made sure to apply a certain amount of acceleration; as L33t had said, they didn't want Skidmark pissed off at them. Especially in the mood he was in.

<><>​

The Merchants' Crash Pad

Squealer

The ejection seat control system that Sherrel Bailey wanted to install in her tank was giving problems, which wasn't really a surprise as she'd crafted it from the gas cylinder of a swivel chair, an old alarm clock, bits out of a microwave and the TV remote. The latter item had pissed off the others, but when she threatened to cannibalise the TV as well, they shut up.

It didn't help with her work when weird purple lightning began arcing between everything. The device in front of her stung her finger with a fat blue spark, then launched itself straight up from the table and embedded itself in the ceiling. Cursing, she pulled back from her makeshift workbench and sucked on her fingertip, ducking her head as plaster rained down around her.

"Squealer, what the fuck?" That was Adam, lying sprawled in the least grungy armchair, the mask from his Skidmark costume pulled back from his head. "What've you fuckin' done now?" He struggled to sit up, then belched capaciously.

"Wasn't me," she said defensively. Even as she spoke the words, the purple lightning cut out, leaving the smell of ozone in her nostrils. "I'm doing something different."

Mush got up and stumbled over to the window, and peered out. "Can't see shit," he reported, shambling back toward the ratty sofa. "Just a car, but it's gone now."

Adam sat farther up. "What sorta fuckin' car, douchewipe?"

Flopping back on to the sofa, Mush shrugged. "Fucked if I know. Four wheels, an engine?"

Sherrel tuned them out and looked up at the ejection seat control module sourly. The wisp of smoke curling out of it told its own story; the thing would've been a dead loss even if it wasn't stuck in the ceiling. "Skids," she whined. "Fuckin' ejector control's fucked." The only other way out of the tank in a hurry was a series of locks and bolts she'd have to undo in sequence, which would be a pain if she drove into the water or something.

"Fuck." Adam got all the way to his feet. "Well, do what you can, then. I'm going for a fuckin' drink." Halfway to the door, he turned to face the others. "Don't forget. Monday morning, we're fuckin' up the Dockworkers for good and all. Those cock-garglers are gonna learn why you don't fuck with the Merchants."

Sherrel shrugged. "Okay, sure." She wouldn't really need an ejection seat for her tank if they were only going up against normals. Just for one fight, she could do without.

It's not like I'll be in any real danger anyway. Time to get high for the weekend.

<><>​

Taylor

"But you're sure you're okay?" I pressed. "The Merchants are scary people." Not as scary as the ABB or the Empire—well, as the Empire used to be before the Great Blue Ice Escapade, I mentally corrected myself—but still pretty scary. When I was younger, Dad had drummed stories into me of kids being snatched off the street and getting forcibly addicted. I didn't know if they were actually true, but they'd certainly made me careful about going into certain parts of town. Which, I supposed in retrospect, was the whole idea.

"I'm fine," Dad said, his tone halfway between amused exasperation and fond indulgence. "They never laid a hand on me, or any of the office staff. I knew the guys were coming in for that meeting, so I stalled as hard as I could. They were still at the chest-puffing stage when Kurt walked in the door." He shrugged. "It was pretty well cut and dried after that."

"Well, it was lucky they picked that time to try and shake you down," I said. "If Kurt and the others hadn't shown—"

He chuckled. "Honey, I never had a moment's doubt it was your power that arranged things the way they came out. We've just had a contract come through from Public Works, so we're able to hire on everyone who needs work. That's what the meeting was about. The Merchants thought they could get a slice of that pie. They thought wrong."

"Oh." I hadn't thought my phrasing was significant, but obviously it was. For most people, 'lucky' was just a turn of phrase; for me and Dad, it seemed to be a way of life, now. "I just hope they get the message. I'd hate for anyone to get hurt because my power decided they weren't important enough to me."

"I wouldn't worry." He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Lowlives like that tend to back off as soon as they run into someone who pushes back. I doubt we'll have anything more to worry about from that quarter."

The surety in his voice steadied me. "Good," I said, feeling better already. "One less thing I have to worry about."

<><>​

Uber

"Well, that wasn't exactly earth-shattering," Uber observed once they were a few blocks away from the Merchant crash pad. "Are you even sure it did anything?" He wasn't exactly doubting L33t; his buddy's inventions had been known to do some really crazy things on occasion. Sometimes, they'd even been on purpose. But the idea that they'd ensured the Merchants would have bad luck (at least for a time) sounded a little weird, even for L33t.

"Of course it did something." L33t reached back to the bar fridge that took up a third of the back seat of the car and pulled out another energy drink. He'd once offered to install a Tinkertech version that delivered the can right to the hand, but Uber had vetoed the concept on the principle that L33t needed both hands to Tinker with. "It draws on ambient luck energy to charge itself, and when it's firing, it separates out the bad luck from the good, storing the good luck and imbuing the target with the bad. Your gun basically does the opposite. Tonight, we can recharge your gun with the stored good luck from mine, and mine with the bad luck from yours."

"I didn't ask how it works," Uber said patiently. "I asked if it works." He negotiated another turn. "I mean, the concept is cool and all, but all I've seen is a pretty lightshow. And it wasn't even flashy as lightshows go." With one hand on the wheel, he turned to L33t and shrugged apologetically. "It's all I'm saying, dude."

"Okay, fine." L33t didn't have an especially prominent chin, but he stuck it out anyway. "Take us up Captain's Hill. You want results? I'll show you results."

Uber had no idea what L33t wanted with Captain's Hill, but he decided to play along. "Aye, aye, sir. Captain's Hill it is."

As he turned the car in that direction, he saw the clouds were rolling in again. I wonder if a luck gun will be enough to stop us from getting rained on.

<><>​

The Slaughterhouse Nine

Jack Slash

"So are we going in or not?" rumbled Hatchet Face. He indicated the Brockton Bay skyline, under the lowering clouds, with a wave of his cleaver. "We've been waiting half the day and I'm looking forward to meeting some of the capes you told me about. What's the holdup?"

By 'meeting', Jack knew quite well that the man meant 'hacking to pieces', but the question was unwelcome all the same. He himself wasn't quite sure why he was so reluctant to proceed, but he'd made a career of listening to his instincts and right now they were screaming at him to run in the other direction. The trouble was, he was a contrary soul by nature and he had to know why. So he was torn between telling everyone to retreat as expeditiously as possible and going forward to see what had him spooked. Worse, a good part of his leadership of the Nine depended on his reputation among them for decisiveness and infallibility, and this wavering was sending exactly the wrong signals.

"Yeah," put in Crawler. "What's keeping us? I wanna see how Lung stacks up against me." As he spoke, the saliva drooling from several of his mouths sizzled as it fell on the concrete floor of the roadside rest stop. He moved irritably to one side, accidentally knocking over a concrete bench.

"He uses fire," Jack reminded him wearily. Crawler was the quintessential masochist, who relished getting into fights where he'd get hurt. Of course, once his opponent hurt him and he survived it, they were of no more use to him, so he killed them. "You're immune to fire, remember?" Well, perhaps not immune, but he'd once parked himself in a blast furnace and come out even more horrific than ever. Jack suspected he could shrug off anything short of a point-blank tactical nuke. Which, to be honest, might not even be enough to finish him off.

Crawler made a noise of discontent. "But he fought Leviathan. I wanna fight Leviathan." Despite the whine in his multiple voices, inherent in the statement was the fact that Crawler desired the actual fight, not the possibility of beating an Endbringer. Jack was pretty sure Leviathan could hand out damage on a level Crawler had never experienced before, which was what Crawler craved. Though not even he was sure whether it would be enough to kill the monstrous cape.

"I've been waiting for another vehicle to come past," he hedged. "One we can grab that's big enough for Crawler to fit in the back." None had shown up, which satisfied the part of him that wanted nothing to do with Brockton Bay, but … "Wait a minute," he said. "When's the last time any vehicles passed us by in either direction?" He castigated himself for not paying more attention but in his defence, he'd been a little distracted since he woke up.

"No large vehicles have passed by since we got here, and I've seen nothing on the road at all since midday," Shatterbird reported promptly, in her overly-precise British accent. "Do you believe they know we are here, and they're diverting traffic around us?" She glanced around, as if imagining enemies creeping up on them from all sides. The winged glass 'costume' she habitually wore in combat rose from the ground beside her and wrapped itself around her body.

It was a distinct possibility, and one that Jack spent a few moments considering. Then he shook his head. "I sincerely doubt it," he decided. "With the preponderance of capes in that city, we would've been neck-deep in them already if anyone at all knew we were here. Heroes to take us down, and villains to earn the bounty on our heads. So it's something unconnected to us. But still, I'm curious as to why." He nodded to Shatterbird. "Thank you for volunteering to find out."

"But I didn't volunteer …" Shatterbird's voice trailed off, and she gave him an irritated look. "It's because I'm the only flier, isn't it?" Even as she spoke, the glass wings began to spread out; this was all for show, of course, as they all knew she didn't actually need them for flight.

Interesting. Normally, she wouldn't have questioned his order-disguised-as-a-request, and indeed was already preparing to obey it even as she spoke up. But the fact remained that she had spoken up. It made him wonder if anyone else was beginning to question his authority.

"Of course," he said lightly, making his voice reasonable enough that her semi-objection sounded whiny by comparison. "And our fastest mover. The Siberian is the only one who could begin to match you, and she unfortunately doesn't speak much." His lips creased in a condescending smile as he glanced from her to the pyrokinetic. "And while Burnscar can undoubtedly cover a lot of ground in a short time, the fires she has to set in the process would negate the concept of scouting without giving oneself away, don't you think?"

Grudgingly, she nodded. "Of course," she replied; he wondered if she noticed that she'd accidentally echoed his own words. "I'll go and see what's going on. Should I check toward the city or away first?" Lifting into the air under the impetus of her telekinetic manipulation, the ton of glass surrounding her managed to pull off the near-impossible trick of looking as light as a feather.

" … toward, I should think," Jack decided after a moment of thought. "It would make more sense that they'd block the road from that end first."

A few drops of rain fell, and she looked upward unhappily. "It's starting to rain," she pointed out; not quite a complaint, her comment was giving him the option to tell her to wait it out, he judged.

"The quicker you get it done, the quicker you'll be back here," he pointed out cheerfully. It wasn't his problem; he was going to be staying nice and dry whether it rained or not.

With an almost inaudible noise of discontent, she lifted into the sky and headed north. He watched her go, then headed back to the picnic table he'd been sitting at as heavier drops began to fall. Mannequin, standing nearby, tilted his head to catch Jack's attention. He made several motions with his hands, which Jack interpreted as She's not going to be thrilled with you when she gets back, you know.

"Yeah, I know." Jack shrugged. It was an occupational hazard; to be a member of the Nine, a cape needed to be at least a little unstable. This meant they were sometimes a little challenging to keep pointed in the same direction, but he'd managed it so far. "I'll talk to her. She'll see reason." They always did; it was a gift he had. King, the founder of the Nine, had tried to maintain his position by keeping everyone intimidated with his power; if he could touch you just once, you'd already lost the fight. It hadn't helped him against Jack and the boy who'd called himself Harbinger; between ranged attacks and the ability to always dodge their opponent, they'd worn the older man down until no more lives stood between him and defeat. It was probably a good thing that Harbinger had moved on, because Jack suspected they would've eventually come to blows over the leadership of the group, and he wasn't at all certain of his chances against the other man.

As he sat down, a grinding sound alerted him to the fact Crawler was eating the concrete bench that had been knocked over. "Must you?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Crawler didn't stop eating, but several of his secondary mouths replied. "I'm hungry. And this got in my way."

If Crawler had been any normal cape, Jack would've doubted his ability to digest such a meal, but he'd once seen the monstrous parahuman eat half a car when he was bored. "I wasn't talking about the damage. You know what happens when that stuff mixes with your stomach acids." The floor under Crawler was already heavily pitted, with noxious gas billowing up from the holes.

Crawler shrugged, an odd movement considering his pseudo-quadruped build. "Not my problem." He kept eating the bench.

Jack sighed and moved to another seat, this one upwind from Crawler. He knew what this was all about; Crawler wanted to go to Brockton Bay, and was acting out because Jack wasn't letting them go. But Jack couldn't be sure there wasn't a trap waiting for them.

A loud rumble rattled the roof of the shelter, and Jack glanced sharply at Crawler. But as it happened again a moment later, he realised it was thunder rather than the immense cape's insane digestive system. That, however, was only a matter of time.

Come on, Shatterbird. The sooner you get answers, the sooner we can get out of here.

<><>​

Top of Captain's Hill

Uber

"Okay," said L33t, striding over to the edge of the observation platform. Brockton Bay spread out beneath them, looking oddly beautiful from this angle. Uber knew better; close up, the city was little better than a cesspit in some places. "We're gonna find a cape of some sort and we're gonna zap 'em. Then we watch to see what happens."

"How are we even gonna see them, let alone target them?" asked Uber pragmatically. "They'll literally be miles away."

"Leave that to me." Pulling an oddly-designed set of binoculars from his belt, L33t gestured out over the city. "These little babies use non-Newtonian physics to crunch space so you can ignore about ninety-nine point nine percent of the distance. They work great, but I always get a ringing in my ears after I've used them." Holding the binoculars to his eyes, he began to scan the city.

"I'm pretty sure non-Newtonian physics doesn't work—hey, what's that over there?" Uber pointed at where a tiny spark hovered in the air, far off in the distance. If he was right, it was hovering over I-95, which headed southward in the general direction of Boston.

"Where? Lemme see." L33t lowered the binoculars so he could see where Uber was pointing. "Huh. Is that Purity?"

"Don't think so." Uber shaded his eyes and peered in that direction. "See that gap in the clouds? Sunbeam came right through there and lit them up, whatever they are." The gap in question was narrowing rapidly, but as luck would have it, the beam kept up with the tiny dot, illuminating it brightly.

"Huh, right." L33t put the binoculars to his eyes and peered in that direction. "Oh shit." Lowering them, he turned to Uber, his face drained of all blood. "Shit. Dude, we gotta get out of town. That's fucking Shatterbird. The Slaughterhouse Nine's in town."

"Holy fuck. Let me see." Uber didn't quite snatch the binoculars from L33t's hands, but it was a near thing. Holding them to his eyes, he moved them back and forth across the sky to acquire the target. Abruptly, a brightly-glinting form swooped into view; glass wings spread wide, it was indeed Shatterbird. "Fuck!" Involuntarily, he recoiled, losing the sight picture. Recovering, he looked for her again and found her. "What's she doing?" It looked like she was scanning the road below her for something.

"Who the fuck cares, dude?" L33t tugged at his arm. "We've gotta get out of here. Leave town. Or at least barricade ourselves in our base. It's the fuckin' Nine."

"Wait a minute. Let me think." Uber stared at the still-humming backpack on L33t's back. "What's the range on these guns? You were gonna shoot at capes over the city, right?"

L33t stared at him as if he'd started babbling in Esperanto. "You want to shoot at her? She's a member of the Nine! They'll shred us!"

"No." Uber shook his head firmly. "What happened to the L33t I saw last night, the one who made thunder roll when he laughed? What happened to the luck gun? Don't you think it'll work any more?"

"Then, I was the luckiest asshole in the country," L33t said. "Now, I'm just another second-rate Tinker. And I don't wanna become a second-rate corpse. Now, let's go!"

"Thanks." Uber grinned at him. "I was wondering where I was going wrong." He unslung the rifle from his back and pointed it at L33t.

"Hey, what the fu—" yelped L33t, but Uber had already pulled the trigger. The humming from his pack cycled up to audible levels, and a crackling beam of coruscating purple and orange light bathed L33t from head to toe.

Uber kept the trigger down until the gun sputtered and died, then looked at his best buddy. "You all right?" he asked, not without reason; once more, L33t's hair was standing on end, and his eyes seemed to have an odd inner glow.

"You shot me." L33t's voice was flat.

"Uh, yeah." It began to dawn on Uber that maybe he'd gone a little too far. "Sorry, but I thought—"

"Forget sorry!" L33t cackled out loud as he snatched his own rifle off his back. Overhead, thunder rolled. "That's just what I fuckin' needed. Okay, Shatterbitch. Time for me to luck you up!"

Uber shook his head. "That just sounded wrong." It didn't matter how lucky L33t was, his puns were still fucking horrible.

"Do I look like someone who gives a shit?" L33t cackled again as he fiddled with the rifle, eliciting another thunderous accompaniment. "Okay, setting this bad boy to homing." Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he sighted in on the distant spark. "Let's ruin her whole century." Then he pulled the trigger.

The beam that leaped from the emitter at the tip of the barrel didn't seem to be able to make up its mind what colour it wanted to be. At first, it was deep green, but that faded to a rather attractive aquamarine as it crackled and writhed across the sky. Uber watched it reach out toward Shatterbird, twisting and curling through the air. At the last second, he raised the Tinker-binoculars and caught the look of utter astonishment on her face, just before she launched herself sideways in an effort to avoid the incoming attack.

Which was the exact wrong move to do; had she stayed where she was, the semi-randomly hunting stream of bad-luck energy would probably have missed her. Of course, it was bad luck energy, being directed by a guy who was brim-full of good luck, so it may well have been going to happen that way all the time. Uber decided that trying to analyse the difference between imposed luck and real luck would give him a headache, so he wasn't going to think about it any more.

Whatever the reason, Shatterbird dodged straight into the path of the beam. It latched on to her and then intensified, the humming of the pack going into overdrive. Uber saw the beam brighten considerably, and shift straight through blue to a deep, almost invisible, violet. Shatterbird was enveloped in the field at the far end, and from the increasingly desperate evasive manoeuvres she was pulling, she was not in the least bit happy about it. To be fair, this would've been his own reaction as well.

And then she pulled off the impossible. One moment, she was firmly enmeshed in the bad-luck aura, and then she was free of it. And she was flying toward Captain's Hill. With the excellent view of her face via the binoculars, Uber could see exactly how pissed she was. The word 'murderous' bobbed to the top of his mind and stayed there, because it fitted her expression really well.

"Hit her again!" he urged L33t, lowering the binoculars. For half a second, he considered making a bolt for the car. Then he decided that there was no way in hell they'd make it off the hill in one piece with a member of the Nine bearing down on them. Which led to the next thought in the chain: What the living fuck was I thinking, accepting that a 'bad luck' gun would do anything against a stone killer like Shatterbird? And even if L33t's extra lucky right now, I'm not!

For a second, as the beam intensified again, he thought L33t had reacquired her. But this was not the case; while Shatterbird was still arrowing in at them, the beam was reaching past her, literally arching out of sight around the curve of another one of the hills flanking the one they were on. Whatever who or what it had latched on to was, it wasn't her!

"Dude!" he yelled. "What the fuck are you doing? Hit her again!" Frantically, he began to claw the trap off his belt. He didn't even know if it would function correctly, or if she'd end up in the exact position needed to pull off a Hail Mary, but it was better than just standing there and waiting for her to murder him with ten thousand glass razors.

"It won't!" L33t shouted back. "It's fixed on to someone else! I didn't even know it shot that far!" He let off on the trigger, and the beam cut out, then he pointed it more closely toward Shatterbird's oncoming form. Adding to the pucker factor, they could actually see her as a human form with glass wings now, and not just a glinting dot. Not that she was being illuminated from above any more; in fact, the clouds were building up above Captain's Hill even more thickly than before.

Before L33t could fire again at Uber's silent urging, something else did it for him. Just as the first heavy raindrops began to fall, lightning stabbed down from the clouds above, hitting something on the slopes of the hill. On the way, it neatly intercepted Shatterbird's path, lighting her up like a fucking Christmas tree. Uber wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but that lightning bolt seemed to hang there forever, pulses of electricity running through it … and her. Even as the KRAKATHOOM did its best to make his eardrums meet in the middle of his head, he saw her limp figure falling to the ground far below, shards of glass surrounding her like twinkling snowflakes.

He never actually witnessed her hitting the ground, but that was probably because he was trying to blink the intense violet line out of his vision. And shaking his head in a vain attempt to get some of his hearing back. He did register that L33t was tugging at his arm, and looked that way. His buddy's mouth was moving, and after squinting a bit and concentrating on lip-reading, he figured out that L33t was saying, "Come on, we gotta go."

Which was a great idea, especially as it was starting to rain in earnest now. Also, they weren't being flayed alive by Shatterbird, so being hit by lightning had probably taken her all the way out of the picture. He hoped. Stumbling in the general direction of the car, he pulled the backpack off and slung it into the back seat, along with the trap. Using it would've been a crapshoot anyway, and L33t was the lucky one right then, not him. On the heels of that realisation came another one: Holy crap, the bad luck gun actually worked!

Working more on instinct than rational thought, he got the car started and set it moving off down the hill. He knew his hearing was starting to come back when he heard L33t swearing. It was kind of impressive; he hadn't known the guy had such an extensive vocabulary of profanity. "What's the matter?" he asked, making sure to concentrate on the road; even with the wipers going full speed, he had trouble seeing more than a few dozen yards ahead.

"We fucking killed Shatterbird," L33t spat, sounding utterly livid at the idea. Uber wasn't at all sure why; after all, she'd been on the point of murdering them. If she'd chosen to use her scream over the city, a good chunk of Brockton Bay would've been massacred or maimed with no warning whatsoever. And they would've also been dead, which was a bit more important in his mind.

"Yeah, we did," he agreed. "Your luck gun fucking worked. I'm sorry I ever doubted it. Man, what a way to go. Struck by lightning." He forced a chuckle. It wasn't really convincing, even to his own ears. That had been way too damn close.

"No, you don't get it," L33t persisted. "We killed Shatterbird. There's a kill order out on her head. Maybe a million dollars worth of bounty. And now, even if we tell everyone, even if we can find the fucking body, nobody's gonna believe it was us. She got struck by lightning. Luck gun? Don't be ridiculous." He started swearing again.

Oh, for fuck's sake. L33t was right. A million dollars would've added very nicely to their kitty, but the chances of their actually being able to claim it were probably minimal to none. There'd been no witnesses at the top of the hill, and Uber was willing to bet nobody had been looking that way with recording equipment at the right time. Being infused with good luck so you don't die is one thing. Getting money out of it is apparently something totally different.

Then again, he supposed, he shouldn't be greedy. Shatterbird was dead, they were alive, and the luck guns worked. That's something, I guess.

<><>​

The Slaughterhouse Nine (now Seven)

Jack Slash

The rain was still only coming down in single drops rather than a downpour, but Jack was certain this would change relatively soon, by the way the clouds were getting darker. Also, Crawler's gut had yet to react to the concrete bench he'd just finished ingesting; Jack hoped the latter event would come sooner rather than later, so they could get it over with. He wasn't sure if the monstrous cape even had to eat to stay alive, or if he did it simply because he felt like it. Certainly, the few times capes had managed to destroy any large parts of him, the lost parts regenerated in mere seconds, so it wasn't as if he needed food to build biomass.

And then all other considerations were driven from his mind, as some kind of energy discharge hit the roof of the shelter and filled the interior with crazily crackling arcs of violet lightning. Several grounded into him and he flinched back, but all he felt was a mild tickling sensation. In another instant, the Siberian was beside him with one hand on his shoulder and the other holding Bonesaw's hand. The tickling did not cease, and he held up his hand to watch the violet fire creating a web-like effect between his outspread fingers.

"I think it's harmless," he said, studying the effect with interest. "Whatever it is. Alan, any ideas?" He looked over at the white-carapaced killer, who hadn't moved from his position. In the distance, lightning cracked down from the clouds, and thunder rolled.

Mannequin shrugged eloquently, then made several hand gestures just as the effect ended. Jack read them as Saint Elmo's fire maybe?

No scientist himself, Jack had still heard of the phenomenon. Purple fire seemed to be a documented aspect of it, as did the fact that it occurred during thunderstorms. The smell of ozone was also not unexpected. "Maybe," he allowed. "That or some Tinker trying out their new toys." A corner of his mouth hitched up in a sardonic grin. "And now we know for a fact nobody knows we're here. If they did, whatever we just got hit with would've been a sight more deadly."

"I'm more worried about the fact that we got hit at all and we don't know who did it, where they are or what it was supposed to do." Burnscar looked around as everyone focused their attention on her. "What? We were all thinking the same thing."

"She's right," Bonesaw said. "Tinkers don't make stuff that does nothing." She reached up to her shoulder and petted the spider-bot that lurked there; Jack was certain it arched what passed for a back into her stroking hand. "Isn't that right, sweetie?"

Jack nodded to concede the point. "True, but until we find out what did it, and what it did, we can't worry about every tiny thing. And we can't stay here, on the off-chance that we were deliberately targeted, and that was a ranging shot." Standing up, he briskly dusted off the seat of his pants. "So. No vehicles coming past to hijack, and I don't feel like doing much walking. Ideas for getting transportation?"

Bonesaw looked speculatively at her spider-bots, and Jack just knew she was thinking of volunteering them to pull the bus like a sleigh. As oddly-appealing as that idea was, there was no way he could think of to make it work. A moment later it seemed she'd come to the same conclusion, because she shook her head.

Likewise, Burnscar signalled negation, as did Mannequin. But then Hatchet Face, who'd been sitting at the far end of the shelter so his power didn't interfere with theirs, spoke up unexpectedly. "This is gonna sound stupid," he said, raising his voice so they could hear him.

Jack waited, but it seemed that was all the bulky cape-killer had to say for the moment. "Yes …?" he prompted. "If it's a stupid idea but it works, then it's not a stupid idea."

After a moment of hesitation, Hatchet Face nodded. "The Flintstones. They've got a car that they move by pushing their feet against the road." He settled back down into the brooding silence he'd been employing up till now.

It was definitely an unusual idea, but as Jack mulled it over, he could see it working. All they needed was someone strong enough to provide the motive power.

"What? No!" Crawler backed off a couple of paces. "I'm not pushing any stupid bus."

He was the intuitive choice, but Jack hadn't survived for so long by making the intuitive choice every time. "You don't have to," he assured Crawler. Turning his attention to the Siberian, he treated her to his most winning smile. "So how about it?"

She gave him a very unimpressed look.

<><>​

Uber

By the time they got back to base, L33t had at least stopped swearing. He inspected Uber's luck gun, and nodded. "Good," he said. "Secondary reservoir's loaded with bad luck. There'll be a percentage of loss, but I'll be able to charge mine almost to full with it. I didn't use all mine, but I should be able to get yours half-charged at least."

Uber had taken the time to do some thinking. "What's our next move?" he asked. "I'm thinking we pack our shit and get the fuck out of Dodge, at least until the Nine are gone." He gave his partner a firm nod, fully expecting him to go along with the plan.

"What? No." L33t looked incredulously at him. "Fuck that, bro. You saw what we did? We killed Shatterbird." Turning to where the two packs were sitting on his worktable, he set about connecting them with odd-looking cables. "I'm not leaving town, not now."

"Yeah, we killed Shatterbird," Uber repeated. "And where there's Shatterbird, there's Jack Slash and the rest of the Nine. They'll want to know what happened to her, and they won't care who they ask or how they ask." He shuddered, not even wanting to imagine being tortured for information by the likes of Jack Slash or Bonesaw. Or worse, being recruited by them.

"And they haven't got the faintest fucking idea what's happened to her," L33t stated confidently. "If they did, we'd already be dead by now. Who's on their roster again?" Plugging a couple of heavy leads from the wall into the backpacks, he watched the gauges with satisfaction.

Reluctantly, Uber retrieved his phone and went on to the mobile version of PHO. From there, he accessed the information page on the Nine. "Jack Slash, of course," he reported. "The Siberian, Bonesaw, Mannequin … huh. Looks like Hatchet Face replaced Winter. Shatterbird, Burnscar and Crawler. Well, we can scratch Shatterbird off the list, anyway."

"So, seven left," L33t said, stepping away from the workbench and dusting off his hands. "You saw what happened to Shatterbird when we gave her a serious dose of bad luck. If we can do that to the rest of them, they'll die without even knowing why." He wandered over to the fridge and got himself an energy drink, then shook his head and put it back. "No, pass on that. I think I need some sleep."

"No shit, Sherlock," Uber retorted. "You've been up for more than twenty-four hours if I'm doing my math right. Is that what's gotten into you? Does too much caffeine and no sleep turn you into a suicidal idiot? Taking on the Nine? For fuck's sake."

L33t shook his head. "No, dude. This is all your fault. I think it's the luck you dosed me up with. It's not just good luck; I also get confident. Really fucking confident."

"Yeah, you were kind of pussying out before I shot you, weren't you?" Uber facepalmed. "I should've left well enough alone. You do realise you're relying on bad luck to fuck over Crawler and the Siberian? Crawler regenerates from basically anything, and the Siberian ignores fucking everything. I don't think there's enough bad luck in the world to fuck them up."

"We'll just have to see." Letting out a jaw-cracking yawn, L33t headed for his bedroom. "Get on PHO and spread the rumour that the Nine have been seen. It should make people more cautious. I'm gonna get my head down. If anything comes up, wake me." The door closed behind him, leaving Uber to scratch his head.

Damn, this is a side of him I've never seen before.

<><>​

Jack Slash

Settling himself into the driver's seat of the RV, Jack let off the handbrake and called back over his shoulder, "Okay, let's go."

Behind him, waist-deep in a hole that had been cored through the floor of the bus—really, they'd had any number of options for making such a hole, but Jack had chosen to let the Siberian do the deed—the Siberian took hold of the vehicle itself and made both it and the road beneath her impervious to damage. Then she started pushing. Jack was impressed despite himself; even though he had a good idea of the extent of her powers, it was still very cool to experience.

To unlock the steering, he turned the key to light up the dash, and watched the GPS come online. Sure enough, it had them travelling south and west instead of north and east, and its audible notifications were both irritating and unintelligible. Idly, he stabbed at the screen with his knife, wanting to hear and see it die a fitting death. His knife blade bounced off the flimsy plastic, reminding himself that he could damage no part of the bus while the Siberian's power was in play. With an irritated grunt, he found the switch to flip it off.

To pass the time, he turned on the radio. The local radio channels weren't hard to find, and he began to listen to them, skipping between stations to try to find local breaking news. Shatterbird still hadn't turned up at the shelter by the time they were ready to go, so there was half a chance that she'd gone into the city to start causing problems. She really did enjoy using her scream to announce their arrival. In Jack's opinion, it was getting a little boring; they needed to change things up. Perhaps have Crawler destroy a local landmark?

There was nothing on the radio to indicate her presence, and looking out through the windshield he couldn't see columns of rising smoke. In fact, it looked like another boring Saturday afternoon. As soon as we get into the city, I'll have Burnscar set something on fire, he decided. Then we'll take out the emergency responders. That'll give Shatterbird something to home in on. We'll disappear before the capes show, then pop up somewhere else. It was a tried and true formula.

With a sigh, he began flipping channels again. The first he hit was a talk show of some sort. "To all my listeners, this is Frank Webster of Brockton Saturday Afternoon! Welcome—" This was the sort of guy who needed a knife to the face. Then again, most people he met needed a knife to the face. It was a very common condition, and one which he was pleased to be able to cater for. He changed channels again.

"—to Brockton Bay—" A dull, dreary voice, relating some kind of historical documentary. Ugh. Flip again.

"—Jack Slash, leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine—" That sounded like an interesting channel; he might come back to that one, once he'd checked out the others.

"—you're gonna—" The chirpy, irritating tone grated on him like nothing else. Flip.

"—die here!"

What. The. Fuck?

Sitting up in the seat, he stared at the radio. He'd gotten death threats many times—including from the PRT—but never from a random sampling of radio channels. "Did anyone hear that?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Hear what?" asked Burnscar, rousing from a doze. Across from her, Bonesaw was obviously engrossed in modifying one of her spider-bots while the Siberian busily pushed the RV. Mannequin was in power-down mode, and Crawler seemed to be asleep. Hatchet Face was riding at the very rear of the RV, where his power would only interfere with Crawler's.

"Never mind," Jack said, turning back to the radio. It was still burbling away with some kind of public service announcement, so he flicked back to the channel that had mentioned him by name.

"—don't say you weren't warned. Next on our list of 'Most Despised Men in America', we have—"

Reaching out, he shut the radio off. That had been too creepy for words, and he'd had Grey Boy in the Nine for years, right up until Glaistig Uaine had 'harvested' the kid's powers and then had herself shut up in the Birdcage.

The rest of the trip into the city passed in silence, broken only by Crawler's monumental snores.

<><>​

As they entered the city limits, Jack looked around for a place where they could stop and get out without attracting undue notice. An overpass up ahead caught his eye; it was perfect. Not only was it out of the public eye, but they'd have a reasonable view in all directions. "Stopping just up here," he called out.

As the vehicle rolled to a halt, he thought he heard thunder again, but then he realised the sound was coming from within the RV. Crawler's latest meal was finally starting to catch up with him, which made it even more imperative that they stop and get out, at least for a while. He set the handbrake, then climbed out. Burnscar roused herself and climbed out after him, followed by Bonesaw. They wandered after him as he headed down to the rear of the RV, where Crawler was just backing his bulky body out through the makeshift entry hatch they'd jury-rigged together.

"Okay, Burnscar, this next bit's for you," he said. "We're gonna find someplace important and I want you to set it on fire." He watched her eyes, alert for any signs of pushback. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

"Set it on fire?" She seemed reluctant, and he recalled that she hadn't used her powers for some little while. "Do I have to?"

Fortunately, he'd done this dance before. "Well, you don't have to. Nobody's forcing you. But you want to, don't you?" In her eyes, he could see the impact his words were making. The depressive was receding and the pyromaniac was coming out to play.

"Well, I guess," she muttered, and held her hands out, cupped together. Behind her, Crawler dropped heavily to the asphalt. And then there was a sound like the loudest, most raucous air-horn Jack had ever heard. What flooded over Jack then was the most horrifically intense stench he'd ever encountered, but then it got worse. Desperately, he opened his mouth to tell Burnscar to stand down, but he choked on the miasma, cutting off his words. And then there was fire. All the fire in the world.

BOOOOM

<><>​

Consciousness slowly returned, and with it the awareness of pain. Jack kept his eyes shut, not sure what was going on and unwilling to betray his state to potential enemies. Then he heard a familiar voice.

"How are you feeling, Mister Jack?"

He groaned. Every inch of his body hurt. The skin on his face felt tightly-stretched, as if he'd gotten a bad sunburn. Inching his eyes open, he looked up into Bonesaw's worried eyes. "What … happened?" he managed, despite a severe case of dry-mouth.

"Crawler, um, farted," reported Bonesaw, giving a nervous giggle. "And when Burnscar lit her fire, she ignited a cloud of it. It … um … exploded." She put a straw between his lips and he sipped at it. Cool water filled his mouth. As he inhaled through his nostrils, he felt the telltale pull of stitches in his chest, and he wondered just how badly he'd been injured. "I was knocked out, and when I came to, Burnscar was gone. Well, mostly." She wrinkled her nose. "Crawler and Hatchet Face have been making jokes ever since."

He tried to sit up, and discovered that he had a massive headache. But he persisted anyway, realising halfway through the endeavour that he was resting on one of the cramped beds in the RV. "That's got to be wrong," he rasped. "Even as bad as that explosion was, it shouldn't have vaporised her."

"I don't think it did, but it definitely wounded her badly, maybe even killed her," Bonesaw said. "You were hurt real bad, and she was a lot closer to the explosion than you. We found an arm; I think the rest of her was blown off the overpass. Crawler said he saw a garbage truck driving away down the road. She might've fallen in the back."

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. What are the odds? That Bonesaw could've pulled Burnscar back from beyond the brink of death, he had no doubt. But the problem was, there was no body to work with, and they didn't have a Mover to go find it. Or maybe we do. "Has Shatterbird shown up?"

Solemnly, she shook her head. "No. And it's been a couple of hours. What do you want us to do?"

With a sudden horrified suspicion, Jack reached up to his face. Not only were his eyebrows gone, but his beard had also been scorched off his face, as had all the hair from the front of his head. "Tell the others to get the RV somewhere safe, then we'll camp down for the night. I'll make new plans then."

"Okay, Mister Jack." Bonesaw disappeared from sight.

Jack flopped back on to the bed and groaned. I hope nobody ever hears about this incident. We'd never live it down. And now we're down three members.

Sleep was unfortunately all too long in coming.

<><>​

Hebert Household

Danny

Danny looked up from the paper as Taylor stirred the casserole in the kitchen. "Hey, have you heard about this National Chicken Festival thing?" he called out.

She came to the kitchen door, still holding the wooden spoon. "Um, I don't think so," she said uncertainly. "What's it about ... no, forget I asked. When's it happening?"

"Monday afternoon, apparently," he replied, rechecking the date. "Want to come with me and check it out? We'll make it a father-daughter day." And afterward, he could check on the Dockworkers doing roadworks in the area. If they did a good job, they'd be more likely to be hired again by Don Hammett in the future.

"Um, sure." She shrugged, then grinned. "Sounds like it could be interesting."

He gave her an encouraging smile in return. "That's my girl."



End of Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Fourteen: Whatever Happened To …?

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Museum of Making Music
Carlsbad, California

The player piano was a masterpiece of its kind. It was cared for almost obsessively. Also, because the curator had a strong belief that instruments that were not used deteriorated with age, it was played on a regular basis. However, not even the sharp-eyed caretaker spotted, late one evening, a dozen caterpillars that had somehow entered the building. One by one, they inched their way up into the body of the instrument, selecting places that were both out of sight and would not interfere with the playing of the piano.

Then they attached themselves to the wood and began to shed their outer skin to let their chrysalises form.

<><>​

Saturday Evening, January 15, 2011
L33t

The sound of laughter woke L33t. Not just ordinary laughter, either. Rollicking, belly-deep guffaws. The type of laughter that Uber came out with when he was watching a Charlie Chaplin special, or perhaps Laurel & Hardy. But why he was laughing now, L33t had no idea.

Grumpily, he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled out into the main living area. The computer chair was a little way off to the side of the keyboard while Uber was lying on the floor in front of it, holding his ribs as he rolled from side to side. Shaking his head, L33t came closer, peering at the computer screen to see what Uber had downloaded this time. To his puzzlement, there was just a cityscape; specifically, a view of the Brockton Bay cityscape. "What the hell?" he muttered.

"Snitch!" cackled Uber. "Snitch got out!" He went back to his uncontrolled merriment, but he'd given L33t the clue as to what had happened. The feed was indeed from the Snitch, which was sitting innocently on its docking cradle, but the time-date stamp was from about the time they'd been returning from Captain's Hill. Pulling the chair back to the computer, he sat down and started an analysis of what was going on.

A few minutes later, he thought he had an answer. At some point, there'd been a spike in the system. Checking the log, he thought back, and narrowed the time down. It was, he surmised eventually, within five minutes of the time that Shatterbird had been removed from the equation by way of lightning strike.

Wait a minute. He hadn't seen where the lightning struck, but it wasn't hard to call up a geological survey map. And there it was; right in the zone where the lightning had fried Shatterbird, an electricity line made its way across the flank of Captain's Hill. And what's the bet it connects into the line that we steal power from? He didn't even bother making a wager on that one.

Looking things over, it hadn't done any damage, but it had managed through some weird coincidence to precisely emulate the signal for the Snitch to engage its autonomous mode and go data-gathering. Coincidence, he wondered, or luck? Glancing suspiciously at where the guns were busy exchanging luck energy, he entered the command for it to replay whatever it had recorded. Maybe then he'd have an idea of why Uber was still laughing like a hyena on crack.

At first, nothing seemed to be happening. The Snitch had taken a meandering path through the city, apparently going unnoticed by one and all. But then it had fixated on a beat-up looking RV that was just cresting an overpass near the Trainyards. It was odd, he thought, that he didn't hear any noise from the vehicle's engine as it pulled to a halt. Any curiosity about that slammed to a screeching halt of its own as the door opened and Jack Slash himself emerged. Along with Burnscar, he had headed down to the back of the vehicle, where the rear end was in the process of hinging upward to allow first Hatchet Face and then Crawler to exit. The Snitch zoomed in as the group tightened up, and then it happened.

The explosion caught L33t by surprise and he flinched backward as Jack Slash was flung one way and Burnscar another. Hatchet Face was sent cartwheeling down the overpass, while his axe spun off to the side. As luck would have it, Burnscar had been pitched almost over the edge of the overpass. She managed to grab a handhold at the last second, but then the axe came out of nowhere and sheared through her upper arm. The last L33t saw of her, she was draped across a load of trash in the back of a truck that had just driven under the overpass, her one good arm hanging out the side as though she were trying to flag down a lift.

"Wait, what just happened?" L33t mumbled when there were no more explosions forthcoming. Had someone else decided to take a run at the Nine when he wasn't looking? To his disappointment, Jack Slash appeared to be alive, if somewhat injured. As the Siberian picked Slash up, the Snitch lost interest and turned away from the scene. L33t reran the action to just before the explosion, and watched carefully.

It was on the third run-through that he identified the loud abrasive noise that came through just before the explosion, which started him giggling. Now that he knew what had happened, he could see the fire in Burnscar's hand igniting the cloud of flammable gas that Crawler had just added to the atmosphere. There was even a small mushroom cloud. He watched it again, and this time he started laughing as soon as Crawler got out of the RV.

"Rule number one!" whooped Uber. "Don't light Crawler's farts!"

That was when L33t fell out of the chair as well.

<><>​

Palanquin Nightclub
Faultline

"Found the problem, ma'am," reported the electrician. He was an older guy with an incipient gut and thinning hair on top, but everything Melanie had seen told her that he was good at his job. "Roof developed a water leak during that rain we had. An inch to the left or right and it wouldn't have been a problem. But it fell right where something was chewing on the wiring; rat, probably. Then it somehow managed to short across to another wire, which knocked out the lights for the entire building. Never seen it happen like that before. Anyway, easy fixed. We'll be out in under an hour."

"Oh, good," she replied, giving him a genuine smile. As a person who prized intelligence and competence in her own people, she liked seeing it in others, especially those doing work for her. Also, if what he was saying was true, the club would be opening on time, saving her a lot of money. "I'll let you get back to it, then."

"Ma'am," he agreed. Turning, he left her office. She leaned back in her chair and sighed in mild aggravation. This sort of thing, even if it didn't disrupt the smooth running of her club, still unsettled members of her Crew. Elle was affected more than the others; the girl's psyche was fragile, and she didn't take well to abrupt changes in her surroundings. Her power tended to act out when that happened, reshaping the world around her to fit her mental state.

She also wouldn't have been happy with seeing tradesmen tramping through the private areas of Palanquin in their quest to locate the source of the fault that had plunged the building into darkness, so she'd sent Gregor and Newter out to take her for a stroll. This had the double benefit of giving her a slow, gentle transition from one place to another, and of keeping her moving so that her power couldn't get a grip on the local surroundings. Emily had opted to take a nap instead, which was also perfectly fine. She, at least, didn't tend to alter her environment when she was agitated.

Melanie's laptop still had charge, which meant she could work on the books until the power came back on. Sitting forward again, she booted it up and started going through the spreadsheets, checking paper receipts by the light coming in through her office window. The work was slow and tedious but it had to be done, and she prided herself in getting things right the first time.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, an almost subliminal hum heralded the lights turning themselves back on. With a sigh, she sat back in the office chair, eyes going to the screens that provided a backdrop to her laptop. They came online one by one, showing static which was then replaced by imagery from her security camera system. Carefully, she checked each image for the subtle markers she'd put into place to ensure that the footage wasn't being looped or replaced with an earlier recording; it wasn't likely, but she didn't want to depend on 'likely' for her personal security.

Nothing showed up, which was both expected and gratifying at the same time. She could clearly see the electricians finishing up, so she stood up from the chair. While she absolutely appreciated their workmanship and efficiency, she also wanted them out of the club once they were done. Just as she was about to step around the desk, however, movement on another screen caught her eye.

A moment later, she relaxed slightly; it was just Newter, Gregor and Elle returning from their stroll. Their timing, she had to admit, was excellent. Or had she left the sign on? That would've been a beacon signalling them it was time to return.

But then she spotted something else; specifically, a limp form cradled in Gregor's brawny arms. As obese as Gregor appeared, he was quite strong for his size, and the young woman afforded him no burden at all. A frown creased her forehead; what had they gotten themselves into? Newter may be irresponsible from time to time, but Gregor's phlegmatic nature provided a good check for him. Melanie just couldn't see them kidnapping a girl off the street … well, for any reason, actually. The sight of the woman's left arm, missing from mid-bicep down with the stump encased in one of Gregor's trademark slime-blobs, only made things all the more confusing. I have got to get to the bottom of this. But first, there were the electricians to deal with.

<><>​

Gregor the Snail

"Okay, you get her comfortable and I'll go tell the boss," Newter said, stepping around Gregor to allow him to place their involuntary house-guest on the bed in the spare room. Elle watched from the side, though what was going on behind her vague expression, Gregor had no idea.

"That would be a good idea," Faultline said from right behind Gregor. From Newter's startled eep, he hadn't heard her approaching, either. "I'm sure this is a very interesting story. Don't leave out any details."

Leaning over the bed, Gregor carefully placed Burnscar—Mimi, as Elle had called her—on the bed. He made sure the injured arm wasn't being pushed up against anything, then checked her pulse again. As before, it was weak but steady.

Behind him, Newter took a deep breath. "So we went for a walk, like you said. And it was a good idea. Elle was enjoying herself, as much as she enjoys anything, and it was a really nice day out. Barely anyone stared at us, or took pictures even."

"Granted." Faultline's voice was steady. As he pulled the covers up over Mimi's lower body, Gregor thought he heard Newter gulp. "Skip to the part where you bring an unconscious girl into my club."

Gregor turned around and faced up to Faultline. "It was very unusual," he said, drawing her attention to him. "We were walking with Elle when a garbage truck stopped near us at the lights. It was Elle who saw the arm hanging over the side."

"Garbage truck?" For the first time, it seemed that Faultline was on the back foot. "What was she doing in a garbage truck?" She stepped to the side so that she could look at the woman in the bed. "Wait a minute … is that Burnscar?"

"Her name is Mimi," Elle said unexpectedly. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and whatever she was looking at didn't seem to exist in the same reality as everyone else. Of course, that wasn't unusual for her. "She was in the asylum with me. She liked talking to me."

Gregor noted a tracery of vines that was beginning to grow around the edges of the ceiling. Tiny buds of flowers were sprouting here and there; while there were thorns, they were small and unobtrusive as yet. As far as he could tell, this meant that Elle felt secure and unthreatened, or at least as unthreatened as she ever felt.

"But you didn't know it was her at the time," Faultline said. "You couldn't." She seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as Elle.

"I spent a lot of time looking at her hands," Elle replied. "I didn't like looking at her expressions. She was very unhappy a lot of the time." Moving to the bed, she sat down on the edge and took Mimi's hand in hers. "I didn't like her very much then, but now I understand how she was thinking. She didn't have any friends then. Maybe it's why she did what she did."

Joined the Slaughterhouse Nine, Gregor understood. He knew what it was like to be alone in all the world without even memories of his past, of his family. It would've been totally foreign to his nature to have become a member of such a murderous group, but perhaps Mimi hadn't seen another option.

"She made Gregor stand in the road so the truck wouldn't keep going, while I got Sleeping Beauty there out of the truck," Newter explained; to Gregor's relief, he chose to leave out the minor detail of how Gregor had glued the truck's tyres to the road when the guy had tried to drive on anyway. The blobs of slime would dissolve … eventually. "Dunno how she lost her arm, but by a sheer fluke she fell so it jammed up against a mattress someone tossed out. Stopped her from bleeding out. Lucky for her, huh?"

"Less lucky for us," Faultline said flatly. "In case you hadn't realised, this means the rest of the Nine are in town. They're likely to come looking for her, and I doubt very much they'll be so grateful for you for saving her life that they'll leave us alone, much less alive."

"So we do not tell anyone," Gregor said, surprising even himself. "If we do not advertise it, nobody will know she is here."

"The big guy's got a point," Newter agreed. "And hey, what if she ended up like that because of a disagreement? What if they're out to kill her? If we just throw her out, she might die, or they might backtrack her here, and come after us for helping her."

<><>​

Faultline

While Melanie took care to run her Crew with a light hand, it was well understood that she gave the orders and they followed them. Sometimes, however, when they dug their heels in, she knew it was time to back off and let them have what they wanted. This seemed to be such a time. Why they were intent on saving Burnscar, she wasn't entirely certain, but that seemed to be the way of things.

"Okay," she said. "Fine. She can stay. But someone keeps their eye on her at all times. I mean twenty-four-seven. And once she wakes up, if she acts out, we deal with it. The last thing I want is this place going up in flames."

Elle didn't react, but Gregor nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Sure thing, boss," Newter added. "I'll go tell Emily about this so she doesn't get surprised by it."

"I'm pleased to see that someone around here is being afforded that courtesy," Melanie observed dryly.

"I was going to come tell you!" protested the orange-skinned boy. "Just as soon as we had her settled!"

Melanie raised an eyebrow. (It had taken hours of practice in front of a mirror, but the effect was worth it). "Just so we're clear, begging for forgiveness isn't easier than asking for permission, not around here. You had a phone; you could've called me. You didn't. If she acts out, this is on you. Got it?"

"Got it," mumbled Newter, looking and sounding suitably chastised. Ducking his head, he slunk out the door.

"All right, that's settled." Melanie dusted her hands off. "Gregor, get her off that bed. She's going to need blood expanders and some sort of dressing for that arm once your gunk dissolves. Also, we're going to need to check her over for other injuries. It'll be much easier to do all this in the sickbay than here." Both Elle and Gregor stared at her. She clapped her hands briskly. "Well, come on. She's not going to treat herself."

Feeling once more in command of the situation, she led the way down to the sickbay. Fortunately, it was her practice to keep it well-stocked for situations like this one. Barring complications beyond Melanie's capacity to treat, Burnscar would survive and recover.

What happened then would be up to her.

<><>​

The Dallon Household
Amy

"You are not coming in the house like that." Carol Dallon's voice was firm. She looked Vicky's somewhat-multicoloured form up and down with an expression of mild disbelief. "How did this even happen?"

Vicky, standing on the front doorstep of the Dallon household, on to which she was dripping slowly-congealing paint, looked away with a sheepish expression. Amy, who was miraculously untouched and standing a little away from her sister, cleared her throat while trying to hold back a smirk. "Well, there was this dumpster—"

"Ames, I got this," Vicky said hastily. "Mom, I was out with Amy and we happened to see, uh, some kid trying to move a dumpster. So I went over and asked him if I could help. He said his dog was stuck behind it, and I could hear it whining, so I picked the dumpster up."

"Get to the part where you get doused by paint," Carol suggested pointedly.

Amy, finding it even harder not to laugh now, obliged. "Well, we didn't notice at the time that the dumpster was behind a hardware store that sold a lot of paint. So I'm guessing that when they throw display cans out, they don't always make sure the lids are on tight."

Carol frowned. "I don't think that's the case. If I recall correctly, coloured paint is only made up once the customer chooses the colour. If they mix too much, they have to dispose of the excess in dumpsters with 'toxic waste' markings all over them. Did this one have those markings? If not, we might have a lawsuit in the making."

"I'm not sure," Vicky confessed. "I was kinda distracted, by the, uh, the dog whining. I just wanted to get it out, y'know?" She put on a good show, but she wasn't fooling Amy. It had been obvious at the time what Vicky had been distracted by.

Still, she had to stand up for Vicky in this. "I think there might have been, but there were a lot of gang tags on it." She shrugged. "It did look a bit different from normal dumpsters, but I didn't think anything about it."

Carol seemed to buy it. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes in what looked like mild pain. "I can't leave you alone for even a moment, can I?" She averted her eyes from Vicky's garishly-coloured hair and clothing, causing Amy to immediately assume a solemn countenance. "Whatever possessed you to hold it over your head, anyway?"

Vicky, wearing what had until not so long ago been a fashionable top with matching skirt, looked sheepish. "There were some trash cans beside it that I didn't want to knock over, so I lifted it straight up. I made sure the lid was shut and everything!" Amy wasn't sure whether Vicky was more annoyed at the fact that Amy had laughed all the way back home, or that the outfit was comprehensively ruined.

"And you didn't happen to notice that this dumpster was behind a paint store?" Carol shook her head, then looked suspiciously at Amy as the latter turned a snicker into a cough. Apparently deciding there was nothing to worry about there, she turned her attention back to Vicky. "Or consider that there might be something liquid in it? Why did you tilt it, anyway?"

"I didn't know!" wailed Vicky. "It was just easier to lift it that way!" She demonstrated, with one hand low and one high. Naturally, as she raised her arms, the high hand came back over her head while the low one stayed farther out. "The first thing I knew about it was when it started pouring all over me!" She lifted up clumps of her formerly-glorious blonde hair, now a matted mass sticky with red, blue and a mottled purple-brown shade of paint. Her clothing had fared even worse; it was actually difficult to tell what were the original colours and what had been added in the involuntary paint-bath.

"Well, at least the kid got his dog back," Amy added, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Thank you, Amy, but you're not helping," Carol scolded. "Don't you have something better to do?"

Amy decided that it wouldn't be the best of ideas to point out that Carol was the one who'd kept her outside while castigating Vicky, so she edged past her sister and stepmother and into the house. Doing her homework while lying back on her bed and listening to music was a lot more relaxing than listening to Carol read out Vicky, anyway. Especially as she could giggle to the mental image of Vicky's face when the paint hit her. Vicky was her sister, and she loved her dearly—maybe a little too dearly—but slapstick was still slapstick.

<><>​

Undersiders' Base

Brian was still chuckling when he got back to the loft. Brutus pulled at the lead, anxious to get back upstairs to familiar territory, and Brian leaned down to unclip it from his collar. He climbed the spiral staircase one step at a time, losing ground steadily to the dog's scrabbling paws, but he didn't care about that.

Rachel was waiting at the top, leaning on the wall. She was still favouring her twisted ankle—the result of stepping on the soap in the shower—but from the way she was walking on it anyway, it was definitely on the mend. With any luck, it wouldn't hamper them when they scouted Lung's casino on Monday. "What happened to him?" she demanded, kneeling down so she could run her hands through the happily-panting dog's fur. "He stinks!"

Yeah, see if I offer to walk your dog any more when you can't do it, he almost said. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. "He was doing well, so I took him off the lead," he said. "But then he saw a rat and went after it. Got stuck behind a dumpster. I tried to shift it, but it wouldn't move."

Lisa came through from the kitchen, took one look at him, and her eyes widened. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa beside Alec, who took no notice of anything except his on-screen character. "Go on," she invited.

"You're not gonna believe this, but Glory Girl and someone I guess was Panacea showed up," Brian went on. The identification of the blonde teen had been easy, but Panacea's face was largely hidden when she was in costume. Nonetheless, Lisa began to giggle. Rachel looked blank. Alec lifted his head at the mention of the superheroes' names. "They were in civvies, but when she heard Brutus whining, Glory Girl lifted the dumpster out of the way like it was a cardboard box." He began to snicker; Lisa, somehow divining what he was going to say next, started to giggle. "It was behind a paint store. There was some paint loose in the bottom. She started showing off how strong she was, and the paint got out." He paused for effect. "All over her."

Rachel's eyes widened, and she gave a snort of laughter. Even the normally-emotionless Alec let out a bark of amusement before going back to his game. Lisa, giggling helplessly, sprawled on her end of the sofa. Brian sat down in one of the armchairs and shook his head. "The look on her face was amazing. Even Panacea couldn't help laughing too. And the best bit? I think Glory Girl wanted to get my phone number."

Howling with laughter, Lisa fell off the sofa.

<><>​

The Dallon Household (a little later)
Amy

Amy was just rechecking her homework answers when Vicky stormed into her bedroom in a tightly-belted bathrobe, scrubbed pink with her hair hanging damp and stringy, but clean. "Fat lot of good you were," the blonde announced huffily. "I didn't see you standing up to defend me." Dragging the chair away from Amy's computer desk, she sat in it sidesaddle, crossing her arms over the backrest and resting her chin on them.

"I did try to defend you," Amy protested, doing her best to keep her face straight even while a giggle threatened to sneak through. "I told her that the kid got his dog back. And I didn't point out that the 'kid' was about eighteen, and had abs to die for. Or that it wasn't even his dog, that he was walking it for a friend. Or that you were hamming it up and showing off for him." She had to admit, tossing the dumpster into the air and catching it on one end had been impressive. What had been even more impressive was the deluge of paint that hit Vicky about half a second after the dumpster had slapped back on to her palms, directly over her head.

The dumpster had ended up at the other end of the alleyway. That was something else they weren't going to be telling Carol.

Vicky rolled her eyes loftily. "That's all sister stuff. We should be doing that shit automatically. And I still don't see why you couldn't make the paint just … just dry up and flake off me or something. You got it off my arms so I could carry you home." She shot Amy an accusing glare. "Or why you had to laugh so much."

"I told you," Amy said patiently. "I could just about get it off your arms because nobody's gonna notice if you don't have any hair there. But if I worked up something to take it off the rest of you, your hair and clothes were at risk."

"Screw my clothes," Vicky retorted crudely. "They were a dead loss anyway. And isn't Mom riding my ass about that."

Amy sighed and rolled her eyes. "And what would she have done if you'd shown up on the doorstep wearing nothing but a layer of paint because your hair and clothes had been dissolved by the bugs I made? Oh, wait, not even the paint." She gestured at Vicky. "Basically, whatever you used just now was probably the best idea." In addition, she didn't like to show off with her powers past the basic 'heal people' in case the public got the (correct) idea that she was far more versatile than she let on.

"Paint thinner from the garden shed," Vicky said sourly. "Stinks, and it burned my scalp a little. Had to shampoo and condition it three times, and it's still a bit stringy." She ran her hand through her hair, and made a face. "It's probably gonna fall out anyway, with all this abuse." Suddenly, a speculative look crossed her face, and she jumped to her feet. Without saying another word, she dashed out of the room.

"Well, that happened," mumbled Amy, and went back to checking her work.

She didn't get far with it, as Vicky was back in less than a minute, bearing a pair of sewing scissors. Amy didn't have to wonder long what they were for, because Vicky demonstrated immediately, by holding a large hank of hair away from her head and hacking away at it with the scissors. Large and sharp, they were designed more for cutting cloth, but they made good headway on her hair. Clump after clump fell away under Vicky's inexpert but enthusiastic attack.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted Amy, sitting bolt upright on the bed. She admired many things about Victoria, but her sister's hair was near the top of the list. Long, with bouncing golden curls, it was everything Amy wished her own hair was.

"Well, duh," Vicky said as she angled her head for another attack on her hair. "If I cut all my hair off and you regrow it for me, I don't have to worry about getting around like the Bride of Frankenstein for the next few days."

Amy shook her head violently. "I am not growing you a whole new head of hair just so you can get around having stringy hair for a couple of days! Jeez!" Earlier, she'd regretted laughing at Vicky quite so much. Now, she was repenting of her regret.

"What? But you've got to regrow it!" Vicky stopped cutting, the scissors halfway through severing more of her hair. She looked like a half-shorn sheep, only messier. Her expression was stricken. "I can't go to school like this!"

The bedroom door opened, and Carol entered. "What's all this shouting—Victoria Dallon! What in heaven's name are you doing?" She stared open-mouthed at where Vicky stood, golden hair littering the floor around her feet and incriminating shears in her hand. "What have you done to your hair?"

"She's cutting it so I'll regrow it for her." Amy's voice was flat. She was throwing Vicky to the wolves on this one, and not regretting it for an instant. "Without consulting with me first."

The argument that followed was short, sharp and not without the occasional burst from Vicky's emotion aura. Amy didn't have to say a word, as Carol handled all the heavy lifting. She read out Vicky in excruciating detail, explaining how Amy's power was not a toy, and how cutting her own hair without permission, much less oversight, was irresponsible, dangerous and downright immature.

"But what am I gonna do?" wailed Vicky, looking and sounding much less sure of herself. She gestured at her head, from which hair hung in mismatched clumps; if Amy were to be honest with herself, Vicky looked more like a horror movie reject than a vivacious teenage superhero and darling of the city. "I can't go out like this! What'll people think?"

Which was the first smart thing she'd said, Amy decided. While Vicky almost certainly meant it in a personal sense, Carol's eyes narrowed in thought. "It certainly wouldn't look good for New Wave's image for you to show up like this, or not show up at all," she decided. "Amy, can you neaten it up for her? Make it so it's not so frightful, and can grow out on its own?"

Amy put aside her homework. "Sure," she said. "Vicky, gimme your hand." Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she reached out toward her sister.

"Can't you just make it, you know, back to the original length?" pleaded Vicky. "It took me years to get it this long."

"No." Amy spoke without thinking; with a shock of surprise, she realised that Carol had said exactly the same thing at the same time. She glanced at her stepmother, wondering that they'd actually managed to see eye to eye on something for once. Carol wasn't returning the glance, so Amy cleared her throat. "If Mom says no, she means no." Taking Vicky's hand, she concentrated. "Gonna need you to turn your head so I can see what I'm doing."

It wasn't a short process, but as Vicky turned her head from side to side, Amy had her hair grow out in patches to match what was already there. Now and again she cheated, reversing the process to shorten some of the longer bits, until it was all around the same length in a kind of curly pageboy bob.

"That's the best I can do," she decided, releasing Vicky's hand. "Gonna need a hairdresser to fix it the rest of the way." Tilting her head, she looked the result over critically; for a first effort, she decided, it wasn't too bad. At least Vicky didn't look like she'd been attacked by a crazed sheep-shearer or something.

Evidently, Carol thought the same. "It'll do," she allowed grudgingly. "Monday afternoon, Victoria, you're going to a hairdresser I know. Get it properly shaped and trimmed. In the meantime, keep it brushed and shampooed." She pointed an imperious finger at her daughter. "And don't ever do anything as stupid as this again." Then she indicated the floor, where the evidence of Vicky's indiscretion was spread everywhere in golden strands. "And clean this up."

"No, Mom," sighed Vicky. "Yes, Mom." She waited until the door closed behind her mother to add in an undertone, "Three bags full, Mom." For the first time in Amy's memory, she added a rude gesture toward the door.

"Well, it was kind of your fault," Amy pointed out, lying back on the bed. "You should've checked with me before you started hacking at your hair." She smothered a giggle as Vicky wrinkled her nose.

"If you'd just gone ahead and done it," her sister began, then reconsidered as Amy shook her head emphatically. "Okay, fine. Monday afternoon, after the hairdresser, we're going shopping. There's a place near the Forsberg Gallery that has some of the new fashions." She pointed at Amy. "As in, you're going shopping with me, and you're going to buy at least one outfit."

"Nope. No way." Amy shook her head again, her frizzy brown hair bouncing around her head. "You can't make me spend my money. Anyway, I'm saving up." It wasn't much right now, but by the time she reached college age, Amy intended to be able to move out on her own. Well, Vicky can come with if she wants.

"Okay, fine. You're gonna try on at least one outfit," Vicky said by way of compromise. "And then we're gonna hit this new paleo place I've heard about for lunch."

"Paleo. Right." Amy wasn't thrilled by the idea, but if it got Vicky away from the concept of making Amy pay for an outfit she didn't want and was never likely to wear, she'd deal with it.

"Hey, it's healthy." Vicky sat back down in the chair, then scooted it closer and poked Amy in the arm. "You could probably deal with a bit of healthy food. And you're paying. Consider it payback for not getting that guy's number for me after the paint thing. And for getting me in trouble with Mom."

Given that both episodes had (in Amy's opinion) been Vicky's fault, Amy didn't feel overly guilty. In any case, she had … not so much of an objection, but more of a query. "Why are you even getting numbers off hunky strangers, anyway? I thought you were with Dean?"

"Dean?" Vicky sniffed imperiously and made a dismissive motion. "Dean's ancient history. He's on the junk pile. I'm not talking to him any more."

Which meant they'd had yet another fight. Amy sighed. While the guy's abs had been pretty impressive (though Amy had been more intrigued by how he got his cornrows so neat) it would probably have been a bad idea to get his number. Dean and Vicky, no matter how much Amy might hope otherwise, would always get back together. She'd lost count of the number of breakups and makeups their relationship had gone through since they first started dating.

"Yeah, yeah," she said with a snort of her own. "That'll last." She pointed at the floor. "Anyway, I believe you've got some cleaning up to do?"

This time, Vicky gave her the rude gesture.

<><>​

Sunday Morning, January 16, 2011
Slaughterhouse Nine (now Six)
Jack Slash

"Ow." Jack tried to move again, and regretted it. Again. "Ow." While he felt a lot better than he had the night before, all things were relative. What he actually felt like was crap that had been gently warmed over. Or caught in the middle of a biologically-induced fuel-air explosion. As much as anyone could call what Crawler did 'biological'.

"Don't move," Bonesaw scolded him. "Your broken bones are still knitting, and I'm making sure the skin grafts take properly. You need to lie still for another day or so, but then you'll be fine."

"Has Shatterbird shown up yet?" Jack asked. "Or Burnscar?" The two capes weren't the heaviest hitters for the Nine, and they could always be replaced—as far as Jack was concerned, every member of the Nine apart from himself was expendable—but their abilities were very useful for spreading chaos. Aside from him, the Nine was now devoid of Blasters.

"We haven't seen either one," Bonesaw said as she checked him over. "Nobody knows where Shatterbird could be, and if Burnscar was unconscious when she fell into the garbage truck, she'd bleed out before she ever regained consciousness. There's been nothing on TV either."

"Okay." It was more of a grunt than anything. "We need to scout out the city. Two teams of two. You stay here. Crawler and Siberian, and Mannequin and Hatchet Face. Hammer and anvil." He didn't bother to explain why he was splitting them into those pairs. Mannequin was a Tinker, so it wouldn't bother him if he got too close to Hatchet Face. Crawler and Siberian, on the other hand, were the closest thing he'd ever seen to being an unstoppable force. There was nothing in Brockton Bay that could stand up to the pair of them for any length of time.

'Hammer and anvil' was a ploy they'd worked out. The four of them would travel in a rough square, the partners in each pairing keeping in sight of one another. When they saw a prospective victim, they'd herd them into the middle of the square. The resultant fight would be extremely brief and brutal.

"Oh, goody!" Bonesaw bounced on her feet and clapped her hands. "I'll make sure they bring back any capes they find. It's been ages since I had anyone to play with." Which meant, Jack knew, to dissect and investigate the inner secrets of their powers, then build yet another hybrid monstrosity out of what remained.

He mustered a proud smile as a tear lingered in the corner of his eye. They grow up so fast. "That's my poppet."

"I'll go tell them now!" Still full of excitement, she darted out of the RV to wherever the others were waiting. As far as he could tell, the vehicle was currently inside a warehouse of some sort. Whatever; it would make an adequate hiding place until the time came to utterly fuck up Brockton Bay and get rid of the nagging feeling of dread that he just couldn't get rid of. For a moment, his mind drifted back over the ominous message he'd gotten from the radio. Nah. Pretty sure I was hearing things.

Drifting off to sleep, he imagined that he heard laughter coming from a very long way away. Despite himself, he shivered.

<><>​

Empire Eighty-Eight (or the remnants thereof)
Crusader

"I still don't see why we had to meet at my place," Justin groused. He considered himself to have a very good point; while his pay as an Empire cape had been quite impressive (accent on 'had been') he chose to live in an apartment and bank the majority of his income. If he bought the occasional flashy car or motorcycle with it, that was his beeswax. And as nice as the apartment was, it wasn't set up for more than one or two visitors at a time. Having two adults, two kids and a baby crowding into his front room didn't really bode well for his privacy.

"The PRT somehow got hold of Max's phone and they've seized all his assets, including Medhall," Kayden pointed out. "They're almost certainly watching my apartment because I was married to Max. Even if I'm not under threat of arrest, they'll want me to testify against him. At worst, they'll try to take Aster away from me." Justin knew what a bad idea that would be; Kayden took the 'momma bear' archetype and turned it up past eleven. "Rune's parents might just turn us in if we went back there. Alabaster lived in the Medhall building because of his appearance. Theo's got nowhere else to go. Krieg left town, and I'm pretty sure Victor and Othala got arrested at home. Just be glad that Night and Fog chose to stay in Boston."

Justin was definitely glad of that. As useful as Geoff and Dorothy could be in a fight, they were creepy as fuck when it came to socialising. It wasn't that they were unsociable; more like, somehow, they'd read about socialising in a book and were applying it by the numbers. He could swear he'd heard the exact same conversation between them on several occasions, right down to the words and gestures.

"So what's the plan?" He didn't see any point in dragging things out. "Are we rescuing Max and Brad and the rest? Kicking over a new version of the Empire? Folding our tents and disappearing into the night? What?"

Kayden took a deep breath. "We're going hero."

It took a long moment for Justin to get what she'd just said. When he did, he stared at her incredulously. "What? I mean seriously, what? You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

Sighing, she dragged her hands down her face. "I wish I was, but hear me out." She glanced over at where Theo was changing Aster's diaper. "Max's capture has put all our identities at risk, but mine more than most. If the PRT decides they've got enough proof of me being Purity, Aster is in the firing line. We've got to get out in front of that. I've been trying to turn hero for a little while now, but the PRT's been treating me like I'm still a villain, even though I'm only hitting criminal targets. I'm thinking that maybe if we all show up and declare that we're rebranding as heroes, they'll pull their heads out of their asses and let us be heroes instead of insisting that we're still villains."

"Pfft, as if," jibed Paul. "They want their heroes lily-white, but not in the good way." He flourished his hand, with its unnaturally-pale skin, as an example. "Even if they let us go hero, they'll be watching us like fucking hawks—"

"Language!" snapped Purity, pointing at her baby. "I don't care how much you swear on your own time, but not around Aster."

Paul rolled his eyes, though the effect was somewhat muted due to the fact that they were solid white from side to side. "Fine. They'll be watching us like gosh-darn hawks, and if we give them any excuse at all, they'll come down on us like a ton of bricks." Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the wall. Justin was no great shakes at body language, but this was easy to read: not a hope in hell.

"You really think they'll let us go hero?" asked Cassie, currently using her power to make Justin's salt and pepper shakers orbit her head. "They're usually pretty tight-assed about that sort of thing. I mean, even if I wanted to do it in the first place." If Justin had to guess, she was trying to come across as 'cool and edgy'; to him, it looked more like 'indecisive teenager'.

"It's better than trying to defend the Empire's turf against the ABB and whoever else tries to take it off you," Kayden pointed out. From her phrasing, Justin figured she'd already made the mental shift away from considering herself a part of the Empire. "They've only got a couple of capes, but Lung and Oni Lee are far too hard to put down."

"I've fought Oni Lee," boasted Paul. "He wasn't so tough."

Justin looked him up and down. "Being able to bounce back from whatever damage he does to you isn't the same as beating him. I can see where Kayden's going with this. If we stay as we are, we're the Empire. Four capes against the PRT, the New Wave, the other gangs, the cops. We'd be outnumbered and, I'm sorry to say, outclassed by most everyone out there. Kayden excepted, of course." He'd witnessed Kayden letting loose a couple of times before. Even buildings only afforded visual cover when she was really pissed.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding." Paul's tone was deeply disgusted. "You're gonna go along with it too? Admit defeat? We're the Empire." He shook his head. "We don't back down. We make the other guy back down. First thing, we break the others out of holding. Then we double down, and—"

"No. We don't." Kayden spoke with finality. "When the Empire had over a dozen members in Brockton Bay alone, we called the tune and everyone else walked lightly around us. But now? It's like Justin said. We're outnumbered. We don't even have the resources to pull an effective jailbreak. But if they let us go hero, we've got the PRT and Protectorate nominally on side, as well as New Wave. We don't have to defend territory any more. That frees us up to hit the ABB where it hurts, instead of just defending against incursions."

Paul looked around at everyone. "I can't believe we're just giving up like that. How about out of town members? We could bring them in, use them to get Max and the others loose."

"I tried calling them," Kayden said, her voice low. "The only ones who were interested were Geoff and Dorothy; everyone else gave excuses. And before you ask; they're good, but they're not that good. They can't make up for the lack of Max, Brad, Jessica, Nessa and the others. Which is why I didn't have them come up. They just aren't a good fit as heroes."

"No, you didn't have them come up because you knew they wouldn't even consider going along with this defeatist attitude," snapped Paul. "Justin. Cassie. You know Max would never condone crap like this. The Empire never rolls over and shows its belly. We don't back down; we step up."

"That's easy for you to say," Justin pointed out, feeling a little irritated at the constant push-back the hyper-albino cape was generating. "Even with Othala, the rest of us had to worry about dying before she got to us, and you didn't. If you hadn't noticed, we don't have Othala any more. That's not a problem for you, no matter who you go up against."

"Yeah?" Paul stepped forward aggressively, his hand dropping toward where a pistol hung at his hip. "Well, maybe this situation needs strong leadership instead of pansy whining about what we can't do. You gonna provide it, or do I need to show you who's boss?"

This was rapidly escalating to a point that Justin didn't like. He let his ghost-forms boil out of him, launching forward to tackle Paul to the floor. They couldn't touch his weapons, but they could definitely make sure he couldn't use them. Outnumbered by seven or eight combatants to one, Alabaster fought back. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't harm the ghosts and while he was stronger than any one of them and felt no pain, they had group tactics on their side, and one mind controlling all of them.

The fight, such as it was, was over so fast that Aster hadn't even had time to get agitated. Paul was face-down on the floor with both arms wrenched hard up behind his back. Justin wasn't concerned over doing permanent damage to Paul, but he tried to keep his tone professional. No sense in coming across as gloating and giving Paul even more reason to dislike him. "Paul, give it up. I'm with Kayden on this one. The Empire is finished in Brockton Bay. We're gonna try to make it as heroes, if the PRT will let us. We won't go after you, or Empire rank and file, but if you do attack us we will fight back. And, you know, hand you in."

"Fuck you!" yelled Paul from the floor. Kayden hissed in annoyance, but Paul didn't seem to care any more. "You're all fucking cowards! One setback and you go to jelly! Rune, are you with me? We'll show these pissweak cocksuckers what it means to be Empire!"

It was actually a pretty good speech, considering that it was delivered by a man whose face was being pressed into the floor by a bunch of selectively tangible ghosts. It had fire and spirit and a frightening amount of intensity. Reconsidering his choice to let Paul speak, Justin had a ghost clamp its hand over the prone cape's mouth.

"Um." Cassie looked and sounded indecisive. Justin knew her as a true believer; she and Alabaster usually got along well because of that. However, a lot had gone wrong for the Empire in the last few days, and she had to know the backup they usually enjoyed just wasn't there any more. She was useful as transport and as a ranged attacker but without big hitters to distract the enemy, she'd become what Justin privately termed 'skeet'. Alabaster's distraction capability, Justin suspected, wasn't great.

"Cassie, honey." It was Kayden, stepping forward with her hands showing. She wasn't lighting up, which everyone knew was a precursor to her attacking. "You know me. I worked under Max for ten years. I don't back down lightly from anything. But this here, this is too much for us. We can't purify Brockton Bay as villains. Not as few as we are now. But we can do it as heroes." Lowering her voice slightly, she sent Cassie a mock-conspiratorial smile. "All we have to do is attack the right targets."

Even knowing Kayden as well as he did, Justin wasn't sure whether she was being genuine or just saying what Cassie needed to hear. Maybe it was a bit of both. She'd most likely learned that off Max; the former leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight was good at that sort of thing.

"Huh." Cassie tilted her head, then looked at Kayden and Justin. "I guess you're right. And I bet I'd make a rockin' hero." She glanced down toward Paul. "What are you gonna do with him? I mean, just because we're gonna be heroes doesn't mean we're gonna just hand him over to the authorities, right? That's kind of a dick move."

"It's not my intention, no." Kayden crouched down next to Alabaster's head. "Paul. Listen to me. If we let you go, are you willing to just walk away? We don't want to fight you, but we will if we have to."

Paul struggled for a moment before Justin had the ghost take its hand away from his mouth. "Fuck you all for being losers," he spat. "But fuck you most of all, Purity." The vehemence in his tone turned the name into a curse. "I thought you were strong. I thought you were a believer. You're nothing but a traitor to the cause."

"I am a believer," she said sadly. "But we believe in different things. You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"What the fuck do you think, bitch?" he retorted, struggling vainly with the ghosts. "I know you're trying to intimidate me, but you don't get it. I don't fucking intimidate. What are you gonna do? Kill me?" He laughed harshly. "Good luck with that. It's been tried. Whatever you do to me, I'll come back from. And I'll kill you. I'll kill every one of you. Then I'll get some help from Night and Fog, bust Max out of lockup, and the Empire will go on."

Standing up again, Kayden tilted her head toward the small kitchen area. Justin and Cassie followed her there; while it wasn't really far enough away for privacy, another ghost put its hands over Paul's ears to prevent him from overhearing what was to be said.

"All right," Kayden said, sounding a little upset. "I was hoping he'd see reason, but he just keeps doubling down. Any ideas?"

Justin grimaced. "He's always been a little full-on for me," he admitted. "I don't want to hand him over and I really don't want to kill him, but is there even a third option?" Besides the moral aspect, he wasn't at all sure they could even succeed in killing the unkillable man, and if they tried and failed, he'd be even more angry at them.

"He's really, really pissed off right now." Cassie looked troubled. The salt and pepper shakers, Justin noticed, were back on the table. "I used to think he was cool and all, but wow, he's really going off the deep end, isn't he?" She looked from one adult to the other. "What are we gonna do? What can we do?"

"Well, we've got four options." Justin took a deep breath as the other two turned their attention to him. "One, we let him go. Not ideal, because he knows our secrets, he knows where we live, and he'll come after us as hard as he can. Two, we hand him over to the PRT. Even less ideal, for basically the same reasons. He'll give them everything on us in a heartbeat, just to screw us over. Three, we kill him." The grimace crossed his face again. "I really don't like that one. Executing a comrade in arms, even one who's turned against us, in cold blood? Not what I signed up for."

"And the fourth option?" Kayden glanced into the front room, where Paul was still struggling against the grip of Justin's ghosts.

Justin shrugged. "We keep him prisoner until a better idea shows up." It didn't sound great, but none of the options did.

"So in other words, we do nothing and hope for inspiration to strike." Cassie didn't sound thrilled.

"Yeah."

"Well, crap."

Justin sighed. "Yeah."

<><>​

Forsberg Gallery

Half a dozen antique pianos had been brought in to complement the exhibition of old-time arts and crafts that had culminated in nine anvils leaving the building via the window. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) the exhibition had been a great success, but now it was beginning to wind down. However, the excitement was not quite over.

One of the more stately pieces, a genuine antique pianola that had been trucked in from California, was marvelled at by the crowds who came to view the exhibition. Its flawless appearance, however, concealed a secret; within its polished wooden exterior were eleven chrysalises. The twelfth was empty, its inhabitant having already broken free and left for parts unknown a couple of days before, but the rest were still intact, awaiting the time that they would crack open and release the piano's glorious passengers to the world.

This time was close at hand.



End of Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse
Part Fifteen: Going, going …
[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Sunday Afternoon, January 16, 2011
Uber and L33t's base
Uber

"Okay, bro, up you get." L33t dropped a familiar khaki bundle on the gaming sofa next to Uber. "Time for us to go out and get our hero on." He was already wearing his jumpsuit. Uber looked at the jumpsuit in confusion; had L33t actually laundered it? Who was this guy and what had he done with Uber's buddy?

"What?" Uber managed. "I figured yesterday was a once-off. I mean sure, we killed Shatterbird but there's such a thing as pushing our luck, you know?" With both luck guns discharged, he had hopes that L33t would've given up the idea of taking on the Nine. Yesterday he'd thought differently, but given time to consider it, the memory of Shatterbird arrowing in at them left him just a little weak in the knees.

"You gotta be kidding me, bro." L33t shook his head, chuckling. "Don't you remember the footage from the Snitch? Burnscar lighting Crawler's fart? That was no accident. We were supposed to get that footage. Haven't you figured it out yet?"

Uber hated it when L33t was three steps ahead of him like this. "Figured what out?" Yes, the fart explosion had been hysterically funny, but he couldn't work out what L33t was getting at.

"Our luck's working even when we're not doing anything," L33t insisted. "Either that, or the girl's luck is filling in for it. It wants us to go ahead and kick the Nine's collective ass. And I can prove it."

"Oh, yeah?" Uber felt himself to be on safer ground now. "Prove it how, exactly?" He had no idea what sort of half-assed 'proof' L33t had cooked up, but he considered it to be his personal duty to ensure his buddy didn't run off and get himself killed because he thought he was untouchable.

"Check it out." L33t plonked himself down on the computer chair and clicked on a tab. "You know how we thought nobody saw us kill Shatterbird? Well, we were wrong."

Uber sat up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "You're shitting me." He'd already kissed that money goodbye. What sort of trickery was L33t pulling now?

"I shit you not, o bro of mine." L33t's grin was almost manic by now. "See, there was a mugging up on top of Captain's Hill about a week and a half ago. Some rich visiting tourist wanted to look at the city by midnight, disturbed a bunch of Merchants who'd gone up there to drink and get high, and got his wallet ripped off. He complained to the chief of police personally so a couple days later, they wired up a security camera there."

Uber scratched his head. "I never heard anything about this."

"Nobody did." L33t smirked. "They probably didn't want to make the city look bad, so they must've asked this guy very nicely not to tell the papers about it. But … remember how you hacked into City Hall that one time, and got me feeds on the security cameras around town?"

"What few there were once the ABB and Empire got finished with knocking out the ones in their territory," Uber noted, then light dawned. "The feed's online? How come the cops haven't told the PRT about what we did, then?"

L33t held up a finger. "Because they haven't been watching it since that storm a few days ago. I'm guessing the camera wasn't secured too strongly, and the wind blew it all the way around so it looked out over the hills. Cops aren't interested in nature views, so they stopped looking at it. Couldn't be bothered switching it off or turning it back around."

Uber rolled his eyes. I swear. Brockton Bay in a nutshell. "And the mugging? How'd you learn about that?"

"That's where we lucked out, bro," L33t said with a grin. "Whichever genius at the precinct it was who filled out the police report thought they'd be smart and hotlink the security feed to it. But they screwed up; when I clicked on the footage, I got the report in my inbox as well."

" … why am I not surprised?" Uber shook his head, then he blinked as the import of L33t's words registered on him. "So we've got footage of Shatterbird biting it?" Jumping up from the game sofa, he moved to where L33t was sitting. "We're gonna be able to claim the reward?"

"Got it in one," L33t confirmed. On the screen was a series of thumbnails. He clicked on the one right at the bottom of the list, and it opened into a window of its own. At the top was an image of tree-covered hills and under that, row upon row of numerically labelled file icons. Moving the mouse over, he clicked on a specific one; Uber recognised the timestamp as covering the period when they'd been on Captain's Hill.

The image wasn't great and the only sound from the speakers was a persistent hiss, but it was possible to see the moving dot of Shatterbird, then the beam that had reached out to her from the luck gun. When she broke free and started in toward the camera, it was with difficulty that he resisted the urge to step back. He'd known the lightning was going to strike but when it did, it came almost as a surprise; for some reason, he'd thought she'd gotten a lot closer than that. All the same, as L33t moved the slider bar back, it was totally possible to see that it was Shatterbird in the image.

"All we gotta do is bring that footage in," L33t explained, "then demonstrate the luck gun. Show it was me that fired the beam."

Uber frowned, dire possibilities occurring to him. "They might just decide that the footage isn't enough to prove that we did it. Or that we were even there."

L33t moved the slider bar back again, then pushed the volume control all the way up. The hissing from the speakers turned into a rushing sound; Uber recalled that the wind had been brisk, up on the hill. Buried in the rushing sound were broken noises that became voices. Listening carefully, he could make out the conversation he'd had with L33t. Altogether too much of it.

"Uh, dude? If we take that to the PRT, they'll know we were gonna test out the luck gun on some random cape over the city." He grimaced. "The way I see it, they can either refuse to believe in the luck gun, and refuse to pay us; or believe that we killed her with bad luck, and then they'll be looking really hard at us every time some cape stubs their toe from then onward."

"No." L33t shook his head wildly. "There's an amnesty on people claiming kill orders. They wouldn't pull that shit on us."

Uber took a deep breath. "The only way I can think of to survive claiming the money is if we took out the rest of the Nine as well." He looked at L33t, fully expecting his buddy to protest. To him, not claiming the money would leave them poorer but with a much higher chance of living through the experience.

"Well, duh," L33t said. "Why do you think I got dressed up again? Like I said, it's time to get our hero on. Let's go out and kick some Nine butt."

Oh, crap. What was I thinking? It wasn't often that Uber found himself winning arguments when he didn't want to. He'd been fully prepared to debate the point but gradually lose to L33t's superior position in the matter. But when L33t agreed at once, he found himself in the unpalatable position of having to actually go through with it.

"Uh, yeah," he agreed weakly. "But how are we gonna find them? Drive around with a blindfold on until we run into them?" This time, he told himself, he wasn't actually trying to be difficult. There were many problems inherent in trying to locate a small group in a medium-large city; it wasn't as if they could just throw a dart at the map and …

His eyes widened.

If L33t wasn't spouting total bullshit about how the luck was still working for them, a dart in a map would be exactly how he and L33t could locate the Nine. And if it didn't work, it would have the upside of not encountering the Nine, and it'd be a good reason for them to rethink the whole thing. While he was thinking about it, a totally different problem came to mind. "So, uh, the luck guns. Weren't they out of charge or something?" Whatever his private opinion was on the sheer bullshit factor of a luck gun of any sort, there was no way he wanted to face any member of the Nine without L33t's bad luck gun covering his back.

"Oh, that's easy." L33t headed over to the bench where the two power packs were lying side by side. "Each one stores the kind of luck it doesn't shoot, so I've had them charging each other from the residue of what we used yesterday. The good luck gun won't have a full charge, but it should be enough for what we need."

Uber grimaced, but he got up from the sofa anyway. The luck guns had kept them alive so far. I suppose I should learn to trust in those things. "Okay, you've convinced me. I'll go get changed. In the meantime, get out the map. We're gonna be throwing a dart at it."

L33t's grin widened by a few notches. "Got it."

<><>​

Empire Eighty-Eight
Crusader

"Okay, time to take the vote." Kayden kept her voice low, but Justin could still hear the strain in it. "Paul still hasn't budged an inch, and he's threatening anyone who comes anywhere near him. It's like he's daring us to try to kill him." She glanced at Cassie. "I'll understand if you want to sit this one out, sweetheart. I know you get along pretty well with him."

Justin leaned over slightly from where he was sitting at the kitchen table, and looked out into the living room. Paul was still tied up on the floor, though they'd found it necessary to gag him to stop him from shouting loudly enough to wake up Aster. By mutual agreement, they'd caught a few hours of sleep (having been up all night) and now they were ready to talk about the elephant in the room.

Justin had given Kayden and Cassie his bedroom, while Theo slept on the floor in the bedroom and Justin got the sofa. It hadn't been a pleasant sleep; Paul had delighted in kicking the sofa to keep him awake. He'd ended up having his ghosts pin the asshole down with the armchair just so he could get some rest. Paul, of course, never slept or even got tired. While this made for a useful ally, Justin would never have wanted him as an enemy. Which, apparently, he now was.

"No, I think sitting out would just be cowardly," the teenage girl said. "So what are the options here?"

Kayden took a deep breath. "One, we put him on a bus out of town, with as much money as we can spare, on the condition that he never returns. Two, we turn him over to the PRT. Three …" She hesitated for a long moment. "Three, we figure out some way to kill him, or make sure he never threatens us again in some other way."

"I can actually think of a couple," Justin said. It had been a very long day. "We could dump him in a forty-four gallon drum and fill it with concrete. Once it sets, we drop it in the bay, a long way from shore."

Kayden flinched. "That's horrible! We're not doing that to him."

"I can't agree with doing that, either," Cassie stated flatly. "He's saved your life more than once. He's saved my life at least once." She turned to Kayden's stepson. "Theo?"

Theo Anders looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but there. "Do I have to vote? I'm not a cape. I'm not part of the Empire."

Not without a certain amount of relief, Justin shook his head. "No, I guess not." Keeping it to a three-person quorum was probably better, anyway. It would prevent deadlocks and arguments such as the one which had precipitated this whole debacle. "So killing him or otherwise putting him someplace he can't hurt us is off the table?"

Cassie nodded; after a moment, Kayden did the same. The older woman rubbed her hand over her eyes. "I don't like any of this, but deliberately executing him or putting him someplace he can't escape from forever … no, I can't do that."

"Okay, then." Justin held up two fingers. "We're left with bribing him to leave town, and turning him over to the PRT. Give me a second." Getting up, he walked into the living room to where Paul was still trapped under the armchair. He untied the thick cloth bag from around Paul's neck, then pulled it off to reveal the albino cape's glare. "Paul," he said. "We're trying to decide what to do with you. If we gave you money—a lot of money—would you agree to leave town and never return?"

Paul jerked from side to side, making the armchair sway, and made unintelligible noises through the broad strip of insulation tape that was covering his mouth; wrapped all the way around his head, in fact. He'd been very persistent in trying to make noise.

"I can't understand you, and I'm not taking the tape off," Justin said patiently. "If you're willing to take the money and go, nod your head. If you're not, shake your head."

There was a long, long moment during which Justin wondered if Paul would choose to make no signal at all, just to screw them over. Then Paul's features relaxed, and the white-skinned cape nodded slowly. Justin felt a little of the tension he felt ease out of his system. "Okay, then," he said, briskly rolling up the bag to make an ad hoc pillow. "I'll just put this under your head then, and go back to talk to the others." It had been the first sign of cooperation from Paul since this whole mess started, and he figured it rated some level of consideration in return.

Returning to the kitchen, he sat down and lowered his voice. "Okay, he says he's willing to leave town. How much money can we raise?"

"I can put in about ten thousand," Kayden offered, then stopped. Lowering her voice even farther, she leaned forward so that only those at the table could hear her. "But I have a horrible feeling that he might take the money and then come straight back. He certainly seemed angry enough about it last night, and he's got to be even angrier with us now."

Justin grimaced. The possibility had been lurking in the back of his mind since Paul had initially agreed to the idea, but he hadn't wanted to face it. Paul was his buddy, goddamn it! They'd gotten drunk together—well, Justin had gotten drunk while Paul just drank and stayed sober—they'd cruised meetings of the Empire's rank and file for girls, and they'd fought the good fight side by side. Well, Alabaster had been up front while Crusader hung back and sent his ghosts into the fight, but it was the principle of the thing. To fall out like this was bad enough, but to agree to part ways peacefully then turn around and backstab them … he didn't want to think Paul could do that, but …

"Empire wouldn't do that to Empire," Cassie said firmly. "Paul's Empire through and through." But Justin could see the concern in her eyes.

"But what if he decides we're not Empire any more?" put in Theo unexpectedly. "I mean, you guys. I never really was. But in his eyes, you attacked him and now you want to send him away. If he still considers himself to be Empire, that means he can just as easily decide you guys aren't." He looked from Justin to Kayden to Cassie, mutely pleading with them to refute his logic.

Fuck. The kid, Justin realised, was correct. If Paul took it personally and decided they weren't Empire any more, he wouldn't see killing them as a betrayal. Or rather, he'd see it as retaliation in kind for betrayal. Either way, neither Justin's ghosts nor Cassie's floating rocks would protect them against a sudden and devastating attack from an unexpected angle. Kayden was the most powerful among them but she wasn't bulletproof, and if Paul decided to use Aster as leverage, she wouldn't even be able to put up a fight.

Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and bumped his forehead gently against the tabletop. "We can't trust him to stick to any deal we make," he said from that position. In the back of his mind, he was fully aware that he'd been trying to repress that very understanding for the last few minutes. With that out of the way, he started trying to repress the knowledge of what he had to do next. It didn't help.

"You can't know that," Cassie protested, giving Theo a dirty look. "If he says he'll take the deal—"

Justin overrode her, his voice harsh. "Right now, he'll say or do anything that'll get him out of here without being thrown to the wolves, just so he can come back at us later on." It was exactly what he'd do, if the circumstances were reversed. He raised his head from the table and looked at Kayden. "You get that, right? He knows all our weaknesses, and he'll use every single one against us if he gets the chance." Even your baby.

From the stricken look in Kayden's eyes, she got the message loud and clear. "Okay," she said, the pain obvious in her voice. "I get it. But I still won't be a party to execution or putting him in a hole somewhere."

Justin nodded; if they were to remain a team, he had to respect her wishes. "Then the only thing we can really do is turn him over to the PRT." To say that he didn't like this was a vast understatement. He hated it. How they'd ended up at this juncture he wasn't exactly certain but in situations like this the only way through was forward, or something like that.

"What, just give him to them?" Cassie shook her head. "Okay, I get it we're going hero and we're gonna have to play nice with the Protectorate and stuff, but just handing him over to go to jail or the Birdcage or wherever they feel like putting him? Without even giving him the chance to defend himself? That's something a—a Merchant might do!" Her voice showed the utter disgust she felt at the idea.

"Calm down, honey," Kayden said soothingly, putting a hand on her arm. "I know it seems like a big step, but he really is a danger to us all. From the way he was acting this morning, we can't really trust him to stick to any deal we made with him." She looked at Justin. "So your vote is to hand him over to the PRT?"

Justin nodded. "Yeah. I can't see any other way. I guess you're voting the same way?" He gave Cassie a sympathetic look; this couldn't be easy for the girl. She was still young enough to value idealism over pragmatism.

"I am." Kayden spoke firmly. "That settles it. I don't like it any more than you do, Cassie, but sometimes the only available options are bad ones."

For a long moment, Justin thought Cassie was going to jump up and protest, but she didn't. Instead, she bit her lip and looked at the two adults. "That's it, huh?" Her voice was subdued. "We get to be heroes, and he gets to go to jail."

"I'm afraid that's exactly it," Justin confirmed. "Sh—I mean, crap happens, and sometimes all you can do is just keep going." He looked closely at Cassie as she pushed her chair back from the table. "Are you okay with this? You don't have to come along—"

"No!" Cassie shouted the word as she came to her feet. The kitchen table bounced into the air, clipping Justin under the chin and ramming heavily into Kayden's midriff. "It's wrong and I'm not going to let you do it!"

Dazed by the unexpected blow, Justin went over sideways and sprawled on to the floor. He saw Kayden lying on her side, doubled up and holding her stomach as she tried to get her breath back. Cassie darted out the doorway into the living room, and the table followed her to form a makeshift door. Glowing on the underside was the rune she'd been using to control it. She must've drawn it there while we were still voting. The sneaky little cow.

Trying to get his head together long enough to send his ghosts out, Justin shakily sat up. His jaw hurt and his head was still ringing like a gong, but finally he managed to generate one. It blew through the barrier with ease, but what he saw through his tap into its eyes made him groan.

"What?" Kayden asked the question painfully. Theo, who'd been brushed aside by the table, helped her to her feet.

Another ghost rolled out of Justin, and a third; between them, they got him on to his feet. "She's gone," he said, just as the table dropped out of the way to reveal what he already knew. "Door's open. She took the armchair and Paul both."

With Theo's help, Kayden stumbled through into the living room and dropped on to the sofa. "Thanks, honey." She looked around the room, and her face fell even farther. "And she grabbed his guns, too."

Justin grimaced and he shook his head—gingerly, because the hit to the jaw really had really rung his bell. Walking over to the door, he pushed it shut. "That's just damn perfect. We're gonna have to go after them, aren't we?"

"Well, it's that or we wait until they choose to ambush us at the worst possible moment," Kayden told him heavily. "Theo, get my handbag."

Obediently, the heavy-set boy got Kayden's bag. She dug in it, opened her purse, and handed him some notes. "Take Aster, and all the formula we have. Get her to a motel room. Wait twelve hours and ring this apartment. If Justin or I answer, the safe word is 'mitigate'. If we don't use that word, or it's someone else, take her to the PRT and ask for safe haven. Got it?"

He nodded jerkily. "Motel room. Call this apartment. Mitigate. PRT. Got it." He took a deep breath. "I don't know the number for Crusader's home phone."

"Ah, yeah." Justin searched around for a notepad and finally grabbed the one off the fridge with the half-finished shopping list on it. There was a pencil clipped to it, and he scribbled his home number on the pad. "There you go." He turned to Kayden. "So how are we gonna find them?"

Her smile was a little forced. "Max is a controlling bastard, but I'm going to have to thank him for this one." Digging farther into her handbag, she pulled out her phone. "When he issued phones to everyone, he made sure they had locator apps on them. And as one of his second in commands, I have access to those apps."

Theo pulled out his phone and looked at it, startled. "I didn't know that."

"Wait, what?" Justin was equally surprised. "There's a locator on my phone? I never noticed."

Kayden nodded. "He paid top dollar and made sure it couldn't be spotted just by looking through the app list."

"Because we'd take it out," Justin guessed. It was what he would've done, after all.

"Because you'd take it out," Kayden agreed. "He told me not to tell you, or take the app off my own phone. It was so you couldn't tell anyone or take it off and then be unable to be found. Theo, get Aster for me, please?" She fiddled with the phone, while Theo put his away and went into the bedroom. "Password," she muttered. "Okay, phones … we took Paul's away, didn't we? Cassie … location … got it."

She held up the phone as Theo came out of the bedroom with the baby in her carrier. "Okay, I have a location. Theo …" She took a deep breath and hugged him. "No matter what happens, take care of your sister." Leaning over, she kissed the sleeping Aster gently on the forehead. "No matter what." It would take a braver man than him, Justin reflected, to disappoint Kayden when she spoke in that tone. Grabbing his spear from where it leaned against the corner, he pulled his mask over his face.

"I will," Theo assured her. "I promise."

She hugged him again, then went to the window and opened it. "We haven't got much time. Cassie might realise she can be tracked with her phone at any moment. Let's go." Her power flared to life and she launched herself out the window. Justin generated a few more ghosts and had them carry him after her.

<><>​

Cassie

Empire doesn't betray Empire.

The thought kept running through Cassie's head, even as she crouched on the flying armchair. It was tilted back at a forty-five degree angle with Paul kneeling in it, his chest against the backrest. His hands were fastened behind him with three different zip-ties and no matter how she yanked at them, they wouldn't break or come off.

It had been perhaps the hardest decision in her life to go against Justin and Kayden like that, but turning Paul over to the PRT without even giving him a fair chance wasn't what the Empire was about. Even Hookwolf and Cricket gave their opponents a chance to fight back before eviscerating them. So really, I'm actually saving them from doing something they'd regret doing later, once they realise that I'm right and they're wrong.

The knowledge made her feel a little better. Not a lot, but some. She knew beyond a doubt that Kaiser would agree with her, and Paul obviously did as well. He'd probably want to get out of town now that he was parting ways with the others (she very carefully didn't call either side 'the Empire' even in her head, because she didn't want to confuse herself any farther) and he'd probably want her to go with him, but she really didn't want to go, and these zip-ties just wouldn't come free, no matter what she'd seen people do in the movies!

Paul grunted through the electrical-tape gag and pulled his hands away from her, which confused her even farther. Didn't he want her to free him? Then, when he swung his head back at her, nearly headbutting her in the face, she realised what he wanted, though the why was still a mystery to her.

Tracing a rune on the tape, she exerted her power on the end of it until it started to unwind from his head while she wrestled with the zip-ties. She could understand him wanting it off on general principles, but it wasn't as if he could turn his head all the way around and bite the zip-ties in half. At least, she was pretty sure he couldn't. When someone didn't care what damage they did to their body, it was pretty amazing what they could do.

The last of the tape came off of his face with a long rriipp sound and he drew in a deep gasp of air. "Finally," he rasped. "Stop fucking around pulling at the zip-ties. I've been doing that all night and I'm stronger than you. Get my guns and shoot the fucking things off."

"Oh," she said, enlightenment bursting in her, along with embarrassment. I should've thought of that as soon as we left! She'd dumped the gunbelt in the crook of the armchair so they wouldn't lose it, and now it was down between Paul's knees. The flush on her face deepened as she bent over, her face pressed against Paul's back as she fished down in the depths of the armchair. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of a pistol, and she grabbed for it. The holster slid off it as it came up, although she was holding it the wrong way up. Turning it around, she pressed it against the zip-tie and squeezed the trigger.

The loud report of the weapon startled her and the heavy recoil nearly sprained her wrists, but that wasn't what made her drop the gun. The spray of blood from Paul's back was what did that, covering the front of her clothes and making her recoil in disgust. After a few seconds it stopped as Paul's body reset to the way it had been before, but she was still splattered in his blood. Two of the ties had been severed, which was a good thing, because she wasn't going through that again; she didn't know where the gun had gone and she didn't care. As she watched, Paul bunched his shoulders and heaved, and the third tie broke. He might've said something then, but she couldn't hear him through the ringing in her ears.

The chair wobbled as she did her best not to throw up. She'd seen blood before, but not all over her. Nobody had told her about the coppery reek, or the sickly warm feeling as a drop of the stuff ran down her face. Unsteadily, she guided the chair down to land in an alleyway between two decrepit buildings. In the back of her mind was the certain knowledge that Kayden and Justin would be looking for them; an armchair perched on a rooftop was as good as a bright neon sign saying, "We're down here!"

The chair crunched down into a pile of garbage that had spilled out of several nearby trash cans, but she didn't care; as soon as she didn't have to hang on any more, she frantically scrubbed at her face with her sleeve. The nausea receded, which was a good thing. She hated throwing up, whether it be in a grimy alleyway or a sparkling clean toilet bowl.

As she got herself back under control, she became aware that Paul was speaking again. Rubbing at her ears, she turned to focus on him. The ringing in her ears had subsided far enough that she could hear his voice now, albeit fuzzily. "You all right, kid? That was pretty ballsy, back there."

She felt anything but ballsy right at that moment. Her wrist hurt, her ears hurt, and she still wasn't quite sure that her stomach was going to stay in place. "I—I couldn't let them—" she began, but he held up a hand.

"Sh!" he said sharply. "There's something …" He looked up. She looked up, too. At first she wasn't quite sure what she was looking at, but then it clicked into focus.

Oh. Fuck.

<><>​

Hatchet Face
One Minute Before

"Dibs!" said Hatchet Face, pointing upward. The shot had gained everyone's attention just as the armchair swooped into view overhead. Both the gunshot and the airborne furniture could've been the result of an extremely energetic domestic disturbance, but with the way it swerved and descended into a nearby alleyway, it was more likely to be an ad hoc flying craft. Which meant that one of the two people on top of it had to be a cape. Maybe both. This is my lucky day. "Dibs!" he repeated, just in case someone hadn't heard.

"You can't just call 'dibs'," Crawler objected. Mannequin made some signs with his hands, but Hatchet Face had no idea what they meant. Siberian just crossed her arms and glared at him. "Some of us want to kill someone, too."

"Capes," Hatchet Face said irritably. "You can kill everyone else. I want to kill the capes. At least one of those is a cape. Whichever one it is, I'm calling dibs on." He loved the look of confidence turning to terror as their powers faded away under his field, then the last expression on their faces as he chopped them to bits. He called it the "I'm fucked" face.

"Fine," groused Crawler. "But you gotta chase some at me when we find 'em. They run away too fast." He kicked at a bus stop and it broke.

"Deal," Hatchet Face agreed readily enough. Cutting peoples' legs off didn't count as killing them, right? Crawler could catch them real easy after that. "Give me a minute and then come in that end of the alley. I'm gonna get around the other end, and catch them as they come out."

"They might just fly away again," Crawler pointed out.

This, Hatchet Face thought, was a good point. Flyers had an unfair advantage; they could stay out of range of his power. Sometimes he could bring one down with a lucky throw of his axe, but that was always chancy. "Yeah. Okay." He turned to Mannequin and Siberian. "Can you get on top of the buildings and stop them flying away?"

With a resigned look on her face, Siberian nodded, then made three definitive hand motions. First, she pointed at Hatchet Face; then she made a circle with her finger and thumb; finally, she jabbed herself in the chest with her thumb. It was pretty clear what she meant, as opposed to Mannequin's weird finger-wiggling. You owe me.

"Yeah, and I'll pay up. Come on," he urged. "They'll get away!"

As the others moved to get into position, he loped away to get to the far side of the building. An anticipatory grin spread over his face, curling back his lip to expose a none-too-clean set of teeth. This was gonna be fun.

<><>​

Alabaster

We are so very fucked.

The simmering anger he'd felt toward his erstwhile teammates had vanished, replaced by an intense calculation of the odds against them. Above were two members of the Nine, peering down at them with … well, the Siberian had a look of mild interest, while Mannequin showed no expression at all on his white contoured mockery of a human face. Those two were bad enough, but he knew the Nine well enough to understand that where there were two, more were sure to be close behind.

Paul was nigh-unkillable; he'd survived enough fatal hits to understand this. Under normal circumstances, he'd back his power against any cape he cared to name. But the Nine were a game-changer. The Siberian had ripped Alexandria's eye clean out of her head, where even the Endbringers had failed to harm her in a quarter of a century. Did that mean she could hurt him and make it stick? He didn't know. If that wasn't bad enough, the Nine also had a power-nullifier; Hatchet Face, if he recalled correctly. The guy liked chopping capes to bits with a big axe.

There was a loud crash as something shoved a dumpster over at one end of the alley. Paul looked that way, and saw a large pitch-black moving mass … with eyes. It was equivalent in size to one of Bitch's dogs, but it didn't look anything like one of them. And last he'd heard, Bitch wasn't a member of the Nine. That's gotta be Crawler. I just pretend to be unkillable; he's the real deal.

Which left the other end of the alley clear to escape from. Except … it wasn't. Every instinct he had told him they were being goaded to flee from the oncoming monstrosity. Which means there's someone waiting for us.

"Rune," he said, very quietly, "how fast can you make this thing go?"

"Pretty fast," she replied, her voice barely above a murmur. He had to hand it to her; the quiver of terror in her voice was hardly audible. "Which way are we going?"

Good. She'd obviously picked up on the blatant trap as well. "Out the front door. About one story up. Fast as you can. And spin the chair around so we're standing on the back."

A pile of trash cans scattered with a series of clanging noises. Over it rose a voice audible in multiple tones at once; "Comin' to get youuu ..."

If it hadn't been obvious before, it was now; Crawler was trying to spook them into running blindly into the trap. Cassie had dropped one gun, but Paul retrieved the second from its holster. He didn't bother grabbing the gunbelt. There was no time to strap it on, and he suspected he wouldn't be needing it in about thirty seconds. "Go, go, go!" he yelled.

The chair blasted out of the mound of garbage, turning as it went to present its solid base to whatever was waiting for it at the mouth of the alleyway. It wasn't likely to actually protect them fully, but every little bit helped. Up above, he was pretty sure he could hear running footsteps on the rooftop. They're making sure we don't fake them out at the last second. Okay, we do this the hard way.

This point in his life had been a long time coming. For the longest time, he'd gloried in being the guy who could face anyone and survive. First into the battle, last out. So long as he had some way to hurt the other side, he'd stay in there and keep shooting, stabbing, punching, kicking; even biting. Alabaster wasn't feared on the same level as Lung or even Hookwolf, but that was only because what he could do wasn't much more than what a normal could achieve. His trick was that he could keep doing it.

The trouble was, he worked best with backup. Multiple foes could surround him, pin him down and subdue him, exactly as Crusader had done the night before. Take away the Empire, take away his allies, and a majority of his strength went with them. Worse, he was invested in the Empire. They were a major part of who he was; what he was. Change didn't come easily to him. Not only physically—that was a given—but also mentally.

It was a tremendous effort for him to alter his outlook on anything. In his mind, the Empire was still the premier force in Brockton Bay. Their function in life was to keep the lesser races down. To keep them ground into the dust, where they belonged. That was heroic enough for Paul. As far as he was concerned, what he did was a public service for all right-thinking people.

Physical injury didn't cause pain for Paul in the same way it did for other people. There was only ever a sensation of mild discomfort, quickly alleviated when he reset. Where the real pain came from was within; this was the first he'd ever truly felt it. His so-called friends turning away from the path of the Empire sent a stab through the deepest part of his core; knowing they expected him to blindly follow along merely twisted the blade. Two choices, neither good; to abandon them, or to allow the Empire to vanish like fog in the morning sun.

Years previously, he'd watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and he'd scoffed at the idea of 'going out in a blaze of glory'. With his powers, he knew he could weather any volley the Mexican army would've been able to put up against the two fugitive outlaws. Even without powers, in a situation like that, he'd work to survive and not just simply throw his life away.

But now … now, he saw what people in a position like that saw. Sometimes, it was worth it. Sometimes, it had to be worth it. When the chips were down, when his back was against the wall (as it had been once before, all those years ago when he got his powers) … sometimes it was the only thing that could be done.

"If you get out of here alive, go back to the apartment," he said rapidly, then climbed up on to the front (now the top) of the speeding chair. As he'd expected, the trap revealed itself; Hatchet Face himself, standing on a dumpster, waiting for them. His axe looked very, very sharp.

"What are you doing?" demanded Cassie, but he wasn't listening. His entire focus was on the cape-killer of the Nine. Up came his pistol and he began to fire.

He wasn't aiming at centre mass. Hatchet Face was a Brute, and if a simple bullet could've taken him out, it would have done so long ago. His aim was directed at the man's face; specifically, his eyes. If you can't see, you can't fight. Both Cricket and Hookwolf had told him that at one point or another, but he suspected they were quoting some martial arts movie or other; it had that sound to it.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Cassie hunched down, muffling a scream as she covered her ears, but the chair never slowed or veered from its path. He was hitting the guy; he knew he was scoring hits. But he wasn't hitting where he wanted to hit.

They'd halved the distance to Hatchet Face, he only had a few bullets left, and the scarred monster was pulling back his arm to throw his axe. At this range, with the strength Paul suspected the man could muster, it would go straight through their cover and take out Cassie. It was now or never. "For the Empire!" he bellowed, and launched himself forward off the chair.

For a brief moment, he flew.

The look of astonishment on Hatchet Face's face was … gratifying. But Paul had more to do than appreciate the view. His gun was levelled, and Hatchet Face's attention was on him and him alone. He fired; once, twice, three times. On the third shot, his gun locked open. But that last shot was the charm; Hatchet Face's head jerked back as his right eye exploded in blood. The axe fell to the ground as Hatchet Face instinctively dropped it in favour of grabbing at his eye-socket.

An instant later, he slammed into the guy, knocking him backward off the dumpster. Several bones broke at the same time, and holy shit, that hurt a lot. If he needed any indication that he'd just lost his powers, the pain that blasted through his body would've served notice, in spades.

However, he didn't have long to appreciate it. Grabbing Paul's head with both hands, Hatchet Face proved that he didn't really need his trademark axe to do damage.

On the upside, following the wrenching crack, it didn't hurt any more. Nothing hurt any more.

For the Empire.

<><>​

Justin

"She's over there!" shouted Kayden over the rush of wind. The statement was kind of superfluous, because Justin saw the flying armchair zoom out of the alleyway at the same time as she called out. She was alone, which raised questions. Her clothing was covered in blood, which raised more questions. As for the string of gunshots they'd heard earlier … he wasn't sure what was up with that, but if Cassie wasn't acting like she was wounded, Paul probably hadn't shot her. Which meant he'd been shooting at someone else. Someone who was stupid enough to take on Alabaster and Rune at the same time.

Just then, he spotted the two figures on the rooftop. One was a shining white and moved with a weird inhumanity, while the other was striped with white and black … and didn't seem to be wearing any clothes. There was only one cape he knew of who fitted that description and, despite his usual appreciation of the female form (the less clothing covering it, the better), he wanted absolutely nothing to do with this one. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

As he was opening his mouth to call a warning, a third figure flew out of the mouth of the alleyway. From the way it tumbled in mid-air, it wasn't flying under its own power. And from the way its head had been turned all the way around, it wasn't alive to fly under its own power. Worse, he recognised who it was; or rather, who it had been: Paul.

Cassie made it perhaps thirty feet from the mouth of the alleyway before Paul's body smashed into her, sending her flying off the chair. She seemed dazed by the impact, but Justin knew she'd be a lot more than just dazed if she hit the asphalt at that speed. He'd been using half a dozen of his ghosts to carry him along at his best speed, but now he sent four of those flying to intercept Cassie's ballistic arc.

The corner of his vision was dazzled as Kayden sent a spiralling beam at the tiger-striped woman, probably hoping to catch her by surprise. The Siberian ignored it as regally as she'd ignored every other time a Blaster attempted to hit her, even as chunks of the building exploded around her.

Two of Justin's ghosts swooped in and caught Cassie, inches from the blacktop. He generated more and more ghosts, surrounding himself with them while the ones on the rescue mission bore Cassie back toward him. Three more arrowed toward the Siberian, spears at the ready. He didn't know if they could harm her, but it was better to try and fail than never make the attempt.

His adrenaline surged as he saw Mannequin leaping off the building toward him. Instinctively, his ghosts brought their spears around to bear. Mannequin stretched out his arm, the hand detaching and extending on a chain toward a lamp-post. It latched on and began to retract, turning the armourclad Tinker's fall into a long swing.

Kayden fired again, this time at Mannequin. The armour let out more of the apparently inexhaustible supply of chain, dropping him below the blast. At the same time, Mannequin's other arm launched itself toward where Cassie was being carried back to Justin, blades unfolding and starting to spin up into a whirling blur of death. Justin knew the blades wouldn't harm his ghosts in the slightest, but nor would the ghosts be able to shield Cassie in any meaningful way.

When the blades were mere inches from Cassie, Kayden redirected her aim and fired once more, this time at Mannequin's hand where it clung to the lamp-post. The blast struck true, destroying that hand and dumping him on the ground. The other hand was halted for a vital moment, giving Justin time to realise what had to be done. As the blades on the arm slashed through the immaterial constructs toward Cassie, the ghosts did the only thing they could; they dropped her. At the same time, he redirected some of his other minions.

From the alleyway stomped Hatchet Face, carrying his oversized axe, blood running down his face from one eye. The injury didn't seem to be hampering him in the slightest, but the look of annoyance on his face as he looked up toward Justin and Kayden didn't make him look any prettier. "Dibs!" he bellowed, pointing at them.

As if stepping from one stair to the next, the Siberian jumped lightly down to ground level. Grabbing Hatchet Face by one brawny arm, she spun in place then made an almost casual throwing motion. Going against everything Justin had ever learned about physics in school, Hatchet Face was dragged off his feet then flung into the air like a frisbee. Axe spinning with the rest of him like a gigantic reaper blade, he hurtled toward Kayden.

Mannequin's arm hit the street just beyond Cassie then began to drag back to her, the blades ripping chunks from the asphalt as they continued to spin. The ghosts went to pick her up again, but Justin's attention was now divided three ways and it wasn't easy to concentrate.

Brute force moves were easier; two of his most recently-created ghosts rammed into Kayden from beneath, shoving her up and out of the way. Hatchet Face passed under her with mere inches to spare, his power-nullifying aura turning her powers off along the way. The light surrounding her winked out and she would've fallen had his ghosts not been supporting her. Onward arced her attacker until he crashed into a rooftop on the other side of the street.

At the same time, the three ghosts who had previously been moving toward Siberian slashed into Mannequin with their spears. His armour gave them no barrier at all, but there was living meat inside that shell, and they found it. Frantically, with all the force he could muster, he had them stab the Tinker again and again. The blades menacing Cassie came to a halt just before they would've torn into her; Mannequin fell to the ground, inert.

Holy shit, did I just kill Mannequin? Justin's mind ricochetted between terror and elation. Terror won out as Siberian looked at the downed body of her teammate, then up at the two capes, and snarled.

Oh shit, I just pissed off the Siberian. As if in a dream, he saw Crawler thunder out of the alleyway, a dumpster tilted upside-down over one eye like a particularly rakish hat. Without pausing, the Siberian ran toward the midnight-black monster. He could see what was going to happen next, as if it had already happened. Crawler as a missile would be a lot harder to dodge than Hatchet Face.

Cassie groaned and sat up, rubbing her head. Justin grabbed her with his ghosts and yanked her straight up off the ground, rushing her toward him. "Rune!" he yelled. Shaking what he hoped were the last traces of grogginess from her head, she looked around at the mention of her name. Her mouth opened but he cut her off, lowering his voice as much as he dared. "Put Hatchet Face on Crawler!"

She didn't stop to question him, for which he would be forever grateful. The armchair, currently lying discarded in the street, lifted straight up and headed for where Hatchet Face was eyeing the distance between himself and Kayden, flexing his leg muscles. The scarred murderer never saw the chair coming; it scooped him up and kept going, steering wide around both Justin and Kayden. Two ghosts went along for the ride, pinning Hatchet Face into his ride. All the way to the end of the line, asshole.

Before he got there, Kayden let go with another one of her blasts. It struck Crawler, but all it did was knock him back a little. Of course, it also opened up a hole in the street, into which Crawler fell. They didn't have long to wait before he surged out of the hole and Siberian grabbed him by what Justin chose to believe was his leg. She turned, performing that same insane ballet twirl that she'd done before; Crawler perforce spun with her. And then she let him go, like the world's deadliest (and ugliest) shot-put.

Cassie's chair came swooping in from the side, smashing into Crawler as he barrelled toward Justin and Kayden. With it came the ghosts—and Hatchet Face. "Now!" shouted Justin … and Kayden fired her devastating blast.

She timed it to perfection. The spiralling rays of destruction engulfed both Crawler and Hatchet Face and smashed them back into the hole the monster had initially fallen into. She poured it on, not letting up for an instant, gouging a hole dozens of feet across into the foundations of the building, until the structure itself collapsed into the hole thus created.

As dust boiled up, Justin tried to catch his breath, only to see the the black and white striped form stalk out of the fog of destruction. He'd hoped against hope that Purity's attack had somehow killed her too, but there was to be no such luck from that quarter. Slowly, but with increasing speed, the Siberian started toward them. Her pace was inexorable, her expression murderous. Justin had absolutely no doubt that she would never stop until she killed them.

And then a dilapidated car screeched around the corner with a weird (and somehow familiar) siren blaring discordantly. It rocked to a halt at the same time as Justin recognised the logo painted on to the doors. Said doors burst open and two men leaped out, dressed in khaki jumpsuits similarly decorated with the red-and-white logo.

No, he thought despairingly. Not today, of all days. We don't need Uber and L33t doing their thing here as well. If I'm going to die, I don't want to die on their goddamn show.

If there was one good thing about this, it was that the Siberian had stopped and was staring at the two newcomers in silent bemusement. Uber and L33t opened the back doors of the car and pulled out high-tech backpacks. They stepped away from the car and strode forward as each one put his pack on. "There's something strange!" shouted L33t, his voice high and tinny after the rumble of the building falling in. There was a whine as the packs charged up; even from where Justin was, he thought he could hear a certain familiar tune.

"In the neighbourhood!" Uber's voice was a lot more resonant. His rifle came to life, but he seemed to be a terrible shot. First, his beam hit his own foot, then he bathed L33t with the purple and orange beam.

"Who you gonna call?" L33t aimed his rifle at the Siberian, and fired. A crackling violet aura surrounded her. She looked at it, then at him, her eyes narrowing. With purpose in every step, she started toward the newcomers.

Uber unhooked a device from his belt and skidded it toward her, a cable unwinding from it. Justin had just enough time to register the black and yellow stripes on top before she went to bring her foot down to crush it. However, Uber's foot was faster; he slammed it down on the control unit at the end of the cable. The striped top folded back, and a coruscating energy burst forth to surround the Siberian.

To Justin's utter astonishment—and probably the Siberian's too—it wrapped around her and lifted her into the air. No matter how she struggled or struck outward, she couldn't break free of it. Slowly it began to swirl around and around, carrying the raging woman with it. And then, with an utterly improbable inevitability, it sucked itself back into the device, taking its unwilling passenger with it. Her hand clawed for freedom one last time before it, too, disappeared from sight. The top snapped shut, the device rocked a few times, then it lay still. Purple smoke drifted up from it.

The backpacks continued to play the tune; it took a few more bars before Justin snapped out of the state of shock and found his voice again. Several responses to what had just happened occurred to him, but he went with the one that had the least amount of swearing in it.

"You have got to be fucking shitting me."

<><>​

Taylor
On the Boardwalk

The sea breeze was strong enough to make Taylor's hair whip around just a little, but she didn't mind. It was nice out here on the weekend, watching people rollerblade past or play frisbee down on the beach. It would be even better if I had friends to do it with, she mused, then dismissed the thought. After Emma, she wasn't going to go looking for friends; in fact, she had no idea how to even go about it.

She smiled as her father returned from a hot dog cart, bearing a greasy treasure piled high with fried onion. "Thanks, Dad," she said, accepting her hot dog. "It smells delicious."

"They always do," he said wryly. "It's why these guys sell so many." Proving the point of his own words, he took a bite from his hot dog.

She did the same, enjoying how the flavours flooded through her mouth. Wandering over to the rail, she rested her elbows on it as she looked out over the bay. Something caught her attention and she tilted her head. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Danny as he joined her.

She listened intently, but it didn't happen again. "Some sort of rumble, but it's gone now." A shrug. "Probably my stomach."

"Well, you better eat your hot dog before we get a repeat. I've known you to hit ten on the Richter scale," he said with a chuckle.

She stuck out her tongue at him, then followed his advice.

<><>​

Danny

Taylor finished her hot dog with a satisfied sigh. "That was good," she declared. "What are we gonna do now?"

"Not sure," he said. "Maybe a movie?" It seemed like a good way to round off the afternoon.

"Yeah, I like that idea," she agreed. "I—what's wrong with that man?"

The man in question was stumbling down the Boardwalk, arms reaching for something only he could see. People stepped away from him; even lacking Merchant colours, he could still be dangerous. In a city like Brockton Bay, he wasn't even the oddest sight to be seen.

"Where is she? What have you done with her?" The old man latched on to Danny's arms with surprising strength. "Why can't I find her?"

"Calm down, buddy," Danny said. The last thing he wanted was for the guy to get violent; Taylor could get hurt. "Who are you talking about, anyway?"

"Her," the man said, his voice cracking in its intensity. "My wife. My daughter." He yanked again, the motion pulling his sleeves up. On his wrist, Danny noted, was a tattoo of a white swan.

Oh, shit. He came out of a Simurgh zone. In his opinion, the practice of tattooing a white bird on victims of the third Endbringer should never have happened; all it did was paint a target on their backs. Of course, in this circumstance, it did help to explain what was wrong with the man.

<><>​

"Baker three to Dispatch, over."

"Dispatch."

"Yeah, we're on the Boardwalk with a ten-ninety-six. Simurgh vic. Concerned citizen flagged us down. Gonna need an ambulance, over."

"Are there any casualties? Do you need backup, over?"

"No casualties. It's a sad one. The guy's looking for his wife and kid. My guess is they died in an attack, and his mind broke when it happened. He's more of a danger to himself than anyone else."

"Okay, alerting the psych guys now. Do we have a name, over?"

"First name only. William. That's whiskey, india, lima, lima …"



End of Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Sixteen: Buildup

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: This chapter contains passages which may have triggers related to blood and gore, depression, self-harm and suicidal thoughts.]
[A/N 3: Taylor does not appear in this chapter, for reasons which will become obvious. She will show up next chapter though.]



April 17, 2006
New York City
Sgt Herb Rosenstein

The police cruiser rolled slowly down the back streets of Manhattan. In the driver's seat was Sergeant Herb Rosenstein; solidly built, greying at the temples and a past master in surviving the mean streets of the Big Apple. Beside him was Jamie Nightingale, fresh out of the academy and ready to be inculcated with the real skills required for the job. Of average height with short-cut auburn hair, she was almost painfully eager to please. He only vaguely recalled the same state in himself, some thirty years previously. Slightly more aggravating was a blatantly obvious case of cape-worship. In Rosenstein's opinion, cops had no business dealing with superheroes. That was the PRT's job, and they were welcome to it. Most capes, in his experience, were self-important idiots in skintight spandex.

There was a bright purple flash on the side of the road ahead. Of course, there's always the exception. He began to apply the brakes.

"What was that?" asked Nightingale, almost at the same time. Before the first word was out of her mouth, the flash had faded, leaving a man in a similarly purple costume in its place. "Hey, it's a cape!" Her obvious comment didn't surprise Rosenstein; she'd made at least one in any given minute since they started the patrol. At least she was willing to communicate, he mused. Some rookies just sat there like stuffed dummies. Nightingale actually wanted to learn how to do the job, which was a distinct point in her favour.

"You wanted to meet a cape, you got your wish, kid." Rosenstein slowed the car and pulled to a halt. This was a one-way street, so his door was next to the sidewalk. His window buzzed down as the cape strolled over to where the cruiser sat at the curb. "Hey, Indigo," he said casually. "What's happening?"

Indigo Jones, small-time superhero and occasional pain in the butt, shrugged lightly. His costume was basically shades of purple in waves from head to toe, while purple-tinted goggles hid his eyes. Around his waist was cinched a fanny-pack; Rosenstein had always wondered where he found one in purple. "Not much, Herb," he replied. "Caught a mugger two blocks that way. Called it in, one of your guys picked him up half an hour ago. Right now, I'm looking for a couple homeless guys."

While Indigo's costume covered every inch of his skin, Herb had long since picked his accent as being African-American. Not that Herb gave a shit about the guy's skin colour. Indigo was one of the good guys, even if he was an incurable smartass on occasion. "Why?" asked Herb. "What've they done?"

"Not what they done," Indigo said, leaning on the car. "It's what they ain't done. They always show up at the soup kitchen over on Fifth Avenue for breakfast. They ain't there, so the guy runnin' it asked me to come see what's goin' on."

Rosenstein nodded. "Good idea. They might be sick or something." He tilted his head. "Oh, by the way. Indigo, this is my new rookie. Her name's Nightingale. Nightingale, meet Indigo Jones. Don't let the costume fool you. He's actually a decent human being."

Leaning down, Indigo looked in through the window. "Oh, hey. Didn't see you there before. How you doing, Nightingale? This crusty old codger showin' you the ropes okay?"

"Watch it, Indigo," Rosenstein said gruffly. "I ain't so old that I can't beat your scrawny ass, y'know."

"Have to catch me first, old man." Indigo chuckled and slapped the roof of the cruiser as he stepped away from the vehicle. "Welp, this ain't findin' 'em. See ya 'round, Rosenstein. Nice meetin' ya, Nightingale." He touched two fingers to his forehead in a vague semblance of a salute. A purple whirlpool swirled into being in the pavement beneath his feet, and he dropped into it. Across the street, a purple flash marked Indigo's reappearance. With a wave, he disappeared into an alleyway.

" … wow," breathed Nightingale. "That was a cape." She stared at Herb, her eyes wide. "You never told me you knew a cape!"

"I don't know him," Rosenstein said irritably, hitting the indicator lever. "Not to get beers with or anything. We just see each other around a bit. He works his patch and I got my beat, and sometimes we run into each other." Nobody was coming up behind them and the light was green, so he pulled out into the street and drove through the intersection.

"But—" objected Nightingale, then paused as the car jolted slightly. From underneath, there came a loud clank. "What was that?"

"Manhole cover," Rosenstein said casually. "If they get shifted slightly, driving over them drops them back into place." He hadn't seen the cover himself, but that wasn't unusual. The jolt and clang were enough to tell him what had happened.

"Yeah, but what shifted it?" asked Nightingale. She turned her body to look out through the rear window of the cruiser, then screamed, "Look out!"

"Wha—" began Rosenstein, even as Nightingale threw herself as far forward as she could with the seatbelt in the way, her arms coming up to cover her head. His eyes flicked up to the rear-vision mirror …

<><>​

Rookie Patrolman Jamie Nightingale

Rosenstein never got the whole word out. Or, more accurately, he broke off to yell "Shit!" and wrenched the wheel sideways, but it was far too late by then. The manhole cover came in through the rear window in a cataclysm of shattering safety glass. It ripped chunks out of both of their seats and took the windshield with it on the way out. Jamie felt a tremendous blow to her left shoulder that would later require three separate surgeries to put right, but she wasn't paying much attention to that, as arterial blood from Rosenstein's severed right arm was spraying all over her.

The cruiser swerved, partly from Rosenstein's abortive evasion and partly due to loss of control—the manhole cover had also taken a chunk of the steering wheel with it—and rammed a street light. Jamie felt the airbag smash her in the face. As she was already leaning forward, the impact was even harsher than normal. She blacked out.

<><>​

Frank Johnson
AKA: Indigo Jones, Independent Superhero

Frank heard the crash and spun around. "Shit!" he exclaimed, double-timing it to the entrance of the alleyway. A fender-bender that loud, without even the screech of brakes to precede it, meant that someone had hit the scenery pretty damn hard. His powers weren't great for getting people out of bent vehicles, but he knew first aid, and at a pinch he could get someone to the hospital faster than the average ambulance.

When he got there, however, he was greeted by a sight he'd never expected—or wanted—to behold. A mass of tendrils so fine as to almost form a haze in the early morning sunlight was just emerging from an open manhole in the middle of the nearby intersection. Rosenstein's police cruiser, its rear window smashed inward, had swerved into a light pole. Smoke, or maybe steam, was now rising from its front end. Frank couldn't see if Rosenstein and his rookie partner were alive—the angle was all wrong—but from the way the tentacle-thing was homing in on the cruiser, 'dead' was soon going to be the order of the day.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Frank wasn't a crime-busting cape. He could take a mugger by surprise, but he generally did things like get cats out of trees and find lost kids in Central Park. He certainly didn't consider himself a match for terrifying monsters like Behemoth or even Garotte, whom he was sure had just shown up in New York. But Rosenstein was all right for a badge, and the rookie had been kinda cute, so Frank decided to break the rule of a lifetime. He actually went toward a cape battle.

He wasn't going to be stupid about it, of course. No sense in trying to fist-fight something that could pull his arms and legs off like a bored asshole with a fly. So he snatched up two garbage can lids, picked a location, and activated his power. The Swirl formed under his feet and he dropped into it. An instant later, he arrived at his destination; the roof of a building right on the intersection. As he stepped forward, he saw that Garotte had already used its multitudinous tentacles to engulf the rear of the car, which was even now creaking and groaning as it was steadily crushed to a fraction of its original size.

He took a deep breath. Here goes nothin'. "Hey!" he yelled. "Up here, you ugly-ass motherfucker!" With all of his strength, he hurled one of the lids down toward the mass of deceptively filmy tendrils. Every single one of them froze for just a second, then suddenly the arcing lid stopped in mid-air and crumpled into a ball. He gulped; the thing had tendrils he hadn't seen!

The blobby mass in the middle of the haze of hair-fine tentacles turned to face him for the first time. He barely made out a distressed-looking female face, before it was racing toward him. Just as he activated his power, a whole series of tendrils slapped on to the edge of the building. With an undignified yelp, he tossed the second lid into the air, then let the Swirl take him. Tendrils hissed through the air over his head and he felt a sting on his cheek, but then he was safe in the place between going and coming back.

He dropped out of mid-air to land next to the police cruiser. Up above, he heard the second lid clang on to the rooftop, followed by the distinctive crunch of metal being compacted far beyond its normal limits. Okay, I haven't got much time here. Taking hold of the car door handle—thankfully, the front of the car hadn't been compacted yet—he eased it open. While he had no reason to suspect that Garotte had super-hearing, he didn't want to tempt fate.

Inside was a vision of carnage that nearly made him puke up his last meal. With the skin-tight bodysuit that he was wearing, which covered his entire face along with the rest of his body, that would've been a really bad idea. Gritting his teeth, he managed to swallow the nausea back down again.

Both Rosenstein and Nightingale were slumped in their seats. The windshield was just gone, along with chunks out of both seats, a large part of the steering wheel, some of the dashboard, and most of Rosenstein's right arm. Gore was still pumping from the stump, most of which seemed to have ended up on Nightingale.

For a moment, he thought they were both dead, then Rosenstein stirred. His head turned as he focused on Frank. The guy was tough. He was literally bleeding out through a traumatic wound, and he was still moving. "Indigo," he rasped. "Get … Nightingale … outta here." His left hand fumbled for the wound and clamped over it. "I'll … be fine."

"Right. Right right right." Grimacing inside the suit—blood was an absolute bitch to clean out of spandex—Frank leaned into the car and released Nightingale's seatbelt. Get her to safety, come back for Rosenstein. He didn't care how much the crusty old bastard was gonna yell at him; he was coming back. Hooking his hands under her arms, he began to lug her out of the car to where he could form the Swirl under both of them. She wasn't big for a woman, but nor was he strong for a man. And then, as her full weight came on to her shoulders, she went from moving feebly to full awake. Her eyes opened wide, and she screamed piercingly.

FUUUUUCCCCKKKKK! Indigo didn't need to look up at the roof to know that Garotte would've heard the sound. Bracing himself, he heaved; Nightingale popped out of the car like a cork from a bottle. He fell on to his back, with her on top of him. His eyes tracked upward, and—fuuucckkk me!—there was the haze of hair-fine tendrils, descending on the car like the wrath of a particularly angry deity. Not even bothering to try to get up, he formed the Swirl under the both of them. They fell into it; or rather, he fell into it. She fell most of the way, then was yanked upward again, right when they were in the tricky section between 'falling into the Swirl' and 'popping back into the world'. Looking down the length of her body, he saw that a couple of the tentacles had latched on to Nightingale's left leg.

Normally, he was anything but cavalier about closing the Swirl. Careful experimentation had shown that anything protruding from it would be sheared off when he closed the effect and went all the way through, so he always made sure to wait as long as possible before closing it. Just in case a leg or arm was still on the other side, so to speak. But now, with shit going sideways, he didn't have the time for caution. He cut the Swirl and fell through to the other side.

They landed on grimy concrete; he'd aimed as far down the block as he could get. This time, he wasn't ready for Nightingale's weight, and the impact drove the breath from his lungs. But then a warm wetness sprayed over his legs, and he forced himself to action.

Rolling to the side, he laid Nightingale on to her back. She looked to be in shock, which wasn't surprising. Between being covered with blood and … oh, shit. Garotte yanked her leg back out of the Swirl. Half of it below the left knee was just gone, with a widening pool of blood forming under the severed section. A couple of lengths of hair-fine tendril also lay there twitching, but he didn't care about that.

'Getting Nightingale out of here' had suddenly become 'getting Nightingale to proper medical attention'. He looked down the block, toward where sirens and screams were already arising. It seemed Garotte was truly rampaging now. Did I do that when I cut off the tentacles? Crap.

There was no time for self-recrimination. Nightingale didn't have the luxury. Okay, step one. Stop the bleeding. This was going to require a tourniquet. Fortunately, he came prepared. Reaching back to his fanny-pack, he opened it up and pulled out the roll of zip-ties he carried everywhere. They had a million uses, but right now he was only interested in one of them. Moving as fast as he could, he separated one of the zip-ties from the bundle and threaded it around her leg. She was twitching and shaking now, which was not a good sign. Sticking the end through the buckle, he yanked on it as hard as he could, then braced his hand on her leg and yanked even harder. To his relief, the bleeding cut almost all the way off, but he didn't like the size of the pool of blood under her, or how pale she was.

Fuucckk … Rosenstein. For all his good intentions, there was no way he was going to have the chance to rescue the veteran cop. Even if he could get in there, with no real way to tell where Garotte was before he Swirled right into the middle of the shit-fight, there was still the matter of Nightingale's own survival. Unless he delivered her right into the lap of a team of paramedics, she wasn't going to last half an hour. He was no expert, but that much blood outside a person meant nothing good. Sorry, man. You were good people. Now you don't get to yell at me for coming back for you. God dammit.

Kneeling up alongside Nightingale, he raised the stump of her leg as high as he could. It didn't bother him that his knees were soaked in her blood; the costume was a write-off anyway. Using his other hand to cushion her head against impact, he opened the Swirl under them. "Hang on, rookie," he muttered. "It's gonna be a wild ride, but you'll be okay."

His first transition was to the top of the tallest building he could see. The landing was a little rough, but he made sure not to bump her head or let her stump fall down. From there he took a sighting by eye to the nearest hospital he knew about. His range wasn't city-wide, but it was pretty good. There was a suitable rooftop about four blocks away. Sucking in a deep breath, he called up the Swirl.

The landing was particularly rough, and he found himself sucking in deep breaths of air. Normally, he could use his power to travel as far as he liked without any particular fatigue, but he rarely took passengers along, and even more rarely Swirled more than once in a row with a passenger.

Still, he figured he could pull off a few more before he had to call it quits. A quick check of Nightingale assured him that she was still breathing, but if anything her colour was even worse than before. He sighted in on his next destination, clenched his teeth, and called up the Swirl.

This time, it physically hurt going through. He felt as though every inch of his skin was being scraped off by a sadist with a potato peeler. When he got out the other end, his heart was hammering in his chest and he was fighting for breath like he'd just run the Boston Marathon with Behemoth hot on his heels. It was a measure of his fatigue that he didn't even grin at the unintentional pun.

But there was light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. The emergency room entrance for the Mount Sinai hospital complex was within sight. All he had to do was get to those glass doors. Security inside would spot him, and Nightingale would be in good hands thereafter. The trouble was, it was still a good three hundred yards away. The shape he was in at the moment, he'd probably tire himself out walking that far, let alone running. In any case, he wasn't about to leave Nightingale on her own. Even if he used the Swirl on his own, he wasn't at all sure he'd still be upright and aware when he got there. And by the time he recovered, she might well be dead.

He took a deep breath, then another. Clenching his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on his destination, then opened the Swirl.

It was even worse than the last time. The sadist with the potato peeler had swapped out the implement for a rusty razor-blade that had been dipped in lemon juice. Every muscle was spasming, and it was all he could do to fall sideways instead of on top of the unconscious police officer. As consciousness slipped away, he tasted blood in the back of his throat.

<><>​

January 5, 2011
Jamie Nightingale

Doctor Lansing leaned back in his chair, his hands loosely clasped before him. Jamie watched him a little sourly, anticipating almost to the word what he was going to say. "Who do you blame for the death of Sergeant Rosenstein?" he asked, enunciating the words carefully.

Mentally, Jamie paid out on her bet. "Garotte," she replied flatly. "She threw the manhole cover that wrecked our car and took his arm off. I saw the medical report. He couldn't have lived more than five minutes with that injury, untreated."

The subtle tilt of his head could have been passed off as natural, but she knew better. Lansing was a cold prick, but he was good at pretending to care. Or maybe he cared, but he pretended not to. Either way, Jamie didn't like him.

"So, not Indigo Jones, for failing to go back and save him?" Lansing pressed. "Or yourself, for not insisting that Jones save the sergeant before yourself? Or even for screaming when Jones jolted your broken shoulder?"

At one point or another, Jamie could have answered 'yes' to each of those questions. "No," she said, just as flatly as before. "Jones risked his life to save mine. He couldn't have known I had a broken shoulder. And Rosenstein was conscious and I wasn't. Rosenstein had to know he was dying. He made the call."

<><>​

That wasn't to say she hadn't been angry when she finally woke up in the hospital. She'd yelled and screamed and ranted and raved until they'd sedated her again. Blame had been thrown about freely; at Jones, at herself, even at Rosenstein for being such a self-sacrificing idiot. But between Jones' testimony and subsequent examination of the site, the final blame had been assigned to Garotte herself. To his intense embarrassment, Indigo Jones had gotten a commendation from the NYPD, as well as an offer to join the New York branch of the Protectorate. He'd accepted the first and declined the second. Rosenstein had received a posthumous medal, and Jamie … Jamie got a disability retirement package and a pension.

Jones, she conceded, had done the right thing. He hadn't been able to do everything, and all he'd really done was prevent her from dying long enough to get her to the hospital. But everything else felt … unfair. Why was she alive and Rosenstein dead? Why did things like this keep happening? What good were the superheroes, anyway? Her previous worldview had undergone a severe sea change, and not for the better. Capes were … just capes. They weren't gods walking the earth, and they certainly weren't infallible. Nor were they the solution to everything wrong in the world.

In the aftermath of the incident, Jamie had fallen into depression. She'd barely eaten, hardly taken care of herself, and refused to leave her apartment for days at a time. She even started cutting herself, weathering the sharp sting as she sliced the razor lightly across her wrists. Watching the blood trickle down her skin, wondering what it would be like to open a vein or an artery properly, to end the real pain.

But there was still a core of steel within her. It took her a while to reach it, but one evening when she was cleaning her pistol—as an ex-cop, she of course wanted a firearm handy at all times—she found herself meditatively placing the muzzle in her mouth, finger caressing the trigger. That scared her so badly that she threw the (unloaded) weapon across the apartment.

The next day, she signed up for therapy.

<><>​

At the same time, across town
James Griffin Middle School, New York City
Adrienne Pauling, English Teacher

Adrienne looked up as Patty Henderson pushed open the break room door and slumped down into the nearest chair with a sigh. "Shoot me now," Patty groaned, closing her eyes and rolling her head on her neck. "Or get me coffee. One of the two."

"Quit being such a drama queen, Patty," Adrienne advised the pretty brunette with a grin. "Oh, wait. You can't. It's your job." Her grin widened as Patty gave her the bird without bothering to open her eyes first.

Adrienne taught English from fifth through seventh grade, and considered that she did it well. She also had a strong line in snark. Patty, as yet single, was the school's drama teacher. She was also Adrienne's best friend, not least because she'd helped Adrienne get through a particularly messy breakup the year before. This had contributed significantly to the snark.

"Ha frickin' ha." Patty let her head fall back as she slumped in the chair. "You'd be stressed too, if all your plans had just fallen through."

Adrienne sat down beside Patty and pushed the cup of coffee she'd just poured into Patty's hands. She could always make another for herself. "Spill. What's the big problem?"

"Thanks." The word was a sigh. "When I said my plans had fallen through, I meant it literally. You know how the grade sevens have been working on a presentation about the greatest Presidents in history? And how they had all their props and sets stored in the auditorium?"

"Ah." Things clicked together in Adrienne's head. "The ceiling fell in on them?" It had made things quite interesting the previous day. Workmen had been called in to investigate why the lights weren't working in the auditorium, and one of them had put his foot in the wrong place. He hadn't plummeted all the way to the floor—a stray cord had wrapped around his ankle, pulling him up short—but a fifteen-foot square section of the ceiling over the stage had fallen in, in a bizarre kind of chain reaction. It was a one in a million accident, really.

"Yeah." Patty took a sip of the coffee. "They were right under it. Everything's destroyed. Everything. It's like someone went after every set, every prop with a sledgehammer. I couldn't have done a better job if I'd wanted to wreck everything. And that's not the only thing."

Adrienne felt her eyebrows raising. "Okay, what else happened?" This was, she decided, shaping up to be a girls' night out with ice cream afterward. Ice cream fixed everything.

Patty sighed. "You know that rain we had, night before last? Where the water got into the auditorium and shorted the lights so Principal Brinkley had to send the workmen up there in the first place?"

The rain had come in out of nowhere, and vanished off into Jersey afterward. It was just one of those things that happened in New York. "Yeah?" Adrienne had a feeling that things were only going to get worse.

"My office has a leak in the roof," Patty said slowly. "There's also a leak in the ceiling. I had the script, the set directions, everything, all in a big zip-lock bag leaning up against my desk. The zip-lock wasn't quite closed, because I looked over the stuff when we got back from Christmas break. It dripped straight into the bag, and filled it up. No spillage whatsoever. I'm gonna need to be a major forensic investigator just to separate the pages and figure out what was written on each of them." She let her head fall back with another groan. "Because I insisted that everything be written out in pen."

"Well, crap." Adrienne took this in. "Um. So, what are you gonna do now? They've got to put on a play. It's kind of part of their grading." She considered the situation. "Though I can see Brinkley giving you a little leeway, given that they've got to fix the auditorium before you can even use it."

"I have no idea." Patty leaned forward and gave Adrienne a beseeching look. "I'm all out. I'll take anything you've got."

"Hmm." Adrienne went over and started her own cup of coffee. Leaning her butt against the counter, she swept the room with her gaze, seeking inspiration. There was an old dog-eared copy of the works of Shakespeare that Patty sometimes liked to read, but putting together a Shakespearean play right at short notice was probably far beyond the capabilities of the drama class. Up on the wall, a map of Manhattan had Central Park front and centre. Finally, her eye lit on the 'confiscated' bin, a repository of items taken from children in class. Wandering over, she inspected the contents. Just one thing lay there, an old Superman comic that someone had been reading yesterday when they really should've been paying attention to the fact that the teacher was standing behind them. She didn't understand why they even printed those things any more, with heroes like the Triumvirate around …

"Wait." She was barely even aware that she had spoken the word out loud.

Patty looked around, cradling the cup of coffee in both hands. "What?"

The idea was niggling at her. Elements were trying to drop into place. Plucking the comic book from the bin, she leafed through it. As she'd thought, the plot was generic and easily followed; it could be repurposed using new protagonists with almost laughable ease. She tossed it on to the table. "Here's your new script. I'll help you rewrite it for the Triumvirate."

Patty put down the coffee and took up the comic book. Slowly, she turned the pages. "I guess …" A calculating look crossed her face. "We've got costumes already, I'm sure." She looked up at Adrienne. "But where are we going to put it on?"

"Central Park." Adrienne grinned at Patty's confused expression. "What, you've never heard of Shakespeare in the Park? Well, we can have Triumvirate in the Park. We've got the script, you can have the kids rehearse in class, and we can put it on in Central Park. Voila. Am I a genius or am I a genius?"

Patty jumped up from the table and hugged Adrienne hard. "You're a genius," she confirmed. Opening the comic book, she started scanning through it. "Okay," she mused. "We have a singular hero up front. Who should we use? Legend?"

Adrienne shook her head. "Nah. He gets used everywhere. Let's make it Eidolon."

<><>​

Jamie Nightingale

"You're saying that you don't blame yourself," Lansing mused, "but I don't know if you're feeling it. After all, you wouldn't be the first person to learn what had to be said so you could parrot it back without meaning it." He heaved a sigh. "Of course, if you're doing that, then I can't help you. You have to meet me halfway."

"I'm trying," Jamie said tiredly. "It's just that …" It's just that this all feels so fake. "It's just that … I have no idea where I'm going with my life. Or even if I have a life any more. I'm stuck. Nowhere to go, nothing I can do. Nobody wants a crippled rookie cop. I'm damaged."

That got a rare and, if she was any judge, genuine smile out of him. "See, there's the honesty I was looking for." The smile turned wry as he shook his head. "All this time, and I finally get some progress on my last day with you."

Jamie blinked. "Wait, what now? Last day? What's going on? Have they pulled the funding for my therapy?" A sharp pang shot through her. As much as she disliked him, her therapy with Lansing was about her only real human contact, and she wasn't at all sure she wanted it to end.

Lansing shrugged. "Apparently they're handing out Fellowships at Cornell, and my name came up. So I'm in. Never expected it to happen. Sheer blind luck, if you ask me. But don't worry. I'm arranging for a replacement. You should like her."

Jamie decided to keep an open mind. Lansing might be a cold prick, but he was a perceptive cold prick.

<><>​

January 6, 2011
Freda Perkins, Licensed Therapist

For the third time since moving her worldly chattels into the office, Freda got up and adjusted the nameplate on her desk. It was brand new, just like her, so to speak. She'd hoped to get coffee with Lansing and perhaps get some pointers on the patients she was taking over from him, but the man had been as brisk and impersonal in person as he'd been on the phone. Barely a dozen words had passed between them, most of them from her, before he'd hustled his way out the door.

Wrinkling her nose, she wiggled the laptop mouse to wake it up, then clicked on the folder marked PATIENT FILES. She'd been through them before, but the information had barely had time to sink in. The first few sessions, she feared, were going to involve a lot of probing to find out the sensitive spots of those people under her care.

There came a knock on the door, startling her severely. Jumping to her feet, Freda looked in the direction of the sound. No silhouette impinged on the frosted-glass window let into the door, which made her frown in puzzlement. "Uh … come in?" she said hesitantly. Then she took a breath—I'm the therapist here, not whoever's out there—and repeated herself, more confidently. "Come in!"

The door opened, then a woman rolled a wheelchair into the office. She held herself with a certain air of authority, or perhaps the remnants of one. A denim jacket lay folded on her lap. Her auburn hair was shoulder-length, held back with a scrunchie. One of her legs ended about halfway to the knee, which neatly explained as to why she was in a wheelchair. The word wheelchair threw up a large flag in her mind, and she grasped at the name that came up. "Uh, Ms … Nightingale?"

The woman rolled to a stop about halfway to the desk. "That's me. You're my new therapist?" Her eyes flicked from Freda to the nameplate. "Ms Perkins?"

"Call me Freda." Walking out from behind the desk, Freda held out her hand. "If I can call you Jamie, that is?"

A wry smile crossed the face of Jamie Nightingale. She didn't look as though she'd done that very often, of late. "Sure, why not. Doctor Lansing always insisted on a strict doctor-patient relationship, and we never really got to know each other very much." Her hand closed over Freda's, making the therapist absolutely aware that in any contest of strength, she would lose to the wheelchair-bound woman. "Why not change things up a bit?"

Freda nodded as she shook Jamie's hand. "I totally agree." She moved off to the side where she'd had two comfortable armchairs set up so she could talk to her patients without the desk being in the way. The second one would, of course, be superfluous in the current situation. Unlocking the swivel on one of the chairs, she turned it so that she'd be able to face Jamie directly. "So tell me, what were you covering with Doctor Lansing, and was it helping?"

Jamie turned the chair rather expertly and rolled over to where Freda had taken a seat. "About whether I blamed myself for the death of my training officer," she replied bluntly. "And to be honest, not very much."

"Why do you say it wasn't helping very much?" asked Freda, as much to know for herself as to keep the conversation going.

"Because we'd been over it before, and I've pretty well figured out where I stand in that regard," Jamie said. "Though he did say something about me finally being honest in our last session. I didn't think I'd been dishonest, to be perfectly frank." She pursed her lips in remembered irritation.

Now they were getting somewhere. "Oh?" Freda made her tone light, almost disinterested. "Why did he say that?" She was sure this was in Lansing's notes somewhere, but she hadn't memorised them yet.

Apparently, this touched a nerve; Jamie's expression soured. "I just said something about how I felt useless. Damaged. Nobody needs a one-legged ex-rookie cop."

Freda made a silent bet with herself that Jamie's self-assessment of 'damaged' was both accurate and covered more than her physical injuries. And of course her self-image would impact any job interview she went to.

"You know," she said brightly, "this office is stuffy. Why don't we go out and get some air? Central Park's just down the block. I'm sure we can talk just as easily there as we can here." She got up and took her coat from the stand in the corner. When she turned, Jamie was staring at her. "What?"

"Uh … I never went anywhere with Doctor Lansing," Jamie said awkwardly. "Is this a thing? Do you guys even do this?"

Freda shrugged. "Well, it's not usual, but I have the feeling that you're uncomfortable talking about your problems in here. There's nothing to lose, right?"

Since she'd entered the office, Jamie had been by turns resigned, irritated and upset. There'd been the spark of interest when Freda had suggested the use of first names, but that had been only momentary. Now, the auburn-haired woman was actually engaging for the first time. "I guess not," she said, then frowned. "Not fond of the idea of everyone walking past hearing what we're talking about, though," she added.

"That's not really going to be an issue," Freda told her with a smile. "Ninety-five percent of people in the park during the day are there to either be alone or be with someone. Nobody pays attention to what some random stranger is saying. Anyway, the wheelchair can work for you for once."

Almost instinctively, Jamie looked down at her conveyance, then back up at Freda. "What do you mean, work for me?"

"Simple." Freda shrugged her coat on and headed for the door. "Surely you've noticed that people look straight past you when you try to get their attention? Act like you're a little slow, just because you're unable to walk at the moment? Talk past you like you're part of the scenery?"

"Don't remind me," Jamie said with a scowl as she followed Freda into the hallway. She took the neatly folded coat from her lap and began to put it on. "Happens all the time. Even with people who are supposed to be interviewing me for jobs I can actually do."

Which, Freda supposed, would make the problem half their attitude, especially if they hadn't been informed she was in a wheelchair, and half hers if her current demeanour was anything to go by. In the meantime, however …

"My point exactly," she said cheerfully. "If you're going to be ignored anyway, why not make use of it?" As they reached the elevator, she hit the call button.

Jamie's expression showed that she was actually startled this time. "I … never thought of it that way," she admitted.

"Of course, we can work on the problem of you actually getting noticed when you want to be noticed," Freda said helpfully. "But for now, why don't we just tackle one problem at a time?"

"Yeah." Jamie's look at Freda held more respect than before. "That makes sense." The elevator doors opened with a ding and she rolled inside. Freda stepped in after her.

As the elevator doors closed and it started downward, Freda breathed a silent sigh of relief. After the initial awkwardness, it seemed she was starting to build a rapport with Jamie Nightingale. Now, if only I can keep on making it work.

<><>​

January 11, 2011
Protectorate Base
Houston, TX

Eidolon scribbled his signature at the bottom of the last piece of paperwork and got up from his desk. Okay, that's done. Paperwork was an unwelcome but necessary part of being high up in the Protectorate. Time to get out and do some real work.

Opening the door into the outer office, he cleared his throat to get his secretary's attention. Sandra, a rather severe-looking blonde, looked around attentively. "Yes, sir?"

As always, he winced mentally at 'sir', but didn't make a fuss. "I'm just heading out for a while. Hold my calls."

"Yes, sir. Uh, before you go?" She held up a sheet of paper.

There's always something. Sighing internally, he refrained from making a dash for safety. "Yes?"

Sandra put the paper down again. "The governor of Florida wants to meet with you regarding a public appearance. Something about opening a new capitol building in Tallahassee. Also, an English teacher in New York says her school's grade seven drama class is putting on a play in your honour, and she'd really appreciate it if you could attend." She couldn't really see much of his face, but his mouth must have tightened, because she rushed on. "I wouldn't have mentioned it, but Director Costa-Brown did put out that directive about making a certain number of public appearances every month."

That was very true. Which meant that Eidolon had to make a choice: listen to government officials drone on for a certain amount of time while he decided which power he was going to use to cut the ribbon; or listen to schoolchildren stumble through their lines and watch someone attempt to portray him as a hero, hopefully in not too cringeworthy a fashion.

"When?" he asked bluntly.

"They're both scheduled for Saturday the fifteenth," she said, after briefly checking her computer screen. "The meeting about the capitol building opening at ten AM, and the play in Central Park at two PM." There wasn't even the hint of irony in her voice as she added, "To be honest, sir, you could easily make it to both." Which proved that she was either worse at reading him than he'd thought, terminally optimistic or just a better actor than he'd given her credit for.

"Put me down for the building opening," he told her. It wasn't even a decision, not really. The government knew not to needlessly waste his time past the obvious ceremonies. A seventh-grade drama class would have no such understanding. And then there would be the inevitable autograph requests, and the awkward platitudes from the teachers who would be gushingly grateful that he even deigned to show up. Up to half a day wasted where he could instead be out there, doing what he did best.

He was a hero, possibly the greatest one one on Earth Bet (he didn't count Scion for obvious reasons). Everyone knew it. He didn't need his fans (he assumed they were legion) to remind him of this fact every hour of every day. With a warm feeling of justified virtue, he went back into his office and triggered his latest Mover power, a combination flight/teleport ability. A bright green flash lit up the room, replacing it an instant later with the broad vista of the south Texas sky.

<><>​

Friday, January 14, 2011
Tallahassee, Florida

The motorcade splashed through the rain-sodden streets. In the back seat of the limousine, Governor Kirk Lloyd leafed through paperwork. With a grunt of irritation as the heavy car wallowed through a particularly deep puddle, he looked up at his personal assistant. "What's the weather report for tomorrow? I don't want it to be pouring rain while we're trying to give speeches."

"We can set up a marquee, sir," the PA replied, already tapping at a tablet. "But I think … there's a sixty-five percent chance of fine weather, sir."

"That's not a hundred percent," Lloyd said. "Arrange for the marquee." He went back to the papers.

The traffic lights which they were approaching looked perfectly normal to the naked eye. However, a flaw in the weatherproofing had finally failed, and was letting water into the mechanism. This led to a very subtle failure, with one major consequence. The traffic lights in both directions turned green at the same time. Worse, as the limousine started through the intersection, a squall of rain swept across the road, reducing visibility to mere yards. The driver instinctively slowed down, which slid Lloyd's briefcase off the seat on to the floor.

With a grimace of annoyance, he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward to retrieve the recalcitrant item. Just as his fingertips touched it, a heavily-laden garbage truck lumbered into the intersection from the side. While the truck's windshield wipers were slapping away at full speed, the rain was more than a match for them, and the driver didn't see the car until it was far too late.

The impact, although at a slower speed than most traffic accidents, still smashed the limo halfway across the road and put a huge dent in the side panelling. Lloyd was flung sideways, collided heavily with the door and slumped to the floor with a groan.

<><>​

Protectorate Base
Houston, TX
Eidolon's Office

"All right, I'll tell him." Sandra Grant put down the phone, then dialled Eidolon's mobile. They'd tried using a Tinkertech radio link, but it had been problematic and prone to breakdown, while the cell network was established and had redundancies.

"Eidolon." His voice was curt. It had a very pronounced 'I am working so this had better be important' tone to it.

"Sir, it's me." She didn't need to introduce herself. "I just got word. Governor Lloyd is in the hospital with fractured ribs and a concussion. The meeting about the opening ceremony is going to be put back till next week."

"Ah." A moment later, the penny dropped. "Wait, so does that mean—"

"Yes, sir. The play in New York."

He didn't answer for a few seconds, then she heard an aggravated sigh. "Fine. Email the details to my phone."

This time, she smiled. "Yes, sir." It might even do you some good.

<><>​

Saturday, January 15, 2011
Central Park
Jamie Nightingale

Jamie eyed the sky dubiously. She didn't like the look of some of the clouds up there. "Think it's gonna rain again?" Getting caught in the rain was irritating; getting caught in the rain in a wheelchair was a copper-plated bitch.

"I brought a collapsible umbrella," Freda reminded her, indicating her oversized handbag. "Just in case. It should be big enough to cover us both." She looked and sounded slightly smug, but Jamie decided she'd earned it.

"Good enough," she conceded. "So … where were we?" As part of what was now ingrained habit, she looked around for anyone close enough to overhear, but nobody ever was.

Freda smiled. "We were discussing anti-depressants. I know you only had one serious suicidal phase, but that could come back." Her expression turned serious. "How are you feeling, these days?"

Jamie considered the question for a few moments. " … better," she said in the end. "Between you and Doctor Lansing, I've got my head around the things that were bothering me the most. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to put a gun in my—what the hell's going on over there?" She stared at the tableau taking place about a hundred yards away, where a bunch of kids and a few adults were milling around the Naumberg Bandshell.

"Sorry?" Freda turned to look in the same direction. "Oh, nice. They're putting on a stage play. Let's go watch!"

"What?" Jamie stared at her. "Why? It's a kid's play, for crap's sake." She could think of few things more dreary.

"And it's a social event." Freda had hold of the handles of her wheelchair by now. "And as your therapist, I've just decided that it will do you good to attend."

"But … crap." Jamie sagged back in the chair. Freda's tone was one she was used to by now. That tone was not to be argued with. "I'm not gonna win this, am I?"

"Nope." From the sounds of it, Freda was quite pleased with herself.

"Wait." A sneaking suspicion intruded on Jamie's thoughts. "Did you do this deliberately?" Central Park was pretty big. To have stumbled on the play at just the right time was kind of a coincidence.

"Nope. Sheer luck. Cross my heart."

As they got closer, Jamie could see that they were just setting up to start. Sheer luck my calloused hands, she thought. Sheer blind bad luck, you mean. Wrong time, wrong place. And then she saw the costumes on some of the kids. Oh shit, and it's about capes. What's the bet they save the world at least once? She was so sick of that narrative. Capes were good, but not that good. But Freda seemed so pleased to have caught it that she decided not to say anything. Besides, they were getting close to the audience now, and the last thing she wanted to do was air her dirty laundry in public.

Nobody appeared to be worried that they were sneaking in to the performance, so to speak. Freda parked her up at the back, next to the last row of folding chairs, and claimed a chair for herself. Then, with every evidence of pleased anticipation, she settled down to watch the show.

Glancing around, Jamie noted that only a few chairs were left empty. It looked like they'd estimated just right for the numbers watching, or perhaps they'd just been lucky. Anyway, it didn't matter to her. Freda had decided that she should endure an amateur production about capes, so endure it she would. After all, I've gone through worse.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she almost didn't hear the whoosh of air. But when a voice spoke beside her, she looked around.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

<><>​

Eidolon

David teleported into the sky above New York, then re-checked his phone for the precise details on where the play was being held. Central Park, Naumberg Bandshell. He'd had to look that one up, but now he knew where it was. Central Park had suffered from Behemoth's rampage back in '94, but the Bandshell had survived.

He had, he noted with satisfaction, timed it precisely. A visual enhancement, not unlike Legend's eyesight, told him that the audience was just now seating itself. The play was about to start, which meant it would be ending sooner rather than later.

Intellectually, he could understand Rebecca's directive. The public needed to feel that they could relate to their heroes, after all. Legend did it well, far better than he or Rebecca could manage, even with her vaunted Thinker genius at play. Oh well, time to play my part. So to speak.

Dropping straight down out of the sky, he landed directly behind the last row of seats. The closest free chair was next to a woman in a wheelchair. "Excuse me," he said politely. "Is this seat taken?"

The woman looked around and registered that he was standing there. But there was no dropped jaw and no evidence of fan-worship. "Nope," she said. "Knock yourself out." Then she turned her attention back to the stage. He waited for the classic double-take—some took longer than others to register who he was—but it never happened. This was a first for him; everyone had some sort of reaction. The impression he got was that she had no opinion regarding his existence, which was blatantly ridiculous.

Then the pretty blonde beside the woman in the wheelchair glanced around at him. If he'd been seeking a gratifying reaction, he got it from her. "Holy crap!" she hissed. "Jamie! It's Eidolon!"

"Well, yeah," the auburn haired woman replied. "I know." And even then she didn't look around at him.

"What do you mean, 'Well yeah, I know'?" demanded the blonde, echoing David's thoughts almost exactly. "It's Eidolon! He's only the most powerful Protectorate superhero ever!"

Jamie turned her head, but only to give him another glance, which missed being dismissive by the barest of margins. "Powerful, yeah. Superhero, no."

"Excuse me?" At this point, David felt that it was his duty to speak up. "I assure you, miss, I am a superhero." His pride pushed him to continue. "What makes you think you can dispute that?"

She sighed slightly—almost as if she were thinking, okay, now I have to deal with this idiot, though that couldn't be it—and turned her chair to face him more directly. As she did, her sleeve rode up to reveal very distinctive marks on her wrist. Though not new, they were the result of deliberately inflicted cuts, which spoke to severe depression on her part. Before he could properly re-evaluate her in this light, she spoke up.

"I dispute it," she said bluntly, "because there's no such thing as a superhero. You're all soldiers. You wear clothing so we recognise you for what you are, and you're all armed with bigger weapons than I'd ever be able to carry. And you never save the world. You just maintain the status quo. Which is what a soldier does." She shrugged. "I mean, I don't hold it against you. You're just doing what you can with what you've got. But I don't believe that capes are anything more than soldiers with uniforms that are a little bit fancier than normal."

"What?" David shook his head. "No. You're wrong. The Protectorate is full of heroes. I'm a hero. I've saved thousands of lives."

"Which is your job," she said patiently, as if he were hard of thinking. "To maintain the status quo. Sure, you save lives. I bet all the 'heroes' in the Protectorate don't save as many lives per year as the firefighters, the cops, the paramedics and so forth. And I've never seen a cape ever do anything to actually fix the world." She raised her eyebrows. "You ever done anything like that? Actually made the world a better place in some real, quantifiable way? Or do you just punch criminals and fix messes made by other powers?"

"Wait … no … what?" David tried not to retreat under the relentless questioning. I'm a hero. I know I am. "I fight Endbringers! They're—"

"—somehow related to powers," Jamie broke in. "All of human history, and they show up ten years after Scion makes his appearance? After capes start spreading across the globe? That's not a coincidence. And even if it was, they've got powers, which makes it a powers mess that you're dealing with anyway."

David couldn't argue with her on that front, so he switched tacks. "Okay, you're defining matters very closely, but granted. But you can't say I don't make the world a better place."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you don't make the world a worse place," Jamie conceded. "But that can be said of any soldier or any cop. We just don't have the power to do it. You do. What have you done, ever, that fixed an ongoing social or economic problem? Greening the deserts? Fixing the pollution problem? Fixing the energy problem? For that matter, where's our technological singularity? Moon bases and colonies on Mars?" She spread her hands. "Super-powers have been out there for thirty years and we're still waiting. How much longer?"

He tried not to wince at the mention of moon bases—the loss of Sphere and the subsequent rise of Mannequin was a sore point in the Protectorate as a whole—but she'd actually raised some very cogent questions. "Well, the problem with Tinkers is that for the most part, they're the only ones who can maintain their own equipment. So while we kind of had what some people called a tech boom, it really wasn't much of one. And if a Tinker did build a base on Mars, he'd be stuck there full-time making sure important components didn't fail."

"So don't use Tinkers," she pointed out. "We normals have actually solved about ninety-five percent of the problems associated with survival in just about any hostile environment you care to name. The big problem is actually getting us there, along with enough gear to survive." She gave him a challenging glare. "So why haven't you, or some of your colleagues, used your superhuman powers to bootstrap a Mars mission that way? Or did nobody ever think of that?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "But there are more issues at stake here than just 'getting a man on Mars'. Any mission has to be planned with the political situation in mind as well. And right now, politics is … messy." He took a deep breath, fully aware of how the woman was sitting. It was the way he'd sat in his own wheelchair once upon a time, wanting the universe to stop screwing him around, but having no way of achieving that aim.

"Yeah, okay," she conceded. "But how about all that other stuff? Food? Energy? Pollution? There's any amount of stuff you could be fixing. Right?"

"Again, politics comes into it," he said with a grimace. "The African governments might object if we just went into that area and started messing with their ecosystems. Short answer is that we can fix some problems, just not all of them."

"Name me five that don't involve supervillains," she challenged him.

"Umm …"

"Uh huh. Thought so."

<><>​

The play rolled on, but neither David nor Jamie noticed. He was used to people accepting his word on matters, but Jamie wanted to argue every point out, and she wasn't slow about calling him on bullshit. For her part, she'd introduced him to a whole new perspective that was as startling as it was unwelcome.

Have I really been doing what a hero does, or have I just been a soldier without ever knowing it?

Suddenly, he became aware that she was rolling her chair away.

"Wait, where are you going?" he asked.

"Play's over," she said, pointing at where the audience was just starting to turn toward him. "Time for you to meet your adoring fans."

"But we hadn't—"

"Come up with that list of five things? No, we hadn't." She gave him a direct look. "Get back to me when you think of them." With a grin that let him know she had him cornered, she rolled away across the grass.

<><>​

Monday, January 17
Brockton Bay
Jack Slash, Leader of the Slaughterhouse Two

"And they're not back yet?" Jack pulled his shirt on—it had been almost invisibly stitched back together, he noted—and looked queryingly at his Bonesaw. "How long has it been? And is there anything on the news?"

"They went out yesterday," she said. "And I tried the bus radio until the battery died. No matter what channel I went on to, there was nothing out of the ordinary. I haven't seen smoke rising, and I haven't heard sirens."

"Right," he muttered. He hadn't gotten any presentiment that they might be considering such an abandonment, but that had been before his indisposition. And Shatterbird had been acting a little oddly before she went off and disappeared over Brockton Bay. "I think it's time to lie low and fly under the radar for the moment, until we find out what's happened. Between Crawler, Mannequin, Hatchet Face and Siberian, I literally can't imagine anyone who could take them out without wrecking half the city in the process. It would have to be a concerted effort by all the capes in the city, combined with a million-to-one stroke of bad luck."

"What, like how Burnscar accidentally blew herself up?" asked Bonesaw innocently.

He shot her a suspicious look. "Not like that at all. That was an unfortunate incident arising from a perfectly understandable series of events. I'm talking more about … hmm …" He racked his brain, trying to determine a truly implausible scenario. "Say, if that idiot Tinker, L33t, built something that could take down the Siberian, and teamed up with … um, say, members of the Empire Eighty-Eight to defeat them while dressing like the Ghostbusters or something. I mean, that's ridiculously stupid and could never happen. What happened to Burnscar wasn't."

"Oh, okay." Bonesaw nodded. "That makes sense. So what's our next move?"

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Gathering information and finding out what did happen. We, my poppet, are going to dinner."



End of Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Seventeen: Loose Ends

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Monday, January 17, 2011
Paleo Platter Cafe
Amy Dallon

"Seriously, Ames, I have no idea why you haven't come here already," Vicky said cheerfully as she pushed open the door to the cafe. A little bell jingled as it swung shut behind them. "It's a great way to stay healthy." Her brand-new pixie cut, a result of having shorn her golden locks perilously close to the scalp, gave her an entirely different look.

Amy wondered how Vicky's fans were going to take it. She suspected there was going to be a rash of pixie cuts among the teenage cape fan section of the community. The funny thing was that, until Vicky went out as Glory Girl and people realised it was her, a lot of the attention that normally came her way was going to be absent. While Vicky's face was one of the most well-known in Brockton Bay, the drastic shortening of her hair changed her overall appearance enough that most people were looking straight past her. Even funnier was the fact that Vicky hadn't even noticed this yet. It was not dissimilar to the way many people ignored Amy once she took off the all-covering robes and facial scarf. Welcome to my world.

"Just never bothered, I guess," Amy replied, aware that her sister was looking back at her for an answer. "I don't go out that much on my own, you know." And I don't often go out in company, except when you set me up on your stupid double dates. Which don't come to places like this. But she'd never say the latter. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her sister's feelings.

"Well, you're in for a treat." Vicky moved up to the counter and smiled at the male cashier, dropping effortlessly into harmless-flirt mode. "Hi there. Table for two, please. We'll have your regular menu. No allergies." She treated him to a beaming smile, but kept her aura in check. For this, Amy was grateful; she didn't want to go through the embarrassing spectacle of the server staff drooling over her sister. Again.

Still, mundane flirting was bad enough. Here we go again. Amy stepped to the side to get out of the way of anyone else coming in, moving over to where the next two customers were waiting to be seated. The place actually looked fairly busy at the moment, but it looked like a couple of tables were about to open up.

The customers in front of them were a clean-shaven man in his mid to late thirties and a girl with brunette ringlets who looked to be about twelve or thirteen. For a moment, Amy wondered if she'd actually met the man before, as there was something oddly familiar about him. After a moment, she shrugged and dismissed the thought. Unless the guy was one of the heroes she'd healed over the years, it was almost certain that he just resembled someone she knew. And if he was a hero, she didn't want to accidentally out him.

The girl was studying a menu laid out on the counter intently, her nose wrinkling occasionally. Amy suspected she didn't make a habit of eating at paleo places very much either. Still, it was nice of the dad to take his kid to a cafe like this. Mark had done that for her and Vicky a few times, but rarely enough that it was a special occasion every time.

Amy glanced up idly as one of the servers approached the father and daughter in front of her. "Mr Cutter? Your table's over here, sir."

The man nodded and gave the server a charming smile. "Thank you, miss. Come along, poppet." He headed in the direction of the empty table. At the counter, the brunette girl turned to follow him, her hand swinging out and brushing momentarily against Amy's. It was a totally accidental contact, one which had to happen a dozen times a day to any one person. Most people didn't even notice it happening, though to Amy it was always somewhat irritating, as it gave her a complete body-snapshot of the person, detailing everything significant about their body and state of health.

In this case, her irritation was overwhelmed by the discovery that the ringleted brunette was a parahuman, and a very disturbing one indeed.

With hooded eyes, she watched the girl giggle as she caught up to her father and took his hand in hers. Normally, it would've been something she tried to put out of her mind, as she had no desire to out any independent capes in the city. But not only was the girl a parahuman, she was also absolutely loaded with implants and reservoirs containing lethal diseases and toxins … and her hair was normally blonde in colour. Added to the niggling familiarity of the father's face and the surname he'd used, this meant …

A lot of jigsaw-puzzle pieces clicked together at once. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck. There was only one pair of parahumans anywhere who fitted that description. That's Bonesaw and Jack Slash.

She must have managed to keep her first panicked reaction under control, because only Vicky looked at her oddly. "Ames? Is something the matter?" Trust Vicky, Miss Oblivious 2011 herself, to pick out her terror on the one occasion where she wanted the internal screaming to stay internal where it belonged. If I say it out loud, there'll be a panic, and people will die. This is the absolute worst place for something like this to happen. Probably why they picked it.

"Uh, no, I'm fine." Need to buy time, figure out what to do. She did her best to look and sound fine, but Vicky's bullshit-meter was obviously working at full strength today.

Her sister looked at her critically. "Nice try, Ames. That isn't gonna fly. Something's up. What is it?" She reached out and shook Amy's shoulder lightly. "C'mon. It's me. You can tell me."

Amy focused past her, trying to figure out what to do next. If she just walked over and immobilised Jack Slash, Bonesaw would probably unleash half a dozen lethal airborne viruses before Amy could get to her. And that was assuming Amy did get to her; some of the implants Bonesaw had built into herself were ridiculous.

Likewise, if she locked down Bonesaw, Jack Slash would almost certainly produce a knife and start killing everyone, starting with herself. Even immobilising Bonesaw was unlikely to be as easy as it sounded, given that the junior-age Tinker had apparently rearranged bits of her own nervous system to make such a thing harder. Seriously, who even did that?

"Order for Cutter."

The words, spoken by someone behind the counter, grabbed her attention and hung on. Even as the plan unfolded behind her eyes, she grabbed Vicky by the arm. "No time for that now," she said quietly. "I need you to distract that server." With her head, she indicated the teenage boy who was just then moving to accept the tray of food at the far end of the counter. "It's really important. Life or death."

For a long moment, she thought her sister was going to refuse, or demand details. Either one would waste time that nobody in the cafe could spare; this plan had just one chance of going through. Even worse, she couldn't simply demand more forcefully, because that had a strong chance of drawing the attention of the two notorious supervillains. Right now, though the sheer fluke of Vicky needing a haircut, neither one of them was being recognised. Anonymity, publicly decried by New Wave, was just what they needed right now.

After a searching glance at her face, Vicky seemed to come to a decision. "Okay, but once we're done, I wanna know why." Turning, she led the way to the teenage boy who had just accepted the tray. "Hi," she said, turning her flirt mode all the way up.

He gulped, for which Amy didn't blame him. Being flirted at by Vicky was akin to being caught in a hurricane. Things were going to get interesting, and nobody but Vicky knew where it was going to end up. "H-hi," he stammered. "Can I help you?"

"I really hope so," Vicky breathed, leaning in close. "Can you show me where the bathroom is?"

Unseen by the server, given that his entire attention was focused on Vicky, Amy stepped in next to the both of them. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she licked her finger.

<><>​

Taylor

"So what are we doing here again?" I asked as we stepped off of the bus. I looked across the road and down the street a little at the imposing glass-clad edifice of the Forsberg Gallery. Just across the road, a bell jingled cheerily as the door swung shut on a cafe I'd never seen before. A brightly-coloured sign advertised it as 'The Paleo Platter'.

"You keep saying how normal you are," Lisa explained. "I want to show you just how bullshit your powers are." She pointed at a series of dark lumps in the pavement just outside the Forsberg, encircled by brightly-coloured tape. "That, over there, is what terrified a psychopathic monster into becoming a good guy."

Even though I'd seen the anvils on the news, I was definitely interested in taking a closer look. However, right then, the snacks I'd had and the steady movement of the bus ride had combined to produce a little pressure that was starting to draw my attention. "That's pretty cool," I said. "But I kinda need to go to the bathroom right now." I indicated the cafe across the road. "Can you wait a bit for me?"

"Ew," Alec said, deadpan. "I did not need that image." Deliberately, he turned his back and began to browse the nearest window, which happened to hold a selection of ladies' shoes. I couldn't tell if his interest was real or feigned.

Brian caught my eye and grimaced. "Don't take it personally," he said quietly. "It's just the way he is."

"I'd already figured that out," I said dryly. It seemed he'd gotten over being splattered by his ice-cream cone. Which I was actually okay with. I preferred that he be naturally obnoxious than artificially polite. "I'll be back in a moment." Taking Chick Norris from where he was riding on my shoulder, I held him out to Rachel. "Could you please watch him for me? He likes you."

"Sure," grunted the auburn-haired girl, accepting my tiny companion with exaggerated care. He cheeped at her, causing a tiny smile to cross her face.

As I started out across the street, I heard Alec's voice again. "I'm surprised you aren't going with her. Aren't you girls supposed to go to the bathroom in packs?" There was the sound of a light thwack, as someone got smacked. "Ow! Why did you do that?"

"Because we don't need to go." Lisa's voice was patient. "And you're disrespecting her again."

I didn't hear any more, because I was pushing open the door to the cafe. The bell swung with the movement, barely tinkling as I closed it. For a moment I thought of asking someone where the bathrooms were, then I saw the door with a bathroom sign on it. The server was busy at the far end of the counter, talking to two girls about my age. Before he could notice me and ask if I was going to be ordering anything, I pushed open the door and ducked into the corridor.

<><>​

New York Public Library
Eidolon

David stood on the roof of the imposing building. Below, Fifth Avenue was busy with traffic, but he didn't see it. His mind was awhirl with unfamiliar thoughts and worries, all placed there by the auburn-haired woman with the wounded soul. That she was wounded, he had no doubt; he had seen the symptoms. Once upon a time, he'd shared the symptoms.

If it had been anyone else, in any other place, he would've dismissed her words and passed off her concerns as sour grapes. After all, the envy shown toward him as the world's most powerful cape was real and palpable. He'd experienced it before, from both capes and unpowered people.

If she'd shown any of the same, he would've known how to handle it, but she hadn't. Instead of if I had your powers, I'd be doing a better job with them, it was you have power. Why are you wasting it?

He'd tried to push back on her argument that he was no hero, by changing the focus of what she was saying. Police and other first responders also wore uniforms, he'd pointed out. Did that mean she thought they weren't heroes?

Her expression had expressed plainly that he wasn't seeing what she was driving at. Of course first responders were heroes. They routinely went into danger that could actually kill them as a matter of course, without powers as a backup. Capes, on the other hand, took on perilous situations like that because it was easy for them.

Now, he couldn't get her final challenge out of his head. A list of five ways you've changed the world for the better, that didn't involve cleaning up messes caused by powers. It was a simple enough demand, one that he had never envisaged having to meet. In fact, he couldn't meet it. Which meant he'd just have to start the list now. The trouble was, he had no idea how to accomplish this. Which was patently ridiculous. He was Eidolon. He'd—

"Halt, evildoer! Surrender at once and I will refrain from beating you senseless!"

The bright, laughing tone was exceedingly familiar to David. Hearing quick running footsteps on the rooftop behind him, he turned to face the speaker, but he was too slow. His hood was yanked down over his mask, then there was a brief pressure atop his head. Just as if someone had vaulted over him, using his head as a rest on the way. Only one person he knew was brave enough, or foolhardy enough, to use that move on him.

"Mouse Protector," he stated firmly, turning once more while pulling his hood up again. "This is not the time." He didn't even bother asking what she was doing in Manhattan. Since she'd left the Wards and declined to continue with the Protectorate, she'd been a free spirit, moving where the whim took her. Mostly she was based in Boston, but that was more a statistical matter than an established fact.

"Pfft," she said, lounging on the sloped stone parapet, one hand propping up her head with its mouse-eared helmet and the other posed elaborately on her hip. "It's never the time with you, Eidolon. Always looking for the next baddie to beat up, and heaven forfend they might not be up to your elevated standards." She twisted agilely and flipped off of her temporary resting place, pulling a perfect landing before him. "So, tall, dark and brooding, what's got you up here glaring at the building like you want to launch it into orbit? And if you are gonna launch it into orbit, can I watch?"

With an aggravated sigh, he released the breath he'd inhaled to tell her off. Shouting at Mouse Protector did little except raise the blood pressure and incite her to ever higher levels of attention-seeking behaviour. "I'm not launching anything into orbit," he said carefully. "I just came here to find the answer to a problem."

"Ooooh, a quest!" Stepping in close, she put her arm around his neck. "What's up? Who can I beat senseless to prove a point?" A pause, considering. "Or a wedgie. Wedgies work well, too. Last time I fought Ravager, I hung her underwear over the nearest flagpole. While she was still wearing it. She was still trying to get down when the PRT rolled up and arrested her." She gave a happy sigh. "Good times."

David winced. There was a reason nobody (except Ravager) wanted to fight Mouse Protector. She was so camp and cheesy about it (the word was deliberately chosen) that being beaten by her added a whole extra layer of humiliation over and above the method she used to defeat said villain.

Ravager was a special case, of course. Certain capes had their nemeses, the ones who would keep coming back after them no matter how many times they were defeated or thwarted. There were several theories about this, though David tended toward the one regarding comic books and social expectations. Either way, Ravager was definitely up there in the 'obsessive pursuit' stakes. She'd been captured by Mouse Protector several times, but she couldn't seem to resist coming back for yet another shot at the ridiculously costumed hero. David was reasonably sure that Ravager was getting close to her three strikes, where she'd go into the Birdcage and Mouse Protector would no longer have to worry about her.

In any case, he had other things on his mind. "No, I'm not trying to figure out how to beat someone," he said. "This is different. I'm trying to figure out how to change the world. To fix a problem that hasn't got anything to do with powers."

She performed an overly dramatic double-take at him, as if he'd just suggested that she dress in a tutu and sing a duet with Behemoth. "Wait, you what again now?"

He sighed internally. The concept had been hard for him to grasp as well, but now that he was used to it, it seemed obvious to him. Have I been wasting my power all this time, in the world's biggest dick-measuring contest? Jamie hadn't quite used that term, but he suspected she'd approve of it. "I want to fix things that aren't related to powers," he reiterated. "I just don't know where to start. Which was why I'm at the library. I figured that I could do some research …"

He trailed off, because she was now laughing so hard that she had to lean against him. He'd seen her laugh before, on the few times he'd seen her in action against villains. Then, she'd actually let loose her mirth while doing something else, such as dancing around the miscreants (a favourite term of hers) with her sword in play. Now, she was just letting out full-bodied cackles. He wasn't sure, but tears may have been running out of her eyes.

"What?" he asked irritably as she gradually regained control of herself. "It's not funny."

"Hell yes, it's funny," she said with a giggle. "You thought you had to research what's wrong with the world?"

His irritation grew. "Well, I know there are problems," he said defensively. "I just don't know where to start. Which one is the greatest?"

"Riiight," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "Same ol' Eidolon. Always gotta throw yourself at the biggest, baddest opposition. Can't ever lower yourself to face the little guy, because only the big one's worthy of you."

David felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. " … fuck," he muttered. "You're right. I was doing it all over again. And because I couldn't make up my mind …"

"You weren't doing anything at all," she finished helpfully. "Way to solve them problems, buddy boy. Want my advice?"

Before he could even think twice about the incongruity of someone like him seeking advice from someone like Mouse Protector, he nodded. "Please?"

A smile spread across her face. "I thought you'd never ask. So, pin back those ears and listen, 'cause Mama Mousey has some ideas to drop into them." She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. "First, we compile a list …"

<><>​

Brockton Bay
Paleo Platter Cafe
Amy Dallon

"Um, um, um, over there, miss," stammered the server, nodding toward the door marked BATHROOMS, just as it swung shut behind someone. He never saw Amy brush her finger over the top of the food on the larger plate, then dipping momentarily into the bowl of soup. To her satisfaction, the soup was only a little warmer than body temperature; the highly modified e. coli she'd deposited there would find it a fertile breeding ground. As soon as she'd done this, she dropped her hand below the level of the tray.

"Thank you so much," cooed Vicky. If this had been a cartoon, Amy wouldn't have been surprised to see steam shooting out the poor boy's ears. Still, she didn't want him dropping the tray and undoing all of her hard work, so she took Vicky by the arm and tugged her back slightly. Vicky took that as the hint it was supposed to be, and stepped back out of his way.

"You're welcome," the boy replied with a slightly dazed smile. "But I, uh, gotta take this tray …"

"That's all right," purred Vicky. "Thanks again." She bestowed another dazzling smile on him—Amy tried, and mostly succeeded, to not feel jealous—then turned away, ostensibly to go to the bathroom. Amy turned with her, ensuring to keep her back to the table with the two supervillains. This caused a spot between her shoulder-blades to itch just on sheer principle, but the last thing she wanted was for either one of them to recognise her as Panacea.

"Okay," murmured Vicky as they made their way back to where they'd been waiting, "what's going on? I know you did something, but what?"

"Give it a few moments," Amy whispered back. "I'll let you know everything. But right now, things have got to look perfectly normal." She knew this was out of character for her, and that Vicky had to be bursting with questions. Fortunately, her sister obviously decided to not let her normal curiosity run rampant just this time.

Picking up the same menu that Bonesaw had handled, she brushed her fingertips over the areas where the murderous bio-Tinker had held it. All she found were the normal run of micro-organisms left behind from skin contact. Nothing nasty or virulent met her senses, which quieted her worries just a little. She's not spreading diseases just for the hell of it. Good.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the man she'd tentatively identified as Jack Slash took a spoonful of his soup. While she was ninety to ninety-five percent sure it was him, there was still that last niggling doubt, which was why she hadn't laced the food with something immediately fatal. Nor did she want Bonesaw getting suspicious and spraying the place with plague vectors. She was good, but there was only so much she could do when someone was deliberately spreading diseases.

On the second spoonful, his expression twitched, and she tensed. If he'd made them, things were going to go sideways very fast indeed. But he never so much as looked their way. Instead, he frowned slightly as if noticing something amiss but not knowing what it was.

The third spoonful was his undoing. He'd just taken the spoon from his mouth when the first cramps hit. This particular strain of e. coli had never been found in nature; where the first symptoms of food poisoning generally took more time than this to manifest, she'd supercharged their reproductive cycle and virulence. She'd also installed a genetic marker that would cause the entire strain to die out in half an hour, because gifting all of Brockton Bay with explosive diarrhoea would almost certainly bring her unwanted notice.

She could almost admire his fortitude. He stood, holding himself upright and tall, before making his way between the tables toward the bathrooms. His gut had to be a frenzied breeding ground of the things, doing their best to make him evacuate everything between his oesophagus and his rectum and yet there he was, strolling along as if nothing much were the matter with him.

Just as the door closed behind him, the server came back to them. "Excuse me," the boy said diffidently. "Your table is just over here."

Amy followed him along to the designated table, finding to her relief that it wasn't far from where Bonesaw was sitting. The girl was eating fastidiously, one small bite at a time. She was an incredibly neat diner, with the food arranged on her plate with almost military precision. To her relief, Amy noted that Bonesaw hadn't tried to steal any of Jack Slash's food. Which, now that Amy came to think of it, was only a common sense precaution. The upside was that she could now carry out the second part of her plan.

As Vicky sat and the server went back to the counter, Amy casually wandered over to where Bonesaw was eating. "Excuse me," she said. "But we're out of salt. Could I please borrow yours?"

Bonesaw looked up at her. Even though she'd made the previous contact, Amy found herself almost doubting the veracity of her own powers. Surely this was just an innocent twelve year old, just as she appeared to be.

"Of course," the girl said politely, reaching for the salt. The movement didn't quite complete itself as she paid attention to Amy for the first time. Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute. You're—"

Amy lunged forward. At the same time, Bonesaw shoved against the table, throwing herself backward out of the chair. At full extension, as Amy fell over the table, spreading food far and wide, her reaching fingertip touched Bonesaw's for just a fraction of a second.

That was long enough. She didn't have time to do anything really fancy, so she temporarily stunned Bonesaw's voluntary nervous system. Falling out of the chair, Bonesaw flopped helplessly on the floor. Winded, Amy started to lift herself off the table, fully aware that she was wearing some of the food she'd treated. In point of fact, she was right then almost as potent a biohazard as Bonesaw.

And then Vicky was there, helping her up. "You okay there, Ames? What the hell's going on? Why did you attack that girl?"

"Bone … saw," wheezed Amy. "Bonesaw. She's Bonesaw. The other guy … the other guy is Jack Slash." She did her best to inhale, then she looked down at her clothing. It was going to need some serious laundering. Also, disinfecting. I'll do that when I can think straight.

Vicky stared at her. "You are seriously shitting me." She gestured down at where Bonesaw was glaring up at Amy with an unnerving amount of hatred. "Are you certain?"

"Sure I'm certain," Amy said. "She's loaded down with enough diseases to depopulate the entire East Coast." Now that she felt she was capable of standing on her own, she bent down to grab the younger girl's arm. Her movement was only just in time. Just as she made contact, she felt Bonesaw's nervous system stutter into action again, a good thirty seconds ahead of what Amy would've expected. What the hell has she done to herself that she can recover so quickly? Razor claws emerged from under Bonesaw's fingernails, each one coated with a different virulent disease. Amy identified the signal to retract them and sent it, then had to contend with a different impulse racing through Bonesaw's body from her brain, trying to send the apparently innocent girl into a berserker frenzy. Incredibly, even though she shut it down, the impulse still seemed to get through; the girl convulsed and tried to surge to her feet.

What the fuck is going on here? Amy manually deadened Bonesaw's major muscle groups, but the girl had so damn many, and now it seemed that the disease reservoirs were preparing to open and dump their lethal cargo into the air.

Amy had long ago sworn to never affect someone's brain. It was, to her, a step too far. So she'd made it her touchstone; the brain was sacrosanct. But here she had someone whose body was refusing to play by the rules. Locked into her own skull, Bonesaw had flipped over into a grotesque version of fight-or-flight, and she'd chosen fight. Worse, she was somehow transmitting signals to her body without the use of her nervous system. Amy had to watch her every second to shut down whatever new way her body tried to get free.

Some, she knew, would've had no compunction in killing the girl outright. Others, Vicky included, would have gone straight to shutting down Bonesaw's brain, rules or no rules. But while she knew that this was intellectually the best move to make, she was damned if she was going to let some supervillain force her to break her own rules and take one more step to becoming one herself.

Manually, she locked down the disease reservoirs, grimacing as they tried to open themselves, but her overrides held at least for the moment.

"Vicky," she said tightly. "The guy who just went into the bathroom is Jack Slash. No, don't go after him," she added hastily. With her free hand, she waved off the server who was only now belatedly coming over to see what had happened. "Stay back. It's not safe."

"Are you all right?" he asked, coming closer anyway. "What happened? What's wrong with that girl?"

"Stay back, she said," Vicky snapped, intervening herself between Amy and the boy. Rising into the air slightly, until it was obvious that she was flying, she raised her voice just a little. "If I can have your attention, please? I'm Glory Girl, from New Wave. This is a supervillain situation. Please leave the cafe in a calm and orderly fashion. This is for your own safety. Please leave the cafe in a calm and orderly fashion. This is a supervillain situation."

Wonder of wonders, it worked. Vicky was good at talking to people, as Amy already knew. By the time she finished speaking, people were already rising and filing out of the cafe. If they hurried just a little, that was understandable. But nobody panicked and (more importantly) there was no eruption of a vengeful Jack Slash from the bathrooms with knife in hand, looking for blood. She herself was busy with putting out the ongoing series of brushfires that Bonesaw had triggered within her body. It seemed that her entire spine could detach and wriggle off on its own if it had to, taking her brain with it. Amy only got the barest warning that this was going to happen, and shut down that nerve impulse, as well. How is she even doing that?

Hoisting Bonesaw to her feet, Amy half-carried, half-dragged her toward the door, being very careful not to lose contact with the supervillain's skin. Another crazy impulse from the brain set the sweat glands to producing something not far removed from batrachotoxin. Amy managed to shut that down as well, for the most part, but she was going to be very careful about where she came into contact with the girl. And she couldn't hand her over to anyone at all.

"What are we doing now?" asked Vicky, her gaze intently on the bathroom door. She tensed as it opened, but it was only two women. They blinked at the scene, but obeyed Vicky's hand gestures and headed out the door. "Do I go in there?" Her hands closed into fists. "He can't hurt me with his knives, and I can punch him through as many walls as I need to, until he gives up."

"Don't underestimate him," Amy said flatly. "If he's got one-tenth of the prep work in him that Bonesaw's carrying, there's no telling what he can do. We're gonna back off. Call the PRT. They can surround the place and shoot him right in the head when he sticks it up." She dragged Bonesaw out the door. "And this one can go into high-end containment until I can safely decontaminate her."

"Okay, sure, I guess." Vicky gave Bonesaw a dubious look, but didn't touch her. "Is she really giving you that much trouble? And what did you do to Jack Slash?"

Amy grimaced. "Remember the time you fought Hookwolf, and he just kept reforming and coming back at you? Her entire body's like that. And as for Jack Slash, I gave him an extreme case of food poisoning."

Despite herself, Vicky let out a chuckle. "Well, it certainly got him out of the way." Carefully, she closed the outer door of the cafe. "Okay, those two were the last. Customers out the door match plates on tables. Let's get back out of the way and I'll make that call."

<><>​

Taylor

It took me longer than I'd expected to get a stall. There were only two of them, and they were both occupied when I got in there. Both women finished at almost exactly the same time. I picked a stall, locked the door, and proceeded to do what I needed to do.

The pressure had been greater than I'd realised, and the relief was heavenly. I was able to lean back and relax for the first time since the Chicken Festival, though that particular event had been no great problem for me. The fried-egg sandwiches in particular had been quite nice, and it was where I'd acquired Chick Norris.

Since then, things had just gotten sillier with Russian Roulette's abortive attack. In his broken babbling after the fact, he'd revealed that his power had 'told' him somehow about me. Something about two or three torn-out news articles coming together to spell my name and where I was going to be. Lisa had seemed to make sense of it, but I couldn't keep track of his ramblings.

Still, no harm had come to me or my new friends. Alec, in particular, had taken great pleasure in making the ex-Merchant minions slap themselves in the face or headbutt each other. Brian had been more professional about it, subduing and securing them, while Lisa had produced a small pistol and covered the secured ones. Rachel and her dogs had ensured that none of them got away; she didn't even need to make them grow. Growl, yes. Grow, no.

My musings were interrupted by heartfelt moaning and groaning from the other side of the wall that formed the side of my cubicle. If I was not much mistaken, that was the male bathrooms in there. It sounded like someone was having a less than pleasant time. I hoped that they would soon get over whatever was plaguing them.

Finishing up, I washed my hands and wiped them dry. Just as I opened the door, I heard the one from the male bathrooms open as well.

<><>​

Jack Slash

There were many unpleasant experiences a man could go through. Jack had undergone quite a few of them. In his opinion, the last ten minutes ranked fairly high on the scale. Fortunately (for a given definition of 'fortunate') he hadn't had much to eat before he started on the soup, so that when the spasms hit, they were almost all directed downward rather than upward.

As he staggered off the toilet pedestal, he felt as though some unkind deity had taken hold of his gastrointestinal system and wrung it like a wet cloth. Every last ounce of past and present food had been squeezed from him in a series of muscular convulsions that had taken the concept of 'peristalsis' and turned it up past eleven. He wasn't totally certain, as he performed the requisite cleaning actions, that some part of his lower intestines hadn't ended up in the bowl with the rest of the expelled material. The cramps had certainly been energetic enough.

Splashing water over his face, he checked to see what he looked like. 'Death warmed over' was an apt description, given the pallor of his skin and the hollowness of his eyesockets right about then. But at least he wasn't doing his best to emulate a fire hose with a certain orifice any more, even though said orifice was certainly going to be burning for the next day or so. Whatever the hell had been wrong with his food, it had no doubt passed through him by now.

The cold impact of water with his face brought him back to a certain level of alertness, and he essayed a smile in the mirror as he dried his hands. Still a charming bastard, he decided complacently. From long habit, he checked the knives sheathed on each forearm and down the back of his neck. Everything was still there. While he didn't think it was going to be necessary to slaughter everyone in the cafe, there was no sense in not being prepared. Of course, whoever had prepared his food was going to have to die, just on general principle. But that could wait until later.

As he pulled open the door into the corridor, a girl stepped from the ladies' bathroom just down the way and headed out in front of him. He seemed to recall that she'd gone in while he and Bonesaw had been waiting for the server to stop flirting with those two girls and bring them their meal. She stopped when she reached the doorway into the cafe itself, looking from side to side. As he caught up with her, he heard her ask, "Uh, where's everyone gone?"

The question put his instincts into high gear. His normal level of paranoia, exacerbated by being in this city when he'd never intended to come here in the first place, notched up a few levels. Stepping forward, he looked over her shoulder to where the cafe was, indeed, empty. There wasn't even the ever-present clatter of dishes being washed in the back. The acrid stink of meat burning on the grill clinched it for him. Patrons and staff alike had evacuated the cafe … his Bonesaw with them.

His eyes went to the table where they'd been sitting, then narrowed as he saw the disarrayed crockery, the fallen chair, and the food smeared everywhere. It was obvious what had happened; someone had identified them and taken advantage of his unfortunate situation. Bonesaw must have been taken by surprise and disabled very quickly indeed, given the lack of bodies or blood in the room.

"Okay, this is new. What's going on?" asked the girl. Of greater than average height for a teen, she had long black curly hair and round-lensed glasses. She seemed to be more curious than frightened.

"What's going on, my little one, is that you're going to be on the news." Jack grabbed her around the upper arms and shoulders with his left arm. When he flexed his wrist in a certain way, the knife attached to his right forearm slid down into his hand.

He didn't add that her newsworthiness would be as the latest victim of Jack Slash. That sort of thing tended to make people fight. But she wouldn't die right now. That would happen later, once the forces of law and order had let him go in the vain hope that she'd be released unharmed. The only people the Nine didn't kill out of hand were those whom they recruited, and even that wasn't a guarantee.

This was, he realised belatedly, just what he needed. All he had to do was force the return of Bonesaw and get the attention of the media, and his missing team members would be able to zero in on him. The capes would come after him of course, but no cape had ever been able to tag him, and none ever would. He was just that good. And in the meantime he had a hostage, which meant the cops and PRT would be forced to hold their fire.

"Ah," she said as he tucked the knife up under her jaw. She seemed preternaturally calm, or perhaps that was barely restrained panic. "I see. Are you anyone special?"

"You could say so," he gritted, irritated by the inference that he might be merely mundane. That was a word he'd worked hard to ensure would never be used to describe him. "I'm Jack Slash, leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Actually, I have," she said, still far too calm for his liking. Then she frowned. "I thought you'd be taller. And what happened to your beard?"

The memory of Crawler's unfortunate effusion intersecting with Burnscar's flame caused him to grind his teeth for a moment. "I'm in disguise," he lied. "And the rest of the Nine is quite nearby, so you're best off not attempting to escape. I'm a patient man, but Hatchet Face can be quite … testy. Open the door, if you please."

Reaching out, she pulled the door open obediently enough, and they shuffled out into the late afternoon sun. He was half-expecting police or PRT to already be on site, but there was a distinct lack of either one. Instead, on the other side of the road, the former patrons of the cafe were spread out into a crowd, all watching him. With them were some teens who he was certain hadn't been in the cafe. Why his attention was drawn to them, he wasn't sure. One, for some unknown reason, was holding a baby chick and had several dogs around her feet.

However, he didn't care about either adolescents, canines or poultry. He did care about Bonesaw, or at least he liked to think he did. She'd been his creation from the very beginning, turning a naïve little girl in the first flush of her power from a would-be miracle surgeon into a murderous munchkin with a body count rivalling his own.

"Where is she?" he shouted. "Where's Bonesaw?"

"Here." The voice came from off to the side. He turned his head, then shuffled the girl around slightly. She neither struggled nor resisted, which made his efforts easier while at the same time puzzling him slightly. Was she just submissive by nature? Did she want to die? Or was she that extreme rarity, a Nine groupie?

His Bonesaw hung limply, like a marionette with the strings cut, in the hands of a frizzy-haired brunette some five yards down the sidewalk. Her body twitched from time to time, but she never truly woke up. Beside the brunette was a blonde with a pixie cut and street clothes, hovering about three feet off the ground. "Surrender," the blonde stated flatly, and he felt the stirrings of fear. "You can't get away."

"On the contrary … Glory Girl," Jack said, making an educated guess. The blonde didn't contradict him, so he figured he was on the money. Which would make the brunette Panacea, which was probably why Bonesaw wasn't decimating the neighbourhood. The bio-Tinker had waxed lyrical on the possibilities to be explored if they were to capture and recruit New Wave's PR golden girl. "I will most certainly get away. Also, you two will hand over Bonesaw and then back off, or I will cut this girl's throat."

"No, you won't." It was the girl in his arms. "I'm the only reason Glory Girl isn't taking your head off your shoulders right now. She's right, you know. You have lost. You lost the moment you entered the city." She turned her head to look up at him. "And you really lost the moment you threatened my life."

The fear ramped up dramatically, washing through his body. His eye unerringly found Glory Girl, and he waved the knife in her direction. "Quit it, girl," he warned her. "I've heard of your aura. Keep it up and your sister's going to have a second mouth under her jaw." He considered doing just that, but refrained for two reasons. The first was that turning the tables on them and capturing Panacea for Bonesaw to play with would be amazingly cathartic. Secondly, he was reasonably sure that doing this would drive Glory Girl into an insane rage which Jack might not survive, even with the hostage he had. In fact, he wasn't even sure about this particular hostage but decided to hold on to her anyway, despite her ominous warnings. Or perhaps because of them; he was never one to do what he was told. In any case, a hostage in the hand was worth two in the crowd.

The fear died away, and he allowed himself a triumphant grin. There was still an undercurrent of it, but not as bad as it had been before.

Looking around, he decided where he needed to go next. This cafe was a poky little place, barely noticeable by anyone. But the art gallery next door was definitely a landmark. Once the news started reporting on his location, any members of his team who were paying attention could home in on him and then the fun would really start. With that in mind, he started dragging the teenage girl down the sidewalk in the direction of the gallery. Once I get inside, we can play cat and mouse all day long.

Bonesaw, he decided, could keep a little longer. Right now, he could tell that the New Wave girls were not open to doing the swap—and Glory Girl really could take his head off if he killed his current hostage—but all that he required was that Panacea drop her guard for even a second. That could wait till the others showed.

<><>​

Vicky

"I think I've got a shot at taking him," muttered Vicky, glaring at the supervillain as he guided his hostage toward the frontage of the Forsberg Gallery. The trouble was, the girl was so tall that she went a long way toward blocking Vicky's view of the man holding her. "Think I should take it?"

"Not right now," observed a new voice. Vicky looked around to see a blonde with her hair in a complicated French braid watching the action. Her expression was almost dispassionate, but Vicky caught the hint of a grin dancing across her face. "In fact, don't bother at all. He's got no idea how badly he's just stuck his dick in the meat-grinder. Plus, your sister's got her hands full with Bonesaw. She can't deal with more wounded right now."

Vicky stared at the newcomer. "What the hell?" she demanded. "Who are you, and what do you mean?"

The girl's grin grew into a full-on smirk. She offered her hand. "Tattletale, at your service," she said politely. "Ex-villain, current minion and gal-pal to the most awesome cape ever." She nodded toward the teenage girl currently being held hostage by Jack Slash. "Her."

That got her a double blink from both Vicky and Amy. "Okay," Vicky decided after a moment. "You're gonna have to explain that to me."

Tattletale's smirk intensified. The levels of smugness rolling off of her, Vicky figured, would be just about visible from space. "You might be wondering why the number of villains around town has dropped off so dramatically in the last few days …"

<><>​

Assault

"Console to all units. We have a report from Glory Girl that Jack Slash and Bonesaw have been spotted in the Paleo Platter Cafe, next to the Forsberg Gallery. Bonesaw is in custody, Jack Slash is not. Attend immediately and render all assistance, over."

Adrenaline spiked through Ethan's brain. Eyeing the building he was currently on a ballistic arc toward, he recalculated his jump to change directions. "Assault, here. We're about one minute away. En route, over."

"Battery, here. En route with Assault, over." As he kicked off the building, he saw the silver-blue blur of his wife blazing down the street to the next corner.

He'd never fought Jack Slash before, but the guy was reportedly a challenge. He was really good at ducking and dodging, and not being there when the blow landed. That was fine. Ethan was pretty good at that sort of thing, too.

"Console to Assault and Battery. Other units are inbound, but won't be on site for another fifteen minutes. Take all due care, over."

Despite his earlier bravado, Ethan nodded seriously. Alone he might be, but Jack Slash was no pushover. He'd proven that many times over the years. "Roger that, Console. Assault, out."

<><>​

Forsberg Gallery
Seventeenth Floor
James Aramis

"Now, I expect you to take extra care with this," James fretted. He watched as the workman carefully ratcheted the tie-down strap on the player piano. It had come all the way from Carlsbad, California in pristine condition. If he had anything to do it, it would return there in the same shape. Rather than holding it down on the forks, the strap was there to restrain the piano from sliding off them. Thus, it was attached to the front of the forklift at both ends, with thick padding to prevent the pianola from being scratched by the metal frame.

"I got this, sir," grunted the forklift driver, tucking in the end of the strap with easy competence. He plucked the strap once, and nodded to himself as it thrummed briefly. "See? Ain't nothin' to worry about."

I thought that once before. But James Aramis was a man who had learned to delegate to the competent, and the forklift driver certainly seemed to know his job. He moved back to the mandated safe distance as the stocky man climbed on board the electric forklift. Once he was clear, the man turned the switch that started it. Almost silently, it thrummed to life. Raising the forks along with their precious cargo was a little more noisy, but only by a matter of degree.

He studied the whole operation with anxious eyes. Ever since the anvil debacle three days previously, he'd become almost paranoid about moving exhibits into place and back into storage. Nothing untoward had happened since that fateful day. Moreover, Director Piggot of the PRT had personally telephoned him and assured him that this was a cape-related incident and thus fully covered by insurance. But still, he didn't like that it had happened at all. James Aramis was a man of habit and routine, and he hated that something so drastically out of the ordinary had occurred in his gallery.

As the forklift turned in a slow circle, its wide soft tyres squeaking almost inaudibly on the marble flooring, James took note of a detail that had heretofore escaped his notice.

Player pianos were called such because perforated paper rolls could be attached to a mechanism within the body of the piano. Via ingenious mechanisms, pedals scrolled the paper from one roll to another and also worked air-pumps that drew air in through the holes that had been punched in the paper. These allowed the piano to play popular tunes that might be entirely unknown to the operator of the pianola, which made the instrument far more versatile than a standard piano, if more complicated.

To use the paper rolls, however, a sliding panel had to be opened in the front of the piano. During the exhibition, of course, the panel had been kept open so that the operation of the piano could be demonstrated to the public at large. For those used to songs that had been digitised and could easily be accessed via a smartphone or computer, the idea of music being recorded on a paper roll and played back by sitting on a stool and pedalling was almost beyond comprehension.

What James saw now, however, was that the sliding panel hadn't been closed all the way. Or perhaps it had been closed, and for some reason had been reopened by a handspan or so. It posed no danger to the pianola like that. In fact, the whole thing could be packed away and transported back to Carlsbad with that panel open. But it felt sloppy to James to leave it like that.

"The panel is open!" he called as the forklift trundled past him on the way to the freight elevator. "You're going to need to close it!"

"Panel?" asked the forklift driver, turning his head to look back at James. "What panel?" He was only travelling at a steady walking pace, but to James' disquiet, he was nearing the spot where the anvils had gone out the window. The glass had been replaced, but he'd been in a hurry and regular laminated glass had been harder to source in a hurry, so he'd had a sheet of standard glass installed, and had a rope barrier set up so that nobody was even inclined to lean against it. Come Friday, he'd have a proper window ready to install over the weekend.

"The panel on the front of the piano!" James called, trotting after the man. "It's—look out!"

His sudden exclamation was due to a mass of butterflies which had suddenly appeared where no butterfly should be. Not just one or two, or even three. There were maybe a dozen of these, pouring over the top of the piano and swarming back toward the man driving the forklift.

"Look out for wha—fuck!" yelled the man, suddenly finding himself blinded by flashing blue and black wings. If he'd been facing ahead from the beginning, he may have been all right, but the action of turning translated to his hands when he was startled, and the forklift swerved.

Straight toward the window.

<><>​

Taylor

"So where are we going?" I asked as Jack Slash and I moved crabwise down the sidewalk, so as to use me as a human shield against anyone trying to attack him. The last time this had happened, I'd been a little more apprehensive about what was going on. However, given what had happened to Kaiser and Hookwolf, I was reasonably sanguine about the outcome of this particular hostage situation. Assuming, of course, nobody got killed trying to rescue me. I watched as Lisa spoke to Glory Girl and Panacea, almost certainly passing on that little bit of wisdom.

Off to the side, I could see Brian and the others. The big guy's shoulders were hunching, like he wanted to launch himself at Jack Slash, but we both knew he wouldn't get anywhere near close enough. Alec was watching narrowly, as if considering making the villain drop his knife. That could have possibilities, I figured, but I didn't imagine for a second that Jack Slash would only ever have one knife on his person. And finally, Rachel was just watching; Chick Norris on her upturned palm and a look of patient expectation on her face. I got the impression that she didn't know what was going to happen to Jack Slash, but whatever it was, she was going to enjoy the show.

"Into the Forsberg Gallery," he said shortly. He sounded irritated at my question, but keeping it from me wasn't exactly going to happen. With his knife hovering around my throat, I was there for the duration.

"Oh, okay." I glanced down and to the side. "Watch the anvils."

"What?" He looked down himself, where he'd been just about to trip over the nearest one. Up close, they were even more impressive than they'd been on TV; eight anvils of varying size, spaced around the circumference of a circle about five feet across. Around them was strung the 'parahuman incident' tape that the PRT liked to put up. In this case, it was probably more to prevent people from falling over the anvils than from any lingering power effect. "What the fuck? Is this some kind of public sculpture?"

"So to speak," I agreed with a grin I couldn't hide. "Turns out that one of our local supervillains annoyed the wrong cape, and that's what happened." This might not have sounded as impressive as my power decided to make Coil its bitch, but I'd already given the idiot holding me one warning. He wasn't getting any more.

"This goddamn city," he muttered. He was keeping relatively close to the wall and the tape was in the way, so he moved the knife from my throat briefly. A quick wrist motion and the tape was parted in two places. I was kind of impressed. Not by the fact that he had cut the tape, but that he'd put himself directly at ground zero of a previous supervillain's downfall.

Just as we got to the middle of the circle, a weird siren became audible. I tilted my head, wondering where I'd heard it before. Jack Slash tensed, moving me around so that I was between himself and whoever was coming.

In the event, 'whoever' turned out to be a decrepit sedan with the Ghostbusters logo painted on the side, complete with the flashing lights on top. It chuntered down the street and screeched to a halt not far from us. The engine cut out, and two men jumped out. One was tall and muscular, while the other one was distinctly weedy. I recognised Uber and L33t from a show of theirs I'd briefly looked at. However, they were wearing jumpsuits from the same movie as the car. If I wasn't much mistaken, they were also hefting proton rifles.

"Halt, evildoer!" shouted Uber. "The Siberian has been trapped and your comrades vanquished! Release your hostage and surrender, or face our wrath!" He and L33t aimed their guns at us, but didn't fire. I wasn't sure what they were supposed to do, but I figured whatever it was had to be nonlethal. At least, I was pretty sure it was nonlethal. L33t had a reputation for things going wrong with his inventions.

While I was off on that tangent, Jack was obviously paying more attention to what they were saying. "Wait, what the hell?" he demanded. "You trapped the Siberian? Wearing Ghostbuster costumes?"

I wasn't quite sure what relevance that had, but I heard the noise from above just as he spoke. It was kind of a tinkling crash. That gave me an idea of what was going to happen next.

<><>​

James Aramis

With a sense of dreadful inevitability, James watched as the forklift went straight through the rope barrier and shattered the window with the tines of its forks. It came to a halt as the driver stamped on the brakes, but then a large chunk of the glass swung down, its razor-sharp edge hitting the restraining strap in just the right place to sever it cleanly. The forklift was tilted slightly forward with the sudden stop, and James got there just in time to see the piano begin to slide off the forks. This, of course, unbalanced the forklift farther forward. As it did so, the butterflies flitted out and perched on top of the piano, which then slid off the forks and disappeared out of sight.

For the second time in his life, James Aramis swore.

"Motherfucker."

<><>​

Taylor

The shards of glass landed all around us, except for one that pierced Jack Slash's arm in just the right place to cause him to loosen his grip on me. Reflexively, I took half a step forward. He, on the other hand, looked straight up. I heard him open his mouth to utter the syllable, "F—" before his voice was cut off by a thunderous crash. Debris spun out in all directions past me, brushing my hair, my arms and my legs. Something small bounced harmlessly off the top of my shoulder, but that was it.

When I looked around, nearly every person in the crowd was staring at me, open-mouthed. The exceptions were Lisa and Rachel; the former was even more smug than normal, and the latter just looked satisfied. I had no idea how many people were filming the incident, but I couldn't resist. Bending forward with Jack Slash's knife in my hand—I had no idea how that even got there—I gave them a deep bow, hands out to the side. As I straightened up, a flock of blue-and-black butterflies settled down over me, perching on my hands, my arms and my head. One even landed on the tip of the knife I was holding. I held that pose for just a moment as the one on my forehead slowly opened and closed its wings, then the butterflies flitted away and vanished in the late afternoon sunlight.

As spontaneous applause broke out, I strolled away from the wreckage of the piano (several piano keys lying around gave me my clue) and of Jack Slash, toward Lisa and Brian. However, I was interrupted by Uber and L33t.

"Holy—" blurted the well-built muscular guy, staring at me.

"—shit!" finished his weedy buddy.

"You're the lucky girl!" they exclaimed at the same time.

I tilted my head. "Yeah, I guess so," I conceded. "Nice costumes. What do those guns do?"

But my question fell on deaf ears. L33t fell to his knees before me, and before I could even raise my eyebrows, Uber had done the same.

"We're not worthy!" they chanted, actually prostrating themselves before me. "We're not worthy!"

"Wait, what the heck?" I asked, taking a step back. "Guys, no. No cults."

"No, this isn't a cult thing," Uber explained, getting to his feet and helping his buddy up. "We're just … well, L33t built luck guns and we've been using them to take out the bad guys. And we've been using your luck energy to do it with."

"'Luck' energy?" I asked, intrigued. "Luck guns? That actually sounds kinda … cool. I guess." Though how they'd been using my luck energy to do it, I had no idea. Might've been nice to ask me first, I added silently.

"If you're the lucky girl, then what you can do is ten times what we can do," babbled L33t. "But sure … holy crap." He showed his gun to Uber. "Dude, check it! It was on fifty-eight percent and now it's on a hundred!"

Uber blinked at his own readout. "Mine just ticked over to a hundred and twenty percent. Is it supposed to do that?" He stared at me with wide eyes. "Should we even be this close to her?"

"Shit!" exclaimed L33t, as his backpack began emitting a high-pitched whine. "They're overloading! Too much luck energy!"

"Shut them down!" Uber shouted, tearing the proton pack off his back. It, too, was whining audibly, although the whine was coming out as the Ghostbusters theme tune. The trouble was, it was louder than I suspected it really needed to be.

"I can't!" L33t grabbed both packs and, with strength I was pretty sure he hadn't known he was capable of, hurled them a dozen yards down the sidewalk, rifles trailing behind them. A moment later, there was a pop and a shower of sparks from both of them, then black smoke trailed upward from each pack.

"Oh, wow," I said in dismay. "Uh, sorry? I didn't mean to do that." L33t, staring stricken at the still-smoking packs, whimpered audibly. I patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "You can rebuild them, right?"

"Um, nope," Uber said gravely. "Normally he can only build one of anything, and he can't repair it when it breaks. He had to mainline on luck energy just to build those things."

"Guys, chillax," Lisa interjected. I jumped slightly, as I hadn't even heard her come up behind me. "Taylor's power is totally not under her control, but it is working to some sort of plan. You guys were part of that plan, which is why you were allowed to build your luck guns and have fun taking out the Nine, but now that part's done. You get to take your pay and go back to doing what you did before."

"Yeah, but that'll be boring," groaned L33t. "And they're still dragging their heels on giving us the reward for the Siberian. Even after Purity and Crusader and Rune all swore blind that I did it."

"Well, I can probably help with that," I decided. "How exactly did you kill the Siberian with a luck gun, anyway? It's not like she could trip over a banana peel and break her neck or something."

"Ghost trap," Uber explained laconically. "It was the damnedest thing. Just sucked her right in."

Well, that definitely made sense with the theme they had going, but I wasn't even going to ask how L33t had built a 'ghost trap' to contain the Siberian.

"I'll talk to the Director," I decided. "She seems to like me."

"Incoming!" I looked around at the call. With a thud, a familiar red-costumed parahuman landed about five yards away. As far as I could tell, he'd come off of one of the rooftops opposite. Rolling to his feet, he held out his hand. "Hey there, remember me from the Chicken Festival? I'm totally a huge fan of your work. Assault, at your service. And this is—"

A blue and silver blur resolved itself into a woman standing next to Assault. "—Battery," she said, cutting him off. "I can introduce myself, you know." She gave me a friendly nod. "Hello again."

"Oh, wow," I said, looking from one to the other. Tentatively, I shook Assault's hand, then Battery's. "It's an honour to meet you two. Again, I mean. I mean, I see you guys on the news, but I never think I'd actually get to meet you." Fully aware that I'd started to babble, I shut up.

Assault snickered, a sound echoed by Lisa. "Oh, man," he chuckled. "You have no idea. I mean, really, no idea."

I looked from one to the other, wondering what the joke was. "Someone needs to fill me in, then," I said, starting to feel annoyed.

Battery stepped forward. "You have an active fan club in the PRT and Protectorate bases, Miss Hebert," she explained. "Half the capes and a number of the PRT personnel who are in the loop to know about you are following your exploits with great interest."

"What about the Director?" I asked. "I mean, she was nice enough to me when I spoke to her."

Assault snorted. "When news of whatever you've done next comes in, she doesn't even query it. I think she's torn between irritation about just how bullshit your powers are—"

"I know, right?" Lisa said.

With a broad grin, Assault gave her a high five. "And relief that you're actually a nice kid who doesn't mean us any harm. Also, she warns us about twice a day to never do anything that might possibly be taken as a threat to you or your father."

Lisa grinned. "I'm guessing that came in after, well, this?" She indicated the nearest anvil.

Battery smirked in return. "Got it in one."

"I'm glad you guys are having fun," interjected yet another voice, "but I need a hand here."

I looked around from the byplay to see Glory Girl and Panacea approaching us. The latter still had hold of the girl I understood to be Bonesaw, though I couldn't really see it. I supposed it was the change in hair colour and the lack of a bloodstained apron. "Um, okay?" I replied. "What's the matter?"

Panacea gritted her teeth. "Bonesaw has re-engineered herself to be very hard to keep on a leash. Every time I try to shut her nervous system down, it starts working again anyway. And if I try to concentrate on that, she's got reservoirs of disease that will auto-release into the atmosphere. And if I try to concentrate on that, her body's in berserker mode right now."

"Just kill her then." That was Rachel. "End the problem."

Panacea shook her head. "Maybe I could've done that in the beginning, but all of those safeguards are set up so if life signs cease, the diseases release anyway. The ultimate deadman switch."

"Allow me to help, then." We all looked up as Eidolon drifted down from above. I was beyond surprise, though I did restrain myself from letting out a little bit of a fangirl squee. He wasn't Alexandria, but he was still pretty cool.

Landing beside Panacea, Eidolon surveyed Bonesaw closely. "I see." His hand flared briefly with a golden light. "I've just dissolved the artificial neurons she was using. Does that help?"

"Does it!" Panacea grinned for the first time. "Got you, you little cow. Artificial neurons. Son of a bitch. No wonder I couldn't stop you from reactivating stuff. Okay, that's shut down, and that, and that, and that … and that … and off you go to dreamland." With the last word spoken, Bonesaw slumped in her arms and began to snore softly. Panacea looked up at Eidolon. "Thank you. That was getting a little fraught there, for a while."

He smiled slightly. "You're welcome. As it happens, I was already looking for you. It's just lucky I turned up in time to assist." He turned toward Lisa, who had burst out laughing and was leaning against me for support. I could see the joke, but it was obviously a lot funnier to her than to me. "Did I say something amusing?" he asked, sounding a little puzzled.

"Uh, a little," I said, self-consciously. "I've kind of got a good-luck power. It's kind of … strong. And it acts without my conscious knowledge."

"I … see," he replied, and just from the tone of his voice I was absolutely certain he was raising an eyebrow. "And does this have anything to do with the knife in your hand or the rubble behind you?"

"Both," I admitted. "Jack Slash took me hostage, then a piano fell on him."

"And where were you when the piano fell on him?" he asked, sounding like he wasn't quite certain he wanted to hear the answer.

"Right next to him," I said truthfully. "I said I was lucky."

"I … see," he murmured. "That's very interesting. And I would like to talk to you about it in much greater detail, but I was actually here to see Panacea. So if you'll excuse me?"

"Sure," I said with a shrug, hiding a grin at Panacea's squeak of "Me?" I turned toward Lisa as Brian moved up alongside us. Rachel came up on the other side.

"Don't ever do that again," Brian told me, his voice intense. "I was terrified for you the whole time."

"Hey, I was safe," I reminded him. "I was a lot more scared when I was kidnapped by the Empire and Kaiser told Hookwolf to make me scream."

"Okay, I hadn't heard this one," Alec put in from behind Rachel. "What happened then?"

I shrugged. "A ton of blue ice landed on them. I'm pretty sure I posted the photos online."

"Oh." His eyes widened. "Oh, that was you? How the fuck … no, never mind. I'm sure the explanation will be just as bullshit."

"Pretty sure it's what got Coil's attention," Lisa noted, nodding toward the mixed pile of anvils, piano bits and Jack Slash. Mercifully, no part of the deceased supervillain could actually be seen. She grinned at me. "I've noticed this about your power. It never does one thing when it could be doing three things at once."

Abruptly, a blue glow surrounded Eidolon and Panacea, and they vanished. Glory Girl, left behind, looked around aimlessly then began to rise into the air.

"Hey, Gee-Gee," Lisa called. "What's happening?"

For a few moments, it seemed that the teen superhero—I had to say, the pixie cut looked good on her—was going to ignore her, but then she drifted back down to us. "I have no idea," she admitted. "Eidolon needs my sister for some project or other." She nodded toward where the Protectorate heroes were securing Bonesaw. "Assault and Battery are taking that one to hand over to the PRT." She eyed Brian, Rachel and Alec suspiciously. "Are all of you villains too?"

"They're ex-villains," I corrected her firmly. Without looking, I held out my hand to Rachel and she handed Chick Norris over. The little chick cheeped at me as I cupped my hand around him. "They're with me now." I pointed at them in turn. "Cool best friend. Asshole best friend. Tough best friend. Hunky best friend."

Glory Girl's shoulders sagged slightly as I pointed out Brian. "Ah," she said. "Damn."

I looked at Lisa, unsure of what was going on here. She smirked. "Oh, you've got to hear this one."

The blonde superhero shook her head, a look of sudden worry crossing her face. "No, no, she doesn't."

Lisa nodded, her eyes bright. "Yes, yes, she does. See, Brian was taking one of Rachel's dogs for a walk …"



End of Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Eighteen: Spinning Out of Control



[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Amy

Amy looked down at the city they were currently hovering over. Or rather, Eidolon was hovering and Amy was standing on some kind of force-field platform. This wasn't something totally out of her experience—Aunt Sarah did this sort of thing from time to time—but she wasn't absolutely used to it. Besides, they were higher up than she was comfortable with. Vicky always flew low and slow with her.

"Boston?" she asked. "What are we doing in Boston?"

"Before I answer that, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions and I need you to answer honestly." Eidolon's voice held a tone she'd never heard from the veteran hero. He sounded almost … uncertain. Which was ridiculous. Eidolon was about as likely to be uncertain as she was to start leading her own superhero team.

"Um, sure?" she ventured. She was way out of her depth now. Heroes didn't come to her for advice, they came to her for healing. But it was Eidolon asking. She didn't dare say no; not from fear but from respect.

He looked away over the city, apparently avoiding her gaze. "Do you think I do absolutely everything I can as a hero? Make the best use of my powers for the greatest good?"

"Well, y—" she began, then stopped herself. While the quick, facile answer was the one that came immediately to mind, she didn't want to just speak without thinking. So she paused, and thought about it. "Um. Is this a trick question? Because it feels like the answer you've got in mind isn't the one I'm thinking of."

"I know exactly how you feel," he said firmly. "Let me ask you another one. Do you think that right now, you're making the best possible use of your powers for the greatest good in the world? Is there something more, or something different, you could be doing with your powers that would reach more people than you're doing now?" Although she couldn't see his eyes, somehow she could feel his gaze as he looked back at her.

"I—" She paused again, uncertain. "I heal people," she said, trying not to sound defensive. "Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and walk to the hospital so I can heal a few more. But it's never enough. It'll never be enough."

"No, it's not," he said flatly. "Someone I know asked me those questions not long ago, and I haven't been able to answer them to my satisfaction. Then she asked me another one."

He stopped talking then, and looked broodingly down over Boston. Amy waited for a few moments, until her patience ran out. "Well, what did she ask you?"

"Oh, sorry." He turned to face her once more, as if he'd forgotten her presence for a moment. "It was a hypothetical. What if Legend had decided that his power to create bright lights was good enough for him, and he chose to spend his superhero career walking people home from the supermarket after dark? He'd undoubtedly be good at it, but would he really be making the best use of his time?"

"Well, no, duh." This time, the response came out without Amy having to think about it. "He'd be wasting about ninety percent of his … wait a minute." A lightbulb had belatedly flashed on inside her head, changing her entire perspective of what Eidolon had just said. "Is that about me? Am I Legend in that?"

Eidolon chuckled lightly, but there wasn't much humour in it. "Actually, I think I'm the one it was aimed at, but you just proved my friend's point. That particular statement's a shotgun; it's got a very wide range of effect. There's a whole lot of capes it could apply to. That includes me. And, it seems, you."

"Let's say that it's not totally incorrect at the moment," Amy hedged. "You've asked some awkward questions and I've given you my best answers for the moment. So why are we in Boston? Or rather above Boston?"

"We're here because there are a couple of capes in this city I need to talk to," Eidolon said. "If we're going to graduate from walking people home at night, we need a little help."

"Yeah, I get that." Amy still had trouble fitting her head around the concept. However, as tempting as it was to dismiss it altogether, it was Eidolon who'd raised it in the first place. Sure, he wasn't the most charismatic of the Triumvirate—Legend held that title more or less by default—but there was still a sense of inevitability about what he said. "So who are we going to see?" She tried to remember who was in the Boston Protectorate. "Someone in the Protectorate? Or is it one of the Wards?"

"Neither." The force field extended around them, forming a sphere. "Brace yourself. This may get a little loud."

"Loud? What—?" Amy didn't get any farther, because they teleported again, and her ears were assaulted with the sound of thunder. Or rather, machine-gun fire. Slapping her hands over her ears, she stared at the sparks being struck from the exterior of the force-field, and the continuous muzzle-flashes from the machine-guns firing at them. Machine-guns protruding from the walls of what otherwise was quite a well-appointed office.

Eidolon gestured and the guns fell silent at the same time as all the lights went out. A desk which had been in the process of motoring down through a recess in the floor also stopped moving. The force-field bubble, now lighting the room with a soft green glow, wafted toward the desk where a heavy screen of what Amy presumed was bulletproof glass had already interposed itself between them and the person crouching behind the desk. That person, Amy finally saw, wore a mask of metal and wood as well as a white business suit.

"Accord?" she asked in disbelief. "We're here to talk to Accord?"

"We are," Eidolon said. He raised his voice. "We are not here to attack or even arrest you, Accord. I'm here to seek your assistance on a sensitive matter."

Accord stood up and brushed off his suit jacket. Amy realised the man was even shorter than her, by several inches. His expression as he stared up at the two capes was clearly replicated by the movement of the metal shards that made up his mask. "Most people have the good manners to make a prior appointment." His tone was stiffly offended.

Amy was still blinking at the sheer arrogance of the man when Eidolon replied. "I would have," he said blandly. "However, I was unsure if you would accept such an appointment at face value, and I would rather move things along. I apologise for my intrusion, but I need you to make a plan for me."

Behind his mask, Accord's eyes widened. Amy recognised the same expression she'd made when Eidolon had first approached her, and several times since then. "You are joking with me, I think." She was impressed with the way he almost managed to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Not in the slightest." Eidolon drifted to the floor, then stepped through the force-field bubble while leaving Amy inside. "I want to solve world hunger, and I need your advice on how to proceed."

Wait, he wants to do what? Amy's jaw dropped at the revelation. When Eidolon thought big, he thought big. It was definitely a step-up from being 'just' a superhero, even a world-renowned one. Solving world hunger was such a huge deal, she doubted anyone could get a grasp on the intricacies involved. Not even Accord could—

Accord's chin came up. "Well, it's about time."

"What?" blurted Amy, astonished almost beyond words.

Eidolon took a step forward. "So you'll help me? You'll make a plan?" The excitement was plain in his voice. "How long will it take?"

"No time at all." Accord's voice was scornful. "It's already done. I constructed that plan six years ago. And now you finally get around to doing something about it?"

"Six … years?" Eidolon sounded somewhat taken aback. "That's how long you've been a villain. Why would a villain make such a plan?"

Amy wondered if Accord had ever taken acting lessons. The sigh he let out was positively Shakespearean in its expressiveness. "I wasn't a villain when I made that plan." Dumbass, his tone said clearly. "I became a villain so that I could finance it. Because my superiors in the PRT were supremely uninterested in even looking at it, let alone passing it up the chain."

Amy's worldview was taking a few knocks today. "Wait, what now? The PRT had a plan to solve world hunger six years ago and didn't act on it?" He had to be lying.

Accord turned to face her. "Interrupting a conversation is rude, Panacea. Don't do it again. But to answer your question: yes. I presented the plan; they rejected it. They considered that meeting my work quotas and not 'wasting time'—" Somehow he managed to slot the quote marks into the sentence without using his hands. "—was more important than merely saving the starving children of the world."

Perhaps it was irritation about being spoken to so curtly, but Amy decided that Accord didn't even care about the starving kids. He probably just wants to be proven right.

Either Eidolon didn't share her low opinion of the man, or he was more concerned with results than motivations. "I need that plan," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "Is it up to date?"

"As of eight fifty-four this morning," the villain assured him. "Who are you going to be presenting it to? The President? Or the United Nations? Because I have strategies planned out for either presentation."

"Neither one." Eidolon gestured, and a series of force-field steps appeared next to the desk, allowing Accord to climb up from the lower level. "I'm going to implement it myself, and be damned with everyone who says it can't be done."

Accord climbed the steps and faced off against the Triumvirate hero, a foot shorter but not backing down in the slightest. "Then you are wasting my time. What you are proposing to do is impossible, without the money to set it in motion or the appropriate infrastructure to handle the collection and distribution. Or did you happen to have three point one trillion dollars at your disposal?"

Amy was pretty sure that nobody had that sort of loose change lying around, but Eidolon merely tightened his lips a little. "Why don't you let me see the plan first, and we'll see what's impossible and what's merely very difficult."

"Very well." Accord bit the words off as if they offended him. "Why don't we do just that." He gestured at the building around them. "You will, of course, restore the electricity first. My safe is set up so that loss of power locks it down."

As they walked off, not quite arguing in oh-so-polite tones, Amy began to wonder what she'd signed up for.

<><>​

Taylor

The last time I'd laughed so hard was when Sophia had managed to tangle herself and four boys up with duct tape while chasing me. Of course, that incident was on a par with earlier the same day, when Emma and Madison got themselves stuck in the toilets. I hadn't known about my power then, but it didn't make Lisa's tale any less funny.

"So—so wait," I gasped, leaning against Lisa, my knees weak from the laughter. "You were trying to get Brian's number when you poured paint all over yourself?" Tears were streaming down my face, and I'd handed off Chick Norris to Rachel so I didn't have to worry about him.

Glory Girl nodded, her face probably redder than mine was right then. "Yeah, um, sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to move in on—"

"Oh, you're not moving in on anything," I managed, in between giggles. "I only met him today." I took a deep breath and stood up straight. It was hard to say whether I was interested in him as a boy, or if I was just lost in aesthetic appreciation. But one thing was for sure: I certainly wasn't going to say anything to anyone about it.

"Pfft, hah," Lisa retorted, her eyes twinkling. "I've seen the way you look at him. If you're not interested, then I'm Legend in disguise."

Oh, god. She did not just say that. I blushed furiously. "Shut up!" I hissed. Vaguely, I wondered why my power wasn't taking revenge on her for my embarrassment. What if it's on her side about this? That was a kind of scary thought.

"But wait. What if I'm not—" Brian broke off, a worried look crossing his face. "Uh, I'm not saying I'm not interested, Taylor, but you know, we only met today. I mean, what if I get to know you, and the chemistry just isn't there?"

Which was actually a good point. Popular culture liked to portray teenaged boys as being interested, period. But they were people, too. They had likes and dislikes, just the same as everyone else. And it was entirely possible for a guy not to have feelings for me. In fact, it was downright plausible. I was certain he would do his best to let me down gently, but I had no idea how my power would take it. Would I end up being an accidental stalker if the rejection hurt me too much? Would I keep getting thrown into his path? Would he end up getting thrown into mine? I decided I didn't like that idea at all.

Unfortunately, I had no real idea how to handle the situation. I liked Brian well enough, for someone I'd known for less than a day. He was polite to me, and I couldn't get enough of checking out his abs through his t-shirt, but those weren't exactly a sound basis for building any sort of relationship on. Worse, this had the potential to cross the line from sweet to creepy real fast, especially if he got the idea he had to be nice to me or else. I wasn't quite sure what form the 'or else' might take (and I sincerely hoped it would never have to come up) but I couldn't help remembering what my power had done to other people who'd tried to hurt me. Even scarier was the fact that I'd never had a relationship. I had no idea how to do one, or even if I should be thinking about it right now.

"Taylor." Lisa's voice cut through my mounting worries. "Breathe."

"What?" I squeaked, looking over at her.

Her smile gave me some assurance. "It's okay. You don't hate Brian, do you?"

"No!" I said at once. "I just …" I trailed off. I wasn't quite sure what I did think about Brian, but I knew that I didn't hate him.

"Good." She beamed at the both of us. "How about you both just take it easy and see where it goes, then?"

That was easy for her to say. I was just about to give her a dirty look when Glory Girl said, "So wait. If he's not your boyfriend …" She looked from me to Brian. "I mean, if you two aren't dating, are you doing anything Saturday ni—what the fuck?"

I blinked as I realised that she now had a white splatter on her shoulder, where there hadn't been one before. She twisted her head around to stare at it, then up at the sky, as if searching for the offending bird.

"Well, well, well. Someone's power's got a problem with it," Lisa observed, giving me a broad wink. Her smirk should've been reclassified as a controlled substance; she was definitely riding a high.

"It's not like I can fucking control it," I told her through gritted teeth. Though it was kind of funny.

"Seriously, fucking birdshit?" Glory Girl tugged at her sleeve so she could get a better view of the damage. "I've been doing this for years, and I've never been shat on even once. Motherfucker."

I heard a weird wheezing, snorting sound and looked around to see Alec leaning against the wall, holding his sides and laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "That, right there," he managed. "That's what it feels like." Still laughing, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement.

I couldn't help but wonder whether he meant me or Glory Girl.

<><>​

Amy

"So, did you get what you want?" asked Amy as Eidolon teleported them back into the open air.

He didn't answer, instead continuing to concentrate on a stack of three-ring binders several feet high. A flickering blue glow hovered over the folders, with a single insubstantial tendril disappearing into Eidolon's helmet around the centre of his forehead.

She gave him a count of ten, then cleared her throat loudly. Startled, he looked around as the blue glow cut off. "What?"

"Did you get what you want?" she repeated. "What is all that, anyway? Just the plans to end world hunger, or did you steal his plans for world domination as well?"

"Oddly enough, he didn't have any plans for world domination," Eidolon mused, sounding as though he didn't quite believe what he was saying. "But he did have plans for ending the energy problem as well as disease, overpopulation, government inefficiency, and several other issues. Including, and I have a hard time accepting this, crime."

Amy blinked. "Crime? The crime lord had a plan for ending the crime problem? Isn't that kind of … self-defeating?" She thought for a moment. "Or did he build in loopholes to make sure he wouldn't be affected?"

Eidolon rubbed his chin. "That's the strange thing. He didn't. He actually seemed sincere when he said he went into crime to finance his plans."

"Which include bringing crime under control." Amy shook her head. "I am never going to understand the supervillain mindset. Anyway, you say he had plans for all that other stuff as well?"

"Oh, yes." For the first time, the bemused tone dropped away and excitement emerged. "And they all look solid. Given the right resources, I can make every single one of these work."

"What, really? Wow." Amy stared at the binders. They looked remarkably innocuous for something that had the potential to turn the world on its ear.

"Exactly. I still can't believe that nobody has actually looked at them before." The frustration was evident in his voice.

"Well, you know, supervillain." Amy frowned as something occurred to her. "So what did you do with him?"

"Nothing." There was a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. "I told him what I intended to do, and I left him drawing up plans to make it easier."

"Which reminds me." Amy gave Eidolon a pointed stare. "You still haven't told me what part I play in your plans."

"I haven't?" He sounded honestly surprised. "You haven't figured it out?"

"Well, no." If he'd been dropping clues, Amy had missed them all.

"Huh. Well, I'll give you a hint. A little bird told me that your powers include biokinesis, not just healing. Hold tight."

And with that, they teleported again. Amy blinked, a little dazzled by the transition from bright light to dim. A furious barking and growling arose, and she looked around to see a monstrous creature assaulting the force-field bubble. It was about six feet long and had the massive shoulders and front limbs of a gorilla, and the head and teeth of an oversized dog.

Eidolon gestured and the gorilla-dog thing was tossed away from the bubble. Amy saw a flicker of movement at the far end of the room and pointed. "What's that?"

"The person we're here to see." By the time Eidolon had finished speaking, another one of his force fields was bringing the person toward them. Dressed in a dirty lab coat, the guy was lanky with a mess of uncombed blond hair. To Amy's critical eye, he didn't look like much. "Good afternoon, Blasto," Eidolon greeted him politely. "I apologise for the unconventional entry, but I'm not interested in wasting time."

Amy blinked and stared covertly. This was Blasto? This was one of the guys she was scared she might turn into one day?

"Let me go and I won't release a plague that'll turn your lungs inside out," grunted the guy, straining fruitlessly against the force-field holding him.

Eidolon sighed. "One, you don't do plagues. Two, we'll both survive it, and then you get a kill order. Wouldn't you rather get a Nobel Peace Prize?"

That line was almost guaranteed to make anyone stop struggling and stare. Blasto was no exception. "Excuse me, fuckin' what again?"

"I want to solve world hunger," Eidolon said patiently. "You're going to facilitate this by creating the exact organism that I want. Panacea is here to check your work and make any improvements you have trouble managing. If we succeed, and we will succeed, you will never have to do crime again. There will be people—legitimate businesses and concerns—lining up around the block to throw money at you."

Blasto fell silent while he appeared to think this over. "What do you want me to make?" he asked eventually.

Amy couldn't see Eidolon's face, but his smile was plain to hear in his voice. "I thought you'd never ask."

<><>​

Toronto

Dragonslayer Base

Saint

"This is interesting."

Geoff looked around from where he was tinkering with his suit. "Hmm?"

Mags pointed at the screen. "Remember that sub-program that Dragon had for picking up anomalous patterns of buying certain equipment? The one we shut down back in oh-nine so it wouldn't get a line on our operations?"

"Yeah," he said, though he didn't really recall the program she was referring to. "What about it?"

"It caught my eye and I opened it up again, to see what was going on with it. Turns out that just before we killed it, it got a hit. One she never got the chance to follow up on."

"Translation, please." But he put down the screwdriver and headed over to where she sat at the console, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Couple-three years ago, there was someone in this dinky little town just over the border in New York State, buying up stuff through proxies and getting them delivered to a certain address. The thing is, the town's been abandoned for ten years, ever since the Nine paid them a visit."

"You just found an abandoned Tinker base." Geoff's eyebrows rose.

She tilted her head. "That's what it looks like."

"Excellent." Leaning down, he gave her a quick kiss. "Get the vehicles ready. We're going on a road trip."

<><>​

Amy

"Okay, so he's designing a food plant," Amy said carefully as they lifted off from Blasto's hideout. "One that gives you all the nutrition you need. It grows quickly and easily from the sub-Arctic to the dry tropics. In fact, it thrives in inhospitable surroundings." She looked at Eidolon, wondering if she'd missed anything important.

"But it doesn't do so well in fertile areas," Eidolon pointed out. "Where the locals are already planting wheat or corn or any other food crop, it doesn't compete. So it won't grow out of control and force other crops out."

"Which I never would have thought of," Amy conceded.

"Nor did I," admitted Eidolon. "Mouse Protector came up with the idea of the plant in the first place, and Accord specified the no-competition aspect. And the need to make them genetically robust, whatever that means."

"I think it's so a single disease or parasite can't just wipe them out?" ventured Amy. "That way you don't get a situation where they replace every other food plant in the area and then die of the plant equivalent of the common cold."

"That would be very bad indeed," Eidolon agreed gravely. "We'll be coming back tomorrow to see what he's come up with. In the meantime, is there anything you can think of that I've missed?"

"There's only one thing, but it's a really long shot." Amy hesitated. "In fact, I wouldn't even be considering it if you weren't working with villains already."

"You know another parahuman who could help model the food plant?" The excitement was plain in Eidolon's voice.

"Capable of it, I guess. Whether she's willing to help and can be trusted to do it?" Amy was beginning to have second thoughts about even bringing up the idea. "I really don't know."

Eidolon was no dummy. "Bonesaw," he said flatly. "You're thinking of Bonesaw."

Amy nodded. "Like I said, long shot."

"That's not just a 'long shot'." Eidolon obviously didn't like the idea any more than Amy did. "That's over the horizon."

"But she is a genius when working with biology." Amy felt it necessary to point this out, just for the sake of fairness. "She had diseases stored in her that don't exist in nature."

"Which she would've been perfectly happy to use on the city." Eidolon shook his head. "You're not improving her case."

"I'm not trying to." Amy grimaced. "I'm just making sure we've got all the facts before we make a decision here."

"Well, my decision is 'hell no'," Eidolon stated. "Not until we're absolutely certain we can't do it any other way. And maybe not even then." He shook his head. "Blasto, at least, knows to restrain himself from earning a kill order."

"That's fair," Amy said. "Do you really think we can pull this off? Solve things like world hunger using our powers?" It was an oddly exciting concept. She wasn't totally sure why she hadn't thought of it before.

"I think we can." Eidolon paused, then spoke again. "I hope we can. The last time someone tried this sort of thing was when Sphere was building his moonbase." He didn't have to elaborate on the fate of Sphere, or the moonbase. "Since then, punching villains has become the norm. I want to change that. If we can get a million of these food plants into famine-stricken areas around the world, we could feed tens of millions. Save literally millions of lives at a stroke."

Millions of lives. He wasn't wrong. Amy could really see it happening. Of course, it would require Blasto to get the food plant just right, but that was what her job was about. "Why haven't we done this before? Why haven't I done this before?" She wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical or not.

Eidolon answered it anyway. "Because we didn't know how. Because nobody asked the right question at the right time. And because nobody thought of working with villains."

Amy couldn't help herself. Abruptly, she flung her arms around Eidolon and hugged him tightly. There was hidden armour there, but she didn't care. He tensed for a moment, then gingerly patted her on the back. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, her voice muffled against his cloak. "I just … we're gonna do so much good, aren't we?"

This time, his back-patting was less awkward. Then he ruffled her hair and chuckled warmly. "That's certainly the idea, yes."

<><>​

Glory Girl

Dallon Household

" … so then, there she is, standing next to the wreckage of the piano …" Vicky paused to watch the reaction of her audience.

"That's just fallen on Jack Slash," Crystal filled in, then shook her head. "I am so jealous I didn't get to see that."

Vicky grinned. "It was all kinds of amazing, yeah. When the piano hit, Jack Slash's knife bounced off her shoulder and ended up in her hand like she'd rehearsed it. Then she bowed. And then, all these butterflies came out of nowhere and landed on her. I mean, fuck, I got the shivers, right then."

"Iiii ssseeennnssse a giiiirrrlll cruuussshhh," Eric teased her in a sing-song voice.

She gave him a dirty look. "It wasn't like that," she snapped. "I mean, I try to do the whole image thing so people won't mess with me, but she just pulled it off perfectly. Anyone watching one of those videos is gonna say 'fuck that' and run the other direction."

"Well, anyone with any sense," Crystal corrected her. "But you have to admit, there's a lot of capes out there who see a challenge and leap feet-first into it."

"A lot fewer in Brockton Bay, now," Vicky pointed out. "She took out the big hitters in the Empire by letting herself be kidnapped by them. I heard a rumour that Coil turned himself in to the PRT because of those anvils outside the Forsberg Gallery. Oni Lee got blown up and Lung got tarred and feathered. The Undersiders are now literally her best friends. The Merchants got themselves killed off by that other guy. The rest of the Empire helped take out the Nine, and are now asking if they can be heroes, pretty please. And Uber and L33t apparently trapped the Siberian in a Ghostbusters ghost trap, but nobody knows what the fuck's going on there." She paused for breath, and to savour the look of utter bogglement on the faces of her cousins.

" … well, fuck." Eric's statement was right on point.

"Yeah, I—" Crystal's words were cut off when the front door banged open and Amy came in. Her hair was a little messier than normal, and she had a slightly wild-eyed look about her. "Holy shit, Amy. Are you all right?"

"I'm better than all right." Amy's voice was positively lyrical. "I'm gonna help save the whole fucking world!" Darting over to Vicky, she grabbed her sister and spun her around before planting a firm kiss on her lips. "And I've always wanted to do that, so there." Releasing Vicky, whose brain had just locked up and skidded off the road, she headed toward the kitchen. "Mom? Dad? Anyone home? Wait till you hear what I've been doing!"

"Buh … buh … buh … wha?" Vicky's thoughts were scrabbling for traction, but they kept sliding in all directions. Amy had just kissed her. Amy had just kissed her. Amy had just kissed her. Absolutely nothing about that made any kind of sense.

"Well, fuck." Crystal's expression now held a level of secret glee. "That just happened."

"Iiii ssseeennnssse a giiiirrrlll cruuussshhh … "

Vicky was still incapable of speech, but Crystal stepped up. "Shut up, Eric." Unfortunately, her smirk told Vicky that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

<><>​

Amy

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

(The Next Day)

Vicky was still giving Amy the side-eye as they came down to breakfast, but Amy said nothing. She wanted her sister to be the one to crack first, because that way she'd be able to control what she said. She was already regretting that impulsive kiss, just a little, but not so much that she wished she hadn't done it. Done was done, and now Vicky knew how she felt.

From the attitudes of Carol and Mark, neither one knew of the kiss. Carol seemed a little wary around her, but that was probably due to the fact that she'd significantly participated in the capture of Bonesaw and the death of Jack Slash. The PRT had already called her up and asked where she wanted her share of the reward money to be banked. She knew her parents weren't reacting to the Eidolon situation, because she hadn't been stupid enough to give them chapter and verse on that one. 'Helping Eidolon work out a way to feed lots of people at once' seemed suitably benign. There was no way in hell she was going to let Carol know she was working with Blasto and (sort of) Accord.

"Morning, Amy girl," Mark greeted her. He seemed to be tracking well, so she figured he'd taken his meds today. "So, do you know this Butterfly at all, or did she just happen to be there at the same time that you were?" He turned the paper he was holding, to show her the picture on the front page; a blown-up image of Taylor straightening from the bow, with butterflies all over her.

"Actually, I've never met her before yesterday," Amy said truthfully. "She seemed nice, though. And if Tattletale was right, her power set the whole thing up. Including making sure that me and Vicky were in the right place at the right time."

"That power is fucking bullshit," muttered Vicky, reaching across to grab the cereal.

"Language," Carol said automatically. "Isn't that a little far-fetched? I mean, to arrange matters that finely?" She paused. "Wait, Tattletale? Isn't she a villain?"

Amy snickered. "Not any more, thanks to Butterfly. When I got home last night, I looked online. That piano that fell on Jack Slash? It was shipped in to the gallery days ago. She swears blind that nothing that happens around Butterfly is a coincidence. Nothing." Her grin widened to a smirk as she pretended to brush something off of her sleeve. "Isn't that right, Vicky?"

The spoon in Vicky's hand bent with a quiet creaking of overstressed metal. "Not. Fucking. Fair."

"Victoria Dallon!" Carol's brows pulled together. "If you can't refrain from using that sort of language, or using super-strength at the table, you are grounded."

"It's her fault, Mom!" Vicky pointed at Amy. "She started it!"

"How did she start it, Vicky?" asked Mark. He looked at Amy. "What's she talking about?"

Amy looked at Vicky, but her sister shut her mouth and stared down at the table. Well, if you want to play it that way … She cleared her throat. "Well, you know how she got paint in her hair? There was a guy there that she was kind of showing off for. Turns out that he's one of the Undersiders, who've basically attached themselves to Butterfly since she wrapped up Lung for the PRT. And Vicky was kind of interested in him. And when she went to ask him out yesterday, a bird crapped on her shoulder. Which is Butterfly's way of saying 'back off unless you want something worse to happen to you'."

There was silence at the table, except for a faint sound that Amy eventually identified as Vicky grinding her teeth together. "Wait," said Mark slowly. "If Vicky hadn't got paint in her hair, yesterday would've gone a lot differently, because Jack Slash would've recognised her."

"Uh huh," Amy confirmed. "I bet if someone started looking, they'd find a whole lot of coincidences coming together to make this all happen." She looked across at Vicky with a certain amount of compassion. "I'm not sure how to say this, Vicky, but everything that happened was because Butterfly made sure it would. Including your hair and your shoulder."

"Everything?" Vicky raised her head and looked directly at Amy. "What about what happened when you came in last night? Was that something that Butterfly made happen?"

Amy couldn't meet her eyes. "Maybe? I'd just been helping Eidolon figure out how to save the world, so I was kind of on a high right then."

Mark looked at them curiously. "What happened when you came in last night, Amy?"

"Never mind that," Carol interrupted, her tone brisk. "Are you saying that Eidolon's efforts to save the world were put in motion by Butterfly? Because I have trouble believing that."

"I dunno." Amy shrugged. "But he was looking for me, and he did show up right when I needed him to, and Tattletale did say that Butterfly's power never did one thing when it could be doing three."

"But why the hell would Butterfly want you to do that?" Vicky looked unhappy. "It's not like she even knows us."

"I don't think it matters," Amy said. "Tattletale said something about her power having a mind of its own. She seemed very amused about it."

"Well, I'm not," Vicky groused. "I think—"

What she thought was not to be revealed, because at that moment, there was a knock on the door. "I'll get it," Amy said hastily. Getting up from the table, she headed for the door. Opening it revealed Eidolon standing on the doorstep.

"Good morning, Panacea," he said politely. "Are you ready to go?"

"Uh, no. Can you wait a few minutes?" she asked. "Oh, and come in." Stepping aside from the door, she ushered him inside. "I've just got to finish breakfast and get dressed."

"Certainly," he said, and followed her into the dining room. "Good morning, Brandish, Flashbang, Glory Girl," he greeted her family. "Don't bother getting up."

"Eidolon!" It secretly amused Amy that the ever-controlled Carol was more than a little flustered by a Triumvirate member showing up on the doorstep unannounced. "Uh, sit down, please. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks," he replied. "As soon as Panacea is ready, we'll be going."

"Going where?" asked Mark. "You understand, Amy didn't give us too many details about where she went yesterday."

"That's because I asked her not to." Eidolon's tone was polite, but the unspoken meaning was plain to all. You don't need to know. "There are details about what we're trying to achieve that don't need to be aired at the moment."

Amy was glad Eidolon had put it that way. She had no idea how Carol would react to the revelation that she and Eidolon were working with two supervillains to solve world hunger, but it wouldn't be good. There wasn't anything Carol could actually do to stop them going ahead with it, but she could certainly make it uncomfortable for Amy. God, imagine if we'd actually brought Bonesaw in on it, and she found out. She'd burst a blood vessel.

She finished her cereal and finished her orange juice in one long swallow, then jumped up from the table. "I'll be one minute," she promised. Dashing upstairs, she headed for her room. But as fast as she was, Vicky was faster; her sister caught up with her halfway down the corridor.

"Ames, what's going on?" Amy tried to ignore her sister, but Vicky grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. "Amy, talk to me! You've been acting all weird since you went off with Eidolon. You ..." She half-turned her head and lowered her voice to a fierce whisper. "Kissed me! What the hell was that about?"

Amy took a deep breath and turned to look at her sister. "That was nothing to do with Eidolon and everything to do with you and me," she stated flatly. "Now, if you don't mind, I want to get dressed."

"We're not done here!" insisted Vicky. "I want answers and I want them now."

That declaration was so cliché that Amy couldn't help rolling her eyes. "Fine," she said. "But I am gonna get dressed so if you want to keep talking, we're going into my room. And I'll be changing in front of you." Despite the fact that she was feeling more irritation than attraction to Vicky right then, she managed a passable leer. "Of course, if that's what floats your boat …"

Vicky visibly recoiled, which saddened Amy at the same time as it justified her decision to make that particular comment. "No!" she whispered harshly in a tone that was possibly more audible than normal speech. "I don't feel that way about you! And you shouldn't feel that way about me, either!"

"Don't care. I feel that way anyway." Amy made the half-truth sound light-hearted. It was a fact that she couldn't help how she felt. It was also a fact that she cared about Vicky's opinion of her. However, after finding out the utterly world-changing scope of the project she was embarking on with Eidolon, she'd decided that hiding her feelings had done her no good. It was time to declare herself, loud and proud. Of course, now she was coming down off that high a little, she was wondering if she could maybe have been a little quieter and more humble, but done was done. And if Vicky was ever to accept the way Amy felt, first she had to know about it. I'm adopted, and we're both sixteen, so it's not even illegal.

Unimpeded by Vicky this time, she turned to go into her room. Vicky didn't follow, which she'd both expected to happen and hoped that it wouldn't. A dozen night-time fantasies went down the drain as she closed her bedroom door.

<><>​

Legend

Protectorate Base, New York

Legend covered his eyes with one hand, then took it away and looked again. The results hadn't changed. At the far end of the firing range, the animatronic target representing an enemy cape was utterly unmarked. "This was supposed to be a routine target practice," he said to the assembled Wards. "How is it that none of you managed to hit the perp?"

They immediately broke into a series of excuses, talking over each other. "Whoa, whoa," he interjected, holding up both hands. "One at a time. Flechette?"

The dark-haired girl scowled. "I should've hit it. I never miss, normally. But my hair blew across my eyes."

Legend looked sceptically at her hair, which was currently bound back. "Blew across your eyes?"

"I tied it back," she insisted. "But it got loose, just at the wrong moment."

"Understood," he said, while noting that there should've been no air movement to blow the hair in the first place. "Jouster?"

One by one, the other Wards gave their excuses for missing what should've been a gimme target. At the end of it, Legend wasn't sure if they were all trying to prank him, or if every single Ward under his care had come down with a case of pure bad luck. That phrase nudged something in the back of his mind, but he ignored it. The situation at hand needed to be dealt with first.

"All right, I've heard enough." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to arrange for a live-fire exercise. Each of you is going to bring your A-game. Real targets that you're really allowed to destroy. We'll be looking at max damage and max range from each of you. Clear?"

Whoops of excitement arose, which pleased him. Wards worked better with good morale. He liked them all; they were good kids. If they could be shown with the live-fire exercise that they really could hit the targets they were aiming at, they wouldn't be second-guessing themselves at the wrong moment in the field.

He hoped.

<><>​

Uber

fzt

"Ow!"

Uber looked up from perusing the online catalogue. He put down the pen he'd been using to note down the gaming equipment he was going to purchase once the reward money from the PRT came in—their apology note had been rather gracious, he had to admit—and looked over toward L33t's workshop with a frown.

"What are you up to now?" he called out, feeling mildly irritated. "I thought you were going to give Tinkering a rest for a little while, now that your good luck's all run out."

"I was going to," L33t protested. He leaned out through the doorway, shaking one hand vigorously. Uber knew the signs. Something he'd been working on had bitten him. "But then I got the idea to maybe cannibalise one luck storage pack to fix the other."

Uber stood up from the desk. "What part of 'you can't fix stuff any more' don't you understand? Bro, we're richer than our wildest dreams, here. We've even got a shot at going hero. Shit, the PRT's giving the Empire a chance to prove themselves. We don't have to do that stuff anymore." He didn't say what he was really thinking; it would be the height of irony for a Tinkering accident to kill off his best buddy just as they made it into the big time.

"No, you don't get it!" L33t looked more excited than he had since the packs had burned out. "It shocked me, so there's still charge in it, which means the circuitry isn't totally dead!"

"Well, okay, yeah, but it also means it can shock you," Uber pointed out as rationally as he could. "This is not a good thing."

"I'll be more careful," L33t promised. "But what if the luck storage coils weren't burned out? What if they've still got all that luck in them?"

Uber rolled his eyes. "Didn't you hear Tattletale? We only got to use the luck energy because her power felt like giving us something to do, instead of doing everything itself."

"Maybe there's still something we've got to do with it," L33t insisted. "If her power wanted those packs dead, they'd be dead, yeah?"

On the one hand, L33t had a point. On the other, Uber felt extremely dubious about trying to second-guess a power so capricious and powerful that it had tarred and feathered a cape who'd gone up against Leviathan. "... well, okay," he said eventually. "Just … try not to get us both killed, okay? I'd like to survive to spend my share of the reward money."

"Yeah, yeah, good point." L33t went back into his workshop. Moments later, Uber heard a zzzzzt followed by "Whaaarrrgh!"

This time, he broke into a run.

<><>​

Amy

"You and your sister seemed to be ill at ease with each other."

Amy looked around at Eidolon as they rose into the air above Brockton Bay. "I'm not sure if I want to talk about it."

"That's fair." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I was just thinking, if there was anything you needed to talk about, I'm ready to listen."

This was not the Eidolon that Amy was used to. He was still intense, but in a different way. She'd never ever heard of him offering to help someone else with a personal problem before. "Um … I don't even know how to talk about it."

"Is it about what we're doing?" he asked reasonably. "I can understand if she's been pressing you for details you're unable to give her."

"No, actually," she replied honestly. "She's kind of impressed that I'm working with you, but I just told everyone that it involves feeding the hungry and saving the world in a vague sort of way, and they're all fine with that. It's something else. Something I did."

"That's fine," he assured her. "If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. Teleporting now."

She braced herself; there was a green flash and an instant later they were over Boston. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"I was a little sad when I realised that I was used to it," Eidolon confessed. "I went from 'Whoo! Look what I can do!' to 'Yeah, still doing this'. I mean, it's a huge responsibility to use all this power I have, but I wish I could still marvel at it."

Amy laughed without meaning to. "Wow, yeah. I know exactly how that feels. I wonder how many capes go through that and get depressed from it." She took a deep breath. "Uh, can I ask you something? About relationships?"

He turned to stare at her, or at least his helmet swivelled in her direction. "Go ahead, but I'm not exactly an expert."

Which didn't surprise Amy, but she ploughed ahead anyway. "So there's this person I'm really interested in, but, uh … is it better to let them know how you feel, or just hold off and hope it turns out okay?" She was pretty sure she knew where she'd fucked up, but it would be good to get an adult's perspective on the matter.

"Hmm." From the tone of Eidolon's voice, he hadn't actually considered this question much before. "That's a tough one. I think … on balance, it's better to let them know. If they don't feel the same way about you, you find out. But if they do, and you don't tell them, they might think you don't care and find someone else."

Amy nodded. "Right, thanks. That's what I wanted to know." If Eidolon was right—and he sounded right—it just meant that she and Vicky were never going to be a couple. Finding out now was a better situation than pining for her sister and never letting go. That could've ended badly.

"No, thank you." Eidolon's voice was positively enlightened. "I'd been wondering about that topic myself, without actually asking the question you did. It helps a lot, now that I've thought about it."

"Oh. Good." Now that was a weird mental image. Amy had never thought of Eidolon actually having someone in his life like that. It would be like seeing Scion going on a date.

"Teleporting."

Amy braced herself; an instant later, they were in Blasto's lab. The man himself was leaning over a complicated apparatus, still apparently wearing the same lab coat from yesterday. Amy was almost certain she saw a couple of the stains moving. The gorilla-dog creature barked a couple of times, then shut up.

"Ah, you're back," Blasto said, turning to them. "I didn't expect you till later."

"Does that mean you don't have anything for us?" Eidolon didn't raise his voice, but he still managed to sound more than a little ominous.

"Oh, no, no." Blasto held up both hands. "I was just hoping I'd be more advanced with the hardiness of the plant before you showed up. I mean, I've got the fruit pretty well done. But the plant it's gonna be attached to is being a pain."

"How do you mean?" asked Eidolon. "Maybe Panacea can help improve it."

"I mean that adjusting the genome so it can handle the range of temperatures that you want it to is gonna be a total cast-iron bitch," Blasto said flatly. "Plants use various mechanisms to handle the temperature range that they're used to. It's hard to expand that range. The coping mechanisms are gonna get in each others' way." Turning back to the apparatus on the bench, he opened a hatch and pulled out a stunted-looking plant, its roots dripping with some kind of liquid solution. "Here, see for yourself."

Amy reached out and took the small plant, letting the biological information wash through her mind. "Yeah, I see what you mean," she said. "I can't see the genetics, but I can tell how it would react to hot and cold temperatures." She grimaced as she handed it back. "I don't think I can fix that."

"Are you certain?" Eidolon didn't sound at all happy.

"Well, there is something we could do." Amy raised her eyebrow at the veteran hero.

"We're not bringing Bonesaw into this!" snapped Eidolon.

"Bonesaw?" yelped Blasto. "Screw that."

Amy smirked, having gotten the reaction she was after. "Pfft, no," she told them. Gotcha. "I have a totally different solution. It might mean more work, that's all."

"More work is no problem." Eidolon was very firm about that.

"What he said." Blasto didn't look as though he could believe he was agreeing with Eidolon on anything.

"All right then." Amy let her smirk relax into a grin. "All we have to do is …"

<><>​

Saint

A Deserted Town in Upstate New York

"Where did you say it was?" Geoff turned the wheel to avoid a pothole that would've wrecked the front suspension of the Jeep.

"Just up ahead a little." Mags consulted the tablet she was carrying. "The records were a little hard to unravel, but there was electricity running into this one building for months after everything else was shut down. And Dragon's program pinged deliveries being made of electronics and optical crystals. So, Tinker stuff. Which is why I thought you'd be interested."

She didn't have to say any more. Geoff was good at retro-engineering Tinkertech to suit his own needs. He grinned broadly as he picked his way down the street. If they could find the tech to upgrade their suits even more, Dragon would be caught even more off guard the next time they found it necessary to sequester one of her suits.

"Okay, stop right here." Mags held up her hand, and Geoff pulled the Jeep to a halt. Behind them, the flatbed truck driven by Mischa also rumbled to a stop. She pointed to the left. "That's the address there."

"Wait a minute." Geoff had an idea. "Cross-reference this area with arrests of criminal Tinkers from around two years ago. When the deliveries stopped."

"Okay, sure." Mags shrugged and complied. "Dunno why I didn't think of that myself."

That's why I'm the brains of the operation, darlin'. Geoff got out of the Jeep and stretched, feeling the vertebrae crack in his back. Moments later, Mischa joined him. The burly Russian carried a heavy pry-bar in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other, somehow making both items look like childrens' toys.

"Hah, got it!" Mags grinned at the two men. "String Theory was arrested in the next town over, two years ago. They tried and Birdcaged her without ever making the connection to this town."

"String Theory?" Geoff's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Now she's a powerful Tinker."

"Maybe too powerful, Geoff." Mischa sounded a little concerned. "Perhaps we should not be meddling with things we do not need to."

"Pfft, hah." Geoff rolled his eyes. "The more, the merrier. Let's see what goodies she's left in her workshop for us." He led the way toward the building in question, which appeared to be a shuttered convenience store. After a moment of hesitation, the other two followed.

The front door posed no barrier once Mischa applied the sledgehammer correctly, and Geoff squinted into the interior. It was dark, obviously, so he went back to the Jeep for the heavy-duty flashlight.

Inside, after some searching, they found a stairwell going down. At the bottom was a heavy door, securely locked. Fortunately, the foundations had settled—sometime recently, it seemed—and Mischa was able to get the pry-bar in behind the door and apply some pressure to the lock. It took some effort, but eventually the men were able to get the door open while Mags sat on the stairs and aimed the flashlight.

Sweaty, hungry and thirsty, Geoff was the first to step through into the room beyond. As the flashlight swept over what lay before him, he stopped. "Holy … shit."

Mags followed him in, then stopped in her turn. "Geoff … is that …?"

"Da." Mischa loomed into the room behind the pair of them. "That is the biggest goddamned gun I have ever seen."

He wasn't wrong. It was hard to get a sense of scale with just the flashlight, but it looked at least thirty feet long, almost filling the basement area. Gigantic leads were plugged into it, running into complicated-looking generators emplaced along the walls.

"What is that?" asked Mischa. He pointed at where the flashlight had just shone its beam. Geoff swung the light back, to show bold lettering on the side of the device. "'F-DRIVER'. What does that mean?"

"No idea," said Geoff. He put out his hand, incautiously leaning against the wall himself. A switch clicked under his hand. One by one, the lights came up. Along the barrel of the monster gun, LEDs sprang to life. Throughout the room, a rising hum could be heard. Directly before them, a panel lit up with scrolling letters.

"'Charging'?" asked Mags. "What does that mean, 'charging'?"

Geoff and Mischa spoke at the same time. "Nothing good."

<><>​

Low Earth Orbit

Far above the surface of the Earth, the Simurgh began to giggle helplessly.



End of Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Nineteen: Negligent Deicide

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Tuesday, 18 January 2011
11:50 AM
Uber

When Uber dashed into L33t's workshop, his partner was lying flat on the floor. "Bro!" he shouted. The smell of burnt insulation irritated his nose as he leaned over L33t. "Are you all right?"

L33t's eyes opened wide and he stared back at Uber. "Gah!" he blurted. Uber's relief at his buddy being alive was overshadowed by the realisation that L33t's eyes were glowing purple again. More than that, as L33t brought his hands up, Uber couldn't help but notice the lines of purple energy that were crawling over his fingers as well. Abruptly, the Tinker sat up, forcing Uber to take a step back. "Fuck me, that was a rush!"

"Yeah, but are you all right?" insisted Uber. "You just got zapped by that luck pack." He pointed at L33t's hands. "You're glowing again. Was that the good luck or the bad luck?"

Slowly, carefully, L33t climbed to his feet. "Both," he mumbled. "I was transconnecting them to try to cancel out the load so I could safely work on them." He examined his hands, turning them one way and then the other as the thin purple lines slowly crawled over his skin. "Well, that's new."

"So do you feel lucky or unlucky?" asked Uber practically. "If you build something, is it gonna be awesome or is it gonna make a crater?"

"Hmm." L33t grimaced. "Shit. That's definitely something I need to worry about now, isn't it? Lucky killed the Nine. What'll unlucky do?"

"I don't know, but I really, really don't want to find out." Uber frowned in thought. "Wait a minute. Say something dramatic."

"What?" L33t looked at him as though he were insane.

"Say something dramatic," Uber reiterated patiently. "If you're still lucky, it'll sound cool. But if you're unlucky, it'll probably only make you look stupid."

"Yeah, like that's never happened before," muttered L33t. He took a deep breath, then clenched his fist and raised it toward the ceiling. "I'm gonna make something AWESOME!" he yelled.

kkk-KKK-KRAK-KKK-BOOOOOM-MMM-mmm-mmm

Uber blinked. He was pretty sure the sky had been clear. "One second," he said, and he pulled out his phone. It only took him a moment to find out that there was no rain in the offing. "What the hell …?" he murmured. Then he looked up from the phone to see that L33t was already back at the workbench, feverishly sorting through components.

"Uh, are you rebuilding the luck guns?" he asked hopefully. The luck guns weren't something that he really understood, but for a brief shining hour they'd lifted him and L33t out of the rut of being the idiot villains of Brockton Bay.

"Nope!" L33t's reply was manic. "Wouldn't work anyway! I'm gonna make something better! Two somethings! 'Cause I can still do that!" He began to assemble the parts he'd grabbed, his fingers almost blurring. Uber watched, fascinated, as the purple energy played over the device that was coming together. "This was a triumph!" L33t cackled.

"Oh, shit," muttered Uber. "Here we go again." He had no idea what L33t was building now, or what they were going to do with it, but he had a sneaking suspicion it would be both terrifying and exhilarating … and he didn't intend to miss a goddamn moment of it.

<><>​

Winslow High Cafeteria
Taylor

I looked up at the ceiling and frowned. "Was that thunder?" I asked. "Because I'm sure the sky was clear, earlier." Turning my head, I peered out the window. "It's still clear."

"Wasn't thunder," Lisa said cheerfully. She leaned back in her seat and grinned like the Cheshire cat. "It was a signal."

"Signal?" I asked in confusion. "Who to? Me?" I shook my head. "And I'm still not sure why you're here with me." I looked pointedly at her, then over at Brian who was working his way through the line. Alec sat off at the side of the cafeteria, looking altogether too cheerful for someone who didn't have to be there. "I mean, isn't high school kind of beneath you, and all?"

"The signal's not for you," Lisa assured me. "It's your power at work. Stuff's going down, big stuff." She smiled beatifically. "We don't have to worry about it. Anyway, we're just here to have fun with our bestie, today. Coil told me to stick with you so I'm sticking with you. Rachel doesn't like crowds, so she's caring for her dogs. Brian heard there's still some Empire morons in the school, though, and he feels like kicking heads. And with Alec, it's generally just a good idea to stand back and award points for style."

"O … kay," I said uncertainly. "Am I ever going to find out what that was about?" Even as I asked the question, I wondered if I really wanted to know.

"Sorry." Lisa shrugged. "I'm good, but I don't do miracles." Something about her grin told me that even if she knew, she wasn't about to tell me.

"Sure," I said. "Okay." It was kind of weird to have Lisa treat me with absolute deference some of the time, then cheerfully ignore my most pointed hints at others. While I was pretty sure she was carefully ensuring my well-being and happiness, sometimes it got a little irritating. Though not irritating enough, it seemed, for my power to do anything about it.

"Oh, hey," Lisa said, sitting up once more. "The main event approaches."

"Main event?" I asked. "What?" Turning my head, I saw immediately what she was talking about. Emma. God damn it. Just when I was having a good day, too. I began to regret letting Lisa talk me into eating at the cafeteria for once. While I had no doubt that Brian and Alec could remove Emma and her coterie from my presence with ease, it would also get me more unwelcome attention.

"Relax," murmured Lisa. "I've got this." Her grin grew wider until it was positively carnivorous. Pulling her phone out, she began to play with it.

Emma stomped her way up to us with Madison flanking her. She didn't look at all thrilled to see me, which wasn't surprising. The last time I'd seen her was upside down next to a toilet, and I'd been laughing too hard to see straight.

"Taylor," she said sharply. "I'm surprised you've got the nerve to come back here." She let her gaze rest dismissively on Lisa, who was chuckling at something on her phone. "Who's this? Someone you paid to sit next to you so you can pretend not to be such a total loser?"

"Nope." Lisa came to her feet in one lithe move, stepping into Emma's personal space and even managing to loom over her slightly. I'd wondered why she'd worn thick-soled shoes today. "I'm her best friend now. One of them, anyway. You're Emma, aren't you? I thought you looked familiar. This is you, isn't it?" She showed Emma her phone.

Being a redhead, Emma had naturally pale skin, but at the sight of the photo she went red with anger. I could even guess which one it was. "Fuck off!" she shouted, swinging her hand to knock the phone away. "This is between me and Taylor! Get the fuck away from me with that!"

Lisa pulled her hand back just in time for Emma's attempt to miss. "Oh, you don't want to see pictures of yourself? Huh. I thought there was no such thing as bad publicity, even for a model. I thought maybe you could sell toilets with this one." She shrugged. "Fine. Want to see some pictures of Taylor? In fact, I've got some footage." Her smile went all the way past vulpine to lupine; from sneaky to savage. "Have a look."

The footage must have been cued up, ready to go. Emma's eyes were drawn to the tiny screen as the imagery played out. I could hear the tiny voices—heard my voice, in fact.

"No, you won't. I'm the only reason Glory Girl isn't taking your head off your shoulders right now. She's right, you know. You have lost. You lost the moment you entered the city. And you really lost the moment you threatened my life."

Emma blinked and stared, and I realised that through some sheer fluke of chance, she hadn't actually seen this footage yet. She and Madison watched the drama play out, fascinated despite themselves. The voices became indistinct, until Uber and L33t showed up. "Halt, evildoer!" That was Uber. "The Siberian has been trapped and your comrades vanquished! Release your hostage and surrender, or face our wrath!" Emma's eyes opened a little wider at that, for which I didn't blame her. Uber's speech had been too cheesy for words. Still, what followed a few moments later made her jaw drop, as well as Madison's. The shattering crash, made tinny by the phone speakers, was perfectly audible.

Lisa let it run a few more seconds, probably to the point where I was straightening up with the knife in my hand and the butterflies all over me, then stopped it. "In case you're wondering, yes, that was indeed Jack Slash." Her voice was innocently cheerful, but her eyes held the glint of a predator on the hunt. "That happened yesterday. Taylor is getting the bounty for his death. Yes, Emma, this does mean that she and her father are now quite a bit richer than your father, by a factor of about a hundred or so. Yes, this also means that you and Madison are in deep shit, especially when the court hears about how you violated the temporary restraining order they placed on you while they decide how to handle the allegations against you." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "In other words, fuck off and don't ever come back."

It was amazing. I couldn't even begin to describe how it felt to have someone else say that to Emma in such a blunt, uncompromising tone. Right then, I resolved to get Lisa the biggest box of chocolates I could find.

"You can't tell me—" began Emma hotly.

"Yeah, she can." That was Brian, right behind them, carrying a tray with all our food on it. "And so can I." Despite the fact that the tray wasn't that heavy, he flexed his arms. Muscles bunched and moved in a very impressive display of brawn. Also, one of the several reasons I liked having him around. "Fuck. Off." His expression was nothing less than forbidding—all aimed at them.

Madison turned and eeped, which wasn't much of a surprise given that Brian was somewhere north of six feet, whereas Madison was about five foot nothing and would've made up about one-quarter his weight. She wilted under his glare and began to slink away off to the side.

Emma was made of sterner stuff, or maybe she was just more stubbornly idiotic. She gave Brian a defiant look, then snatched a plastic bowl of something wobbly from the tray and went to throw it at me. However, halfway through the motion, her hand blatantly changed direction, causing the bowl to fly a short distance upward and an even shorter distance downward. Emma, looking up at its brief flight, received the entire contents in her face; half of which then slid down on to her extremely expensive-looking blouse.

"Fuuck!" she burbled through the wobbly face-coating. I wasn't sure if it was grey custard or yellowish tapioca. As Lisa and I watched with both bemusement and amusement, she stumbled away from us, clawing at her face. All over the cafeteria, phones were being produced as if by magic.

Certain that the mishap had been anything but an accident, I glanced over at where Alec sat. He grinned and gave me a little fingertip-wave back. I decided that he'd get something nice too. Maybe a gaming arcade all of his own. "So who ordered the tapioca, or custard, or whatever it was?" I asked as I turned back to Lisa and Brian. "I know I didn't."

Brian shrugged. "Search me. It ended up on the tray somehow, but I didn't order it and they didn't charge me for it."

"Gee, I wonder how that could've happened." Lisa gave me a smirk that told me she knew exactly what had happened.

I smirked right back. "Damn right." My powers were awesome.

Life was definitely looking up.

<><>​

Amy

"Wow, that was loud." Amy looked up at the sky. "What was that? It sounded like thunder, but there isn't a cloud in the sky."

"It wasn't thunder," Eidolon explained as they began to swoop down toward Arcadia. "It was Alexandria breaking the sound barrier. We got a report from Dragon that the Simurgh was acting oddly and glancing toward this region, so Alexandria's been scouting the area to see if anything's amiss." He tapped the side of his helmet to show how he knew this. "Nothing so far," he added in response to her unasked question. "She's probably just messing with us."

"Huh." Amy shrugged. "Hope that's all it is." She and Blasto had been collaborating on the food plant all morning, and now she was hungry. Lunch time beckoned.

"With any luck, yes," Eidolon agreed. "But your idea worked out perfectly. I'm not sure why we didn't think of regional variations for the plant."

"I suppose it all depends on what assumptions you're starting from." Amy leaned against the side of the force-field bubble. "If you're assuming you're working with just one version, it's hard to think outside that box."

"I suppose so." Eidolon grounded the bubble and opened it for her. "I'll be in contact when I need more feedback for my project. You've got a knack for making connections that I can't."

"Uh, sure." She waved goodbye as she stepped down on to the ground. "I hope it all goes well."

"To be honest, me too." Eidolon returned the wave and dissolved the bubble. Flying under his own power, he started upward again.

Amy watched him go, hugging herself with happiness. Eidolon wants me to work with him!

The inner glow lasted all afternoon.

<><>​

New York Protectorate Firing Range
3:30 PM
Legend

"All right then!" Legend paced across the deck of the barge before the assembled Wards. "This will be a live fire exercise. There is nothing behind your target except a lot of ocean." He pointed at the far end of the barge, which was a hundred feet away from them. Dotted on the deck from the fifty foot mark all the way to the far rail were silhouette targets. Some of these were easy to recognise as famous (or infamous) villains, while others were extremely generic. "So we don't mind if you miss. Just don't miss downward. Anyone who sinks the barge gets to swim back to shore." He gave them a brief smile to indicate that he was joking. Mostly. "Is there anyone who doesn't understand anything I've just said?"

Nobody said a word or moved a hand upward. Legend sighed; this could mean that everyone understood, or that everyone was waiting on someone else to say something. "Flechette," he said, just because she was standing at the front. "Did you understand everything I said?"

"We've got plenty of room and I'm not to miss downward?" Flechette asked.

"Yes, exactly." Legend smiled at her. "Did you want to go first?" He gestured at a collection of rods, dowels and other objects he'd made sure to stock the barge with. "All yours."

"Um, sure." She didn't step forward immediately; instead, she pulled her hair back more securely and put a second tie on it. "Just in case."

"Very wise," he murmured. "In your own time." Stepping back out of the way, he rose into the air so as to better gauge her shot. Flechette was almost always dead on target, no matter the extraneous conditions, so this would normally have been a formality. However, both she and he were determined to erase the embarrassing episode of that morning, once and for all.

He watched as she picked up a piece of wood, six inches square and four feet long. It wasn't light, but she was able to lift it with some effort. Then she applied her power to it, and almost immediately it became much easier for her to lift. Stepping out in front of the assembled Wards, she lined up with her improvised missile. Legend could tell that she was aiming to take out two targets with the same shot. "Permission to shoot!" she called out.

"Granted!" he replied.

She heaved, and the bulky piece of wood shot straight down the deck in a perfectly flat trajectory. It neither slowed nor dipped as it approached the first target. Hitting at 'chest' level, it punched a six-inch square out of it.

For a split second, Legend thought he saw the distant faded green of vegetation rather than the grey of the deck through the hole, but his eyes were already moving on to the next target, expecting that one to also have a large square hole in it. To his confusion no such thing had happened, and when he moved his eyes back, the view through the hole was normal. In fact, all the targets after the first one were untouched, and the projectile was nowhere to be seen. "Huh?"

Flechette's face slowly creased in a frown. "Wait a minute. What just happened to the piece of wood that I just threw?"

"That's what I was wondering." Legend drifted down next to the farther target and examined it closely. Not even a nick had been taken out of it. "Where were you standing?" he asked.

"Right here," she said, pointing at her feet. "I haven't moved."

"Hm. Stay right there." Legend created a low-powered beam that touched the centre of the target he was next to, then made a ruler-straight line toward the target that she'd perforated. Continuing on, the beam ended up lightly resting on her right shoulder. "Okay, you can't bend your shots, right?"

"No." Her tone was uncompromising. "My shots don't even bend for things like gravity or wind speed. And it shouldn't have vanished halfway there." She stared at the targets again. "What the hell happened to the thing I threw?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea. Try again and I'll keep my eyes on it all the way this time."

"Sure, okay." She picked up a length of broom-handle and treated it with her power. "Permission to shoot?"

He moved well off to the side. As hard as he was to hurt, her power was one of the few that could theoretically kill him. "Granted."

She hurled the broomstick. It went straight through the first hole, then made a neat circle in the next target, after which it sped out over the ocean until her power wore off. There was a distant splash. Legend looked down at Flechette, who was staring up at him. She spread her hands. "So what the hell happened to the big one?"

Legend frowned. "I'm not entirely sure. Wait here." Rising into the air, he scanned the area closely for any sign of a floating piece of wood. He only found one, and it wasn't the one he was looking for.

Where did it go?

<><>​

Under a Deserted Town in Upstate New York
Saint

"We've got to power it down!" shouted Geoff. "Everyone, look for an emergency shutoff!" He reasoned that every Tinker put a kill-switch on their doomsday devices. Even String Theory. He hoped. "We're thirty feet underground! If this thing goes off, it'll dig a trench from here to Boston and advertise our presence to everyone!"

"Maybe not dig a trench," Mags said. "Now that I think about it, there was a water tower directly behind the store. Maybe she's using it as a beam guide?"

"Which lights a giant fucking beacon to guide everyone, including Dragon, in to see what's going on!" Geoff retorted. "We've got to shut this thing down now!"

"Do not let knickers get caught in knot, Geoff," Mischa advised him. "Also, do not yell at Mags. She is trying to help." He pointed at a large square box attached to the wall. "What is in there?"

"Flashlight," Mags said, grabbing the pry bar from Mischa. Heading to the box, she wedged the bar in behind the hasp and heaved. There was a loud snap as the metal gave way. As Geoff pointed the flashlight, she pulled the box front open. "Bingo."

"Let me see." Geoff stepped in close, shining the flashlight over what she'd found. Mounted on a panel was a red button, beside a large switch with several positions. OFF was to the extreme left. The switch was pointed at LOW. Then there were MEDIUM, HIGH and FUCK YOU. "Okay, does anyone think this should be switched to anything but 'off'?"

"Well, duh." Mags rolled her eyes.

"Great." Geoff reached in toward the switch. Just as his fingers made contact, he inhaled a few more dust particles than normal. A gigantic sneeze racked his body, and he heard a deep click. When his watering eyes opened again, he realised that the humming noise in the room had deepened. The switch was now on MEDIUM.

"Geoff, what did you do?" Mischa's tone was despairing. "It is to turn off, not up!"

"I sneezed, okay? Shit happens." Geoff reached for the switch again. "I'll turn it off now." Just to make sure he wouldn't sneeze a second time, he held his breath while reaching for the switch. His fingers took hold of it and he prepared to flick it over to the left … just as a cockroach that had been lurking up under the top edge of the box dropped on to his hand and scuttled up his sleeve. "Fuck!" he yelped, jerking his hand back. Click.

"Geoff, you idiot!"

"Geoff, nyet!"

Both of them yelled out at the same time. Nobody could get close to the box because he was dancing around, swinging his arm in great arcs. Finally, the cockroach let go and flew out of his sleeve, and he became aware that the humming was deeper again. Not wanting to see what he knew he was going to see, he looked at the box. The switch was now pointing at HIGH. When he looked at the gun, the LEDs indicating charge were dancing up and down in the red range, which didn't look ominous at all.

"Out of the way!" Mags yelled over the rising hum. Dust was sifting down from the ceiling now. "I'm gonna turn the fuckin' thing off!"

"I can do it!" Geoff shouted back. It was just a fucking switch. About the least complicated of all electrical devices in the world. If he could get the better of a complex device like Dragon, he could master a simple switch. "I'm not gonna sneeze, and there's no more cockroaches. I got this." He reached for the switch a third time.

"No!" shouted Mags and grabbed him by the arm.

"Be careful!" Mischa bellowed from the other side, and jostled him as he was trying to push Mags away. His hand hit the switch. Click.

The hum was now a roar. Overhead, the lights had turned to a flashing red. On the gun, all charge meters were showing solid red, and were pulsing. The switch on the panel was, of course, all the way over to FUCK YOU.

"Get out of the fucking way!" screamed Mags, shoving Geoff aside. She reached for the switch and tried to turn it to the left. It resisted. She tried harder, until her fingernails turned white from the pressure, but to no avail. "Fuck! It won't move!"

"Let me try!" Mischa shouted. Mags stepped aside for him, and he grasped the switch in his thick fingers. He was stronger than Mags; all three of them knew that. But try as he might, the switch refused to travel back the other way.

"Press the button!" yelled Geoff, pointing at the other item in the box. "That might unlock it!"

"Or blow us all up!" Mags glared at him. "Can't you just leave fucking well enough alone?"

"Or it might not!" Leaning in, Geoff grabbed the switch and tried to turn it, while he jammed the red button all the way to the panel.

"Geoff!"

"Idiot!"

The pulsing lights up and down the gun flashed faster and faster. In the confined space, the overpressure of the noise beat on their eardrums, forcing them to their knees. The roar rose to a shriek. And then …

… the gun fired.

With a sound like the world's biggest bug-zapper going off, the gun launched a beam of ravening destruction from the far end. At the same time, a blue arc appeared around the end of the muzzle, swallowing the blast altogether. Huh, thought Geoff blankly. That must be how she intended to get the shot out of here. Wonder where it was aimed at.

For long seconds, the gun discharged its immense beam, until just as suddenly as it started, it cut off. The blue-rimmed arc disappeared and the red lights ceased flashing. The hum began to die down.

"Well," Geoff said, feeling his heart rate start to slow down. "That wasn't so ba—"

Abruptly, the red lights flashed again, and the hum rapidly built to its previous level. A speaker crackled to life, pitched to overcome even the ear-splitting roar. Even at this volume, it was impossible to mistake the now-Birdcaged Tinker's voice.

"FUUUCK YOU!"

<><>​

A Few Minutes Before, in Brockton Bay
Uber and L33t's Base
Uber

"Okay," Uber said carefully. "You've made …"

"Portal guns!" L33t replied gleefully. "One each! This one's yours!" He was still a little manic, but the purple energy no longer crawled over his hands or glowed from his eyes.

Cautiously, Uber accepted the bulbous device that L33t handed him. "And you made two of them?"

"Yup! I even made them self-recharging and self-repairing!" L33t took up his own portal gun and pointed it at the far wall. "Okay, time to test these bad boys out."

"Wait." Uber was examining his gun carefully. There was a small switch built into the side that he didn't recall from the game. "What's this do?" It had 'S' next to it.

L33t frowned as he leaned in to stare at it, then did the same with his. "Huh. I have no idea. It just came together that way."

"Whoa." Uber wasn't exactly happy about that. "And you don't know what it does?" Which was a big red flag in his mind.

L33t shrugged. "Safety catch?" He flicked the switch over and pointed it at the wall. Clicking the trigger once didn't do anything, so he clicked it again and held it down while waving it in circles and figure-eights. Letting the trigger off, he shrugged again. "Safety catch."

Uber, who had tensed up everywhere when L33t pulled the trigger the first time, allowed himself to relax. "Holy fuck. Warn me next time."

"Meh. Warnings are for pussies." L33t flicked the switch over and pulled the trigger. Instantly, a blue-rimmed circle appeared directly ahead of him, and an orange-rimmed circle across the room. He jumped through, appearing on the other side of the orange-rimmed circle. "Woo! It works!"

"Well, I'll be damned." Uber flicked his safety catch off, and aimed at an unoccupied section of room. "Self-recharging and self-repairing? We're gonna have fun with these."

<><>​

Somewhere over the Midwest
Zion

The Warrior paused, turning. The third Conflict Generator's odd behaviour had escalated. Now, it was convulsing in a mimicry of human laughter while making an odd single-fingered gesture in his general direction. He felt his Thinker powers kicking into action, attempting to determine if what she was doing was some kind of attack.

An orange-rimmed circle sprang into being just behind him. His inhuman senses detected it, but in the hundredth of a second interval between detection and actually doing something about it, an empowered length of wood emerged from the portal and smashed into the small of his back. The Sting aspect of its empowerment disrupted his projected avatar and it popped like a soap bubble, leaving behind the hole in space that led back to the pocket universe where he kept his main body.

Rapidly, he began to construct another avatar. He was under attack now, and he knew exactly by whom. Or rather, he knew one of the powers involved. The portal had had a Tinker flavour to it, so he would have to cull Tinkers from the world as well. He was only a second or so into the construction of the avatar when another orange-rimmed portal opened up, this time inside the hole in space that led to the 'real' universe.

From this portal blasted a ravening beam of destructive energy that tore into his vulnerable body, carving miles-deep trenches through his sensitive tissues. The first shard to go was the one governing his combat prediction. After that, the beam swung back and forth in infinity-symbol arcs, inexorably shredding his very essence. Random though the beam's progression may have seemed, it might have been directed by a malevolent intelligence that could anticipate his every move. It sought out and destroyed each of the other shards he would have used to defend himself, until his body lay in ruins. With one last contemptuous slash, it ripped asunder the shard he was using to keep the dimensional hole open.

The energy beam cut out and the portal vanished, but the damage was done. He barely had any shards left, and all of those were damaged. His access to the real universe had been destroyed and he was dying, his last few thoughts draining away with his life force.

With that final awareness came an understanding of what the Conflict Generator had been laughing about.

[… FUCK.]

<><>​

Uber

"Safety catch, huh?" mused Uber. He flicked the switch and clicked the trigger. Sure enough, nothing happened. "Well, I'll be damned. It actually works." Flicking it back, he aimed the portal gun at the fridge then pulled the trigger again. Reaching through the portal that popped up, he opened the fridge and took out a beer.

"This," he declared, "is your best invention yet." Popping the cap off the beer, he took a long drink.

"I know, right?"

<><>​

Cauldron Base
Doctor Mother

"... say that again?" Doctor Mother watched her main enforcer carefully, trying to decipher the meaning of her words.

Contessa didn't change her intonation. "I said, five minutes ago, Scion … disappeared. Vanished. He doesn't register on any of my Paths any more."

Doctor Mother reached for the button which would sound the alarm to bring Cauldron to a full war footing. It was too early, far too early. Two years were better than fourteen, but now was too soon! "Do you think he's attacking?"

"No." Contessa spread her hands. "I don't think he's anywhere. I think he … left, maybe? Or he's decided to go into hibernation? All I know is that his particular brand of interference isn't showing up on any Path I run." She frowned. "But that's not the only odd thing that was going on."

This didn't sound good. "What else?" asked Doctor Mother warily. She hated it when Contessa said something was strange.

"Apparently the Simurgh was showing signs of amusement. Actual laughter."

Doctor Mother shook her head at the sheer inconceivability of what Contessa was saying. "The Simurgh isn't human. She only resembles it. She doesn't laugh."

"She was laughing," Contessa maintained. "And giving him the finger."

"And then Scion disappeared." Doctor Mother tried to cling to the only thing that actually made sense. Scion could disappear. He'd shown powers that could do many things. But for the Simurgh to exhibit such human traits as laughter and rude gestures … no.

"Scion is nowhere I can find," Contessa insisted. "Even when I run Paths far into the future, he doesn't interfere with them."

"Keep checking." Doctor Mother eased her hand away from the button. "Let me know if anything changes." She distrusted this in the extreme, but no attack was better than a confirmed attack. "If he shows up anywhere, I want to know."

"Understood." Contessa turned and walked out of the office. Doctor Mother breathed a careful sigh and leaned back in her chair. She had no idea what was going on.

What game is Scion playing now?

A loud "Whaaagh!" interrupted her musings, and she jumped to her feet. That had been Contessa's voice, but she'd never heard the self-possessed younger woman yelp like that. Going to her office door, she looked into the corridor, to find Contessa sprawled underneath none other than the Number Man. Both of them looked extremely confused, not to mention ruffled.

"What the hell happened to you two?" she asked as she watched Contessa get to her feet, rubbing a part of her anatomy that was likely to be bruising soon. Which was, she suspected, possibly the first bruise that Contessa had suffered since she got her powers.

"I was making a sandwich and a portal opened under my feet," the Number Man answered crisply.

"And dumped him on top of me!" snapped Contessa, peeling a slice of buttered bread off her head. She sounded remarkably irritated, another first in Doctor Mother's experience. Contessa didn't get upset. She got even.

"You have to—no, that's not possible!" Doctor Mother shook her head. "Doormaker doesn't really even grasp the concept of a prank!" At least, she hoped so. If the Cauldron cape who provided safe interdimensional travel for all of them was acquiring a sense of humour, things could get very bad, very fast.

"It wasn't him," Contessa said at once. "For one thing, the portal was circular and had an orange rim to it."

"It was blue from my side. Ow," said the Number Man. Patting the floor, he found his glasses and put them back on. "Okay, so who else knows about us and has the brass balls to prank us inside our own base?"

"The number of people who match that description approaches zero," Doctor Mother said flatly.

Contessa climbed to her feet. "And this on top of Scion going missing and the Simurgh acting weird." She grimaced. "I have a potential suspect, but I don't intend to investigate."

That got her stared at. "Kindly explain that," requested Doctor Mother. Contessa rarely said things like that, but she always meant them.

"Yes, please," the Number Man added. "I really want to know what makes you say 'hell, nope'."

Contessa sighed. "You might recall I briefed you both on a new trigger last week? The one that was shifting all my Paths around in a certain area? She's got luck-based powers, and every day that goes by just gives her more variables to play with. Her trigger was two weeks ago, and in that time she's removed every large villain team in her city, via a series of improbable coincidences. Kaiser got punched into the cellar by a ton of blue ice, Lung got tarred and feathered, and so forth. Yesterday, she killed Jack Slash by making a piano fall on him. The day before that, the Siberian was defeated by a pair of joke villains with a Ghostbusters ghost trap. Oh, and Coil is now working for her, as he's apparently terrified of what will happen if he doesn't."

This was news to Doctor Mother. She'd been mildly interested in how Coil was going in his little experiment, but for him to surrender utterly to another parahuman was not what she'd expected.

The Number Man whistled softly. "That's kind of impressive. So you haven't gone in to chat with her why, exactly? She sounds like the perfect recruit."

Contessa shook her head violently. "You're not listening. Her power sees you coming. Jack Slash's death was the culmination of a series of events that started ten days ago. He was dragged there by her power three days ago, whereupon the Nine was systematically dismantled by a series of perfectly normal but impossibly orchestrated events. Every time I try to run a Path to influence her, I get a very simple result. 'Step one: buy chocolates and flowers. Step two: abandon any hope of actually making her do anything that's not in her own self-interest. Step three: be extremely polite.' And when I tried to run a Path just now to find out who did this, I had to terminate it because I was about to be hit in the face by a banana cream pie!" She threw up her hands. "I can't work around her, because her power's already worked around me!"

"Well, fuck," the Number Man said blankly. "What do we do now?"

Contessa looked him straight in the eye. "Stay out of her way. Don't do anything that might upset her. If you ever do encounter her, be very, very polite."

Some days, Doctor Mother decided, it just didn't pay to get out of bed. "What's her name, at least?" she asked.

"I am not tempting fate like that." Contessa shook her head. "The PRT calls her 'Butterfly'. You can find out her real name for yourself. Word of warning: don't mess with her." Leaving Doctor Mother staring, she turned and headed off down the corridor, with the stride of someone who had someplace to be and not much time to get there.

Well, that happened. Doctor Mother turned to look at the Number Man. "Is it just me, or did she seem … scared?"

He snorted. "Her, scared? That's … " He trailed off, his expression sobering.

She finished for him. "Terrifying."

Is this what everyone else feels like, around us?

<><>​

Contessa

Path to calming down.

Step one: go to quarters.

Contessa walked down the corridor and entered her quarters.

Step two: disrobe.

She stripped out of her clothing.

Step three: turn on the shower.

She turned on the shower.

Step four: get in the shower.

She stepped under the hot spray.

Step five: sit down.

She lowered herself to a seated position.

Step six: hug your knees.

She was beginning to shudder as she wrapped her arms around her knees. The hot shower pounded on her head and back as she rocked gently from side to side. It really did help, just a little.

"It's you, isn't it?" she whispered. "You did it. You killed Scion. You're the one who made the Simurgh laugh. You're more powerful than anyone imagines. And nobody will ever know. Nobody but me." And I'll never, ever tell.

The shuddering overtook her as she buried her face in her knees. The tears flowed down her face and her shoulders heaved but then or later, she would never be sure if she was laughing or crying.

<><>​

An Hour Later
Dragon

The explosion had been quite impressive on Dragon's satellite imagery and the crater was even more so, now that she was on site to view it. As she banked her suit over the still-smoking hole that had been blasted out of the local terrain, she spotted a familiar dark-clad figure rising up to meet her. Adjusting course, she slowed to a hover while her instruments continued to gather data from the surrounding area.

"Alexandria," she said in greeting as the head of the LA branch of the Protectorate came up alongside her. "You made good time."

"I was already in the general area, trying to spot any problems that the Simurgh might've been causing," Alexandria said. "Heard the explosion and saw the mushroom cloud, so I came to investigate."

Mushroom clouds, Dragon knew quite well, were not solely a product of nuclear explosions. Any sufficiently large and energetic detonation could cause one. All the same, she doubled down on her radiation-sensing sweeps, just in case. After all, a hole this size could easily have been caused by something in the tac-nuke range. "No radiation worth worrying about," she said. "Some exotic energies lingering around, but they seem to be fading." She turned her head to look at Alexandria. "Have you found anything?"

"Quite a bit of debris, mostly from the town that used to be here," Alexandria noted. "But I did find something that should help shed some light on the situation." She held up an object the size of her palm which had been scorched and twisted to a degree that made identifying it almost impossible.

Raising her vision input to its highest magnification, Dragon thought she could make out circuitry. More specifically, a type of circuitry that had not been assembled in any factory. "Is that … Tinkertech?"

Alexandria smiled. "Give the lady a cigar. Now look at this side of it." Turning the item, she revealed a relatively untouched flat section. Into that section had been etched a well-known, if infamous, logo. Two letters, 'S' and 'T', tangled together by threads.

"String Theory," Dragon realised at once. She threw up a query concerning the name, and got back an answer almost immediately. "Wasn't she arrested near here?"

"Yes," Alexandria confirmed. "I was in on that bust. She had a base, but nothing of any note was under construction even though she'd issued a threat of knocking the moon out of orbit. We should've considered the possibility of a secondary base."

Dragon pondered that. "As I understand, her tech works on a timer. If she doesn't use it within a given interval, it malfunctions. I'm guessing that 'exploding' is a malfunction." It was an elegant theory that fit all the available evidence.

Alexandria nodded. "That definitely makes a lot of sense." She tossed up the piece of Tinkertech and caught it again. "Just on the off-chance that there was someone snooping around here before it went boom, can you detect any life signs?"

That was one of the many things Dragon had been scanning for. "None," she replied. "Anything that was in the radius of destruction is dead. Anything that was outside it is staying well away from the blast zone, for obvious reasons."

"No surprise there," Alexandria noted with a snort of dry amusement. "The only thing now is to figure out how this relates to Scion's disappearance."

Dragon wasn't sure what she meant, so she cross-checked the data and discovered the interesting fact that the explosion had taken place precisely seventeen point three seconds after Scion's golden form had vanished from the sky, halfway across the country. "That can't be a coincidence," she agreed. "The Simurgh stopped laughing, by the way. Two minutes after Scion disappeared. So there's a high degree of probability that it's all connected. How it's connected I'm still not sure, but I'm certain there's a connection."

"You raise a frighteningly important question," Alexandria admitted. "Unfortunately, we're going to need many more data points before I'm even going to hazard a guess on the matter."

"I'll see what I can do," Dragon assured her, then looked over the area around the crater. "No promises, though."

Alexandria shrugged. They both knew that 'no promises' was a fact of cape life.

<><>​

One Week Later
New York City
Jamie Nightingale's Apartment

Jamie glowered at the oven. She really didn't like cooking, not least because juggling hot items in and out of the oven was made all the more difficult when a wheelchair was involved. But she wanted to be independent, and so occasionally she pushed herself to do the things she didn't like. Case in point: today she was making a lasagne. Normally, she only made enough for one sitting, but she'd lucked on to a special at the supermarket so she had a quadruple-sized batch in the pan, ready to go.

It still didn't mean she liked it, but she needed to go ahead and do it if she wanted to eat over the next few days. So she opened the oven door and took the pan down from the bench. Just as she was sliding it into the oven, the doorbell rang.

"Coming!" she called out. She made sure of the placement of the pan, shut the oven door, and double-checked the temperature setting. Then she hung the tea-towel around her neck, spun the wheelchair in a half-circle and headed for the door.

When she opened the front door, a deliveryman stood there with a large wrapped parcel in his hands. "Delivery for apartment two-thirty-six?" he droned. She was sure he was already focusing on his next delivery, but the trouble was that she didn't think she hadn't ordered anything recently.

"This is apartment two-thirty-six," she confirmed. "But I don't think I …"

"Thizizyourz," he grunted, dumping the twenty-pound parcel on to her lap. "Havanizeday."

"Wait!" she protested, but he'd already turned away. It nearly rolled off her lap, but she caught it in time. It felt cold in her hands and on her legs, but she quickly realised that it was a leg of ham. The delivery guy was already out of sight, and she looked down at the parcel. As she'd expected, it hadn't actually been addressed to her, but a couple of smears and a single artfully-placed rip on the label might've made it look that way to someone who wasn't really paying attention.

"What are the odds?" she wondered as she rolled herself back far enough to close and lock the door. Of course, she couldn't keep it. It wasn't hers. She'd have to decipher the apartment number from the mess of the label and figure out to get it to them. In the meantime, she decided to shove it in the fridge so it wouldn't go rancid.

She'd just closed the refrigerator door when the doorbell rang a second time. "Typical," she muttered. "Now he comes back to get it. Coming!" she called, raising her voice. Opening the fridge door, she took out the leg of ham again. She was happy that she didn't have to track down its rightful owner after all, but the guy's timing left a lot to be desired.

Wheeling herself back to the front door with the ham on her lap was a pain, but she just wanted it off her hands. Jerking open the door, she snapped, "Took your own sweet time getting back to me."

"Excuse me?" asked Eidolon.

<><>​

Panacea

" … so I thought it was the delivery guy coming back," Jamie said. "Sorry. Didn't mean to yell at you." She looked from where Eidolon sat on the sofa to where Amy perched beside him. "Or at you. I don't normally snap at guests." She looked and sounded embarrassed for her outburst. "Especially when it's two superheroes."

"Look, it's okay," Amy assured her. "I've been yelled at before. More than once, in fact. Sometimes I even deserved it." Carol's career as a lawyer, as it turned out, had taken a naturally sharp tongue and honed it to a razor's edge. She shrugged. Jamie's outburst had barely made her radar.

"Oh." Jamie sniffed. "Wait, sorry. I've just got to check on my lasagne." She spun the chair around with remarkable agility and wheeled herself toward what Amy guessed was the kitchen.

Amy didn't say anything, but the smell of the lasagne was utterly mouth-watering. Whatever recipe Eidolon's lady friend used, she'd hit it right on the mark. But the smell wasn't what got her attention about the whole situation. What really caused her antennae to quiver was the ex-cop's description of how she'd just so happened to have a lasagne cooking at exactly the right moment that two guests dropped in. At the back of her mind was the image of a totally untroubled girl standing next to a man with a knife, and a falling piano. I know of someone who sets up coincidences like this without even trying …

Right on cue, Jamie wheeled back into sight in the kitchen doorway. "Uh, you wouldn't want to stay for dinner, would you? I mean, this was meant to last me several days, so I've got plenty …?"

In her tone, Amy read an aching loneliness and something more. She likes him. A lot. Eidolon had spoken of Jamie Nightingale with admiration, but nothing more. Is it possible that he doesn't know how she feels about him? She had no idea why Taylor Hebert might be trying to set up Eidolon of all people with a girlfriend, but she'd seen what happened to people who got on Taylor's bad side, and she had no intention of doing that.

"Oh, uh, we really shouldn't be imposing on you—" Eidolon's automatic excuse stuttered to a halt when Amy's elbow surreptitiously jabbed him in the body armour over his ribs.

"Sure we would," the teenager enthused. "It smells delicious, Miss Nightingale. And it's been ages since I've had a good lasagne. What about you, Eidolon?" She elbowed him again. His helmet turned toward her, and she hissed, "Say yes! Trust me on this!"

In her opinion, it took him far too long to get the hint. "Uh … on the other hand … yes?"

Jamie beamed.

<><>​

Eidolon

David's first instinct was to leave. He liked Jamie well enough—in fact, he liked her more than a little—but being offered a home-cooked meal was somewhat out of his experience. Of course, quite a lot of what he'd been doing recently was out of his experience. So when Panacea insisted that they stay and take Jamie up on her offer, he'd agreed.

Which led to the next awkward situation. He followed Panacea through to the dining space and was about to sit down when he realised that both Panacea and Jamie were looking at him oddly. "What?" he asked.

"Does … your visor lift up or something?" asked Panacea. "I mean, Kid Win's only covers down to his nose. Clockblocker's got a full face helmet, but if he thinks he's going to be opening his visor, he wears a domino mask under it." She looked at him expectantly.

"Ah." For a moment, he considered just making an excuse and leaving. Though if he did this, he strongly suspected that Panacea would be heavily disapproving and, odd though it seemed, her good opinion was important to him. Jamie's was too, he belatedly realised.

That led to another startling insight. He not only liked Jamie, but he held her in rather high regard. More specifically, he trusted her more than he trusted most people. He wasn't quite sure if this was the result of their talks or the fact that she'd shown him a rewarding new way to use his powers, and was still happy to remain in obscurity while he accepted any accolades for the results of his efforts.

"I'm guessing that's a 'no'." Jamie nodded briskly. "That's okay. I'll put some aside for you to eat later, in private." She began to wheel herself away from the table.

"No," David said. "Wait." Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached up and pushed his hood back, then lifted his helmet off of his head. As they stared at him, he placed the helmet on the table with a gentle clack. "Now I can eat with you."

"Isn't that … I mean, are you supposed to … I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to see you unmasked," Jamie said doubtfully. "Won't I get in trouble for this?"

"Pfft, unmasking is overrated," Panacea said with an airy wave of her hand. "I've never even had a secret identity. Miss Nightingale, are you going to tell anyone what Eidolon looks like?"

David had to hand it to Panacea. To his certain knowledge, she had never seen his face before today, not from worry that she'd out him but more from the fact that there'd been no particular reason to do so. Among capes, Panacea was seen as particularly trustworthy, given that she'd held the lives of more than a few of them in her hands. And despite the fact that he'd blindsided them both with it, she was treating the revelation with enough casual unconcern that Jamie's worries were being disarmed before his eyes.

"Well, no, of course not," Jamie said hastily. She turned to Eidolon. "I would never do anything like that."

"I believe you," he said firmly. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have unmasked. We all have people we trust enough to unmask to. I trust you. Am I wrong to?" He tried to project warmth and reassurance into his voice.

"Well, no," she said. "Like I said, I'll keep your secrets." She lifted her chin. "I haven't been in uniform for years, but I still remember the oath."

"Cool," Panacea said cheerfully. "Welcome to the club." Reaching across, she clasped Jamie's hand briefly, then she picked up her knife and fork. "I'm starving. Let's eat."

<><>​

Jamie

If anyone had told Jamie she would be hosting two superheroes for dinner, she simply wouldn't have believed them. Had they then told her that her guests' jokes and silly stories would leave her laughing helplessly, she would have worried for their sanity. But somehow, that was what was happening.

Eidolon told stories about villains he and the rest of the Triumvirate had faced. The villains had been outmatched one and all, sometimes hilariously. For such a serious man, he had an understated way of telling a story that brought out the funny side of things.

Panacea, on the other hand, had apparently grown up with a super-powered sibling and two cousins, all of whom had expressed teenage rebellion in different ways. Between that and her anecdotes about facing the villains of Brockton Bay, Jamie laughed till her sides ached. She'd occasionally wondered if some of the stories about the notorious Uber and L33t were exaggerated, but from the ones Panacea told, she suspected not.

"So after that, Vicky couldn't even stand the idea of orange juice for days," Panacea finished with relish. She chased the last piece of pasta around her plate with her fork. "Miss Nightingale, you're a great cook."

Jamie rolled her eyes as she giggled at the image Panacea had presented. "Like I said, call me Jamie. Everyone else does."

"Only if you call me Amy instead of Panacea." The teenage superhero gave her a stern look. "I get called Panacea enough on the job. Which reminds me."

"Reminds you of what?" David—Jamie still couldn't believe she was on first-name terms with two superheroes!—looked at Panacea quizzically.

Panacea—Amy—rolled her eyes. "Seriously? Do I have to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room?" She gave David a pointed look. "You did bring me here to fix Jamie's leg, right?"

<><>​

Eidolon

"What?" David blinked, taken aback. "No, I … Jamie has helped me a lot, and given me a lot of good insights. I wanted to tell her about the progress we've been making on the food plants, and the other projects you've been helping me with. Basically, I wanted you to meet each other." He gestured helplessly. "I've come to the conclusion that as powerful as we are, we're incomplete without the perspective offered by people who don't have powers."

"Are you saying I need that kind of perspective, too?" Panacea tilted her head. "Huh. I guess I might. Sometimes my powers do kinda take up most of my attention." She laughed ruefully. "Like right now, assuming that you invited me here to heal Jamie instead of just meeting her." She turned to their host. "So I know why Eidolon didn't ask me to help you out. I'm curious as to why you didn't."

Jamie blinked. "You can fix my leg? I thought you just … well, cured cancer and healed bullet wounds and stuff. I didn't know you could repair traumatic amputations. And anyway, you guys are off the clock right now … right?"

"Heh." To David's ear, Panacea's snort of laughter didn't hold much in the way of humour. "Remind me to tell you sometime about walking to the hospital in the middle of the night because I can't sleep. 'Off the clock' is a slippery concept when you don't have a real secret identity. But yeah, I can fix your leg. We're just going to need a source of biomass, otherwise I'll have to scavenge …" She paused, then a grin spread across her face. "Hah!"

"'Hah' what?" asked David curiously. "Why are you smiling like that?" He got the impression that he was failing to make a connection that she'd already arrived at, and that when he clicked, he was going to be very irritated with himself.

Panacea stood up and headed toward the kitchen. "This was all meant to happen," she said, her words tumbling over themselves. "We were meant to show up today, just as Jamie had a lasagne on to bake. Because I'm meant to fix her leg. Because the biomass to do so showed up five minutes before we did, in the form of …" Reaching the fridge, she opened the door with a flourish. " … a mis-delivered leg of ham!"

Jamie frowned. "But that's just a coincidence … right?"

Reaching into the fridge, Panacea hefted the leg of ham and lifted it out. Pushing the door closed with her butt, she carried the ham over to the table. "Trust me, if you'd seen what's been going on in Brockton Bay over the last couple of weeks, you would not be saying that." Placing it in front of Jamie, she cracked her knuckles. "Okay, let's get you back on your feet."

David facepalmed.

<><>​

Panacea

"Okay, that should do it." Amy ensured that the last neural links had set themselves up correctly, then stood up from beside Jamie's wheelchair. The stocking covering the stump had been removed for this operation. Confirming Amy's suspicion about the whole situation, the ham had contained exactly the right amount of mass to replace Jamie's missing lower leg. She'd used Jamie's other leg as a template, a trick she was adept at.

But now was the moment of truth. Some people took to using the new limb almost immediately, while others had to re-learn everything from scratch. "Let's see you wiggle your toes."

"Okay." Jamie looked doubtful. "It feels strange."

"It is strange." Amy glanced at Eidolon, who had stayed back out of the way the whole time. She'd been nervous about doing this in front of a Triumvirate hero, to someone Eidolon thought a lot of, but he hadn't offered any criticisms. "This foot is brand new. You haven't had one for years."

"Ah, right." Lips pursed in concentration, Jamie began to wriggle her toes, one by one. Then she worked her newly-constructed ankle back and forth. "Wow. This is … amazing."

Amy grinned, enjoying the look of wonder on Jamie's face. "It's always pretty cool from my side, too. Think you want to try walking on it? Looks like you've got toe-wiggling down pat."

"I don't know," Jamie said doubtfully. She looked over at Eidolon. "Do you think I should?"

"Absolutely." Eidolon stepped forward. "You can lean on me. I won't let you fall."

Discreetly, Amy stepped back to let Eidolon take her place. She watched as the superhero—just a man, at this moment—helped the once-crippled woman stand up. The first few steps were barely steps at all, but the look on Jamie's face was one of pure wonder. With Eidolon guiding her, she took longer and longer steps, resting her weight on her new foot with more and more confidence. They didn't notice as Amy let herself out of the apartment. She could get a cab to the Protectorate building; from there, she was sure she could scrounge a lift back to Brockton Bay.

Her work in New York, as the saying went, was done.

<><>​

Eidolon

Smiling broadly, David watched Jamie walk the length of the apartment and back again. She was still a little unsteady on her feet, but she was gaining confidence all the time. Still, her balance wasn't perfect; she was almost back to him when she tripped and fell. He caught her, of course.

"Wow," she murmured, making no attempt to right herself. Her arms snaked around his neck.

"Wow, what?" Not for the first time, he noted that she was quite pretty. However, this was the first time he'd had her in his arms when he made that observation. Unaccountably, his heart rate went up.

"You have such nice eyes," she said softly. "And I've just realised I'm about to do something I haven't done for a long time." He raised his eyebrows quizzically … then she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him.

David had been kissed before, but due to the chronic nature of his condition before he got his powers, they had been no more than pity-kisses from girls who felt fleetingly sorry for him. Afterward, of course, he'd been submerged in the wonder of being the most powerful cape in the world. He'd never experienced this level of passion in a kiss, from a mature healthy woman to a mature healthy man, conveying a certain amount of intent. Despite the fact that he was the one with two original-issue legs, he felt himself go weak at the knees.

The last thing he actually wanted to do was stop. Many thoughts about Jamie Nightingale, ones which he had denied because he felt them unworthy of a hero about a lady, and which he would've felt extremely uncomfortable attempting to express anyway, came crowding to the forefront of his brain. But his sense of propriety overrode everything else, and he reluctantly pushed her away.

"What?" she asked, gazing up at him with languorous eyes made huge by her dilated pupils. "What's the matter?"

"Panacea," he said thickly, looking around for the teen. "I have to make sure she gets home." And he knew damn well that making out with their host in front of a teenage girl was definitely Not the Done Thing.

Jamie's chuckle was throaty, and sent tingles up and down his spine. "She left fifteen minutes ago, sweetheart," she murmured. "I thought you knew. Now, do you have anything else important to worry about tonight?"

Try as he might—though he didn't try too hard—David couldn't think of a single thing. Mutely, he shook his head.

Jamie's full lips curved in a delicious smile, and she deliberately undid the top button of her dress. "Then come here, you idiot," she told him, and pulled him in for another kiss.

This time, he didn't push her away.

<><>​

Panacea

Amy accepted the change from the cab driver and got out on to the sidewalk. Unlike in Brockton Bay, New York's Protectorate base was on dry land, which made getting to it much easier. Heading up the steps to the front doors, she watched as they slid aside, then entered the main lobby.

Taking a cab in New York was different from taking one in Brockton Bay. The cabbie had spent the trip gossiping about the goings-on in the city, but he hadn't once recognised her. Of course, she mused, this was probably due to her not being in costume. Even back home, it took some people a few moments to place her if they met her in a social situation. But here, she'd spent a good ten minutes talking to the guy and he hadn't once registered who she really was. It had been an experience both humbling and enlightening.

The lady behind the reception desk ceased her quiet conversation with the attending PRT guard as Amy approached. "Can I help you?" she asked. She looked professional, efficient and alert, even at this late hour.

"Uh, yeah," said Amy. "I'm Panacea, from Brockton Bay. Can I get a lift home, or a bed for the night then a lift in the morning, or something?" Belatedly, she began to wonder if this was a bad idea. She could have called up Aunt Sarah or someone, but that would mean a long night-flight for both of them.

"Oh," said the woman, straightening her spine a few more inches. "I'm sorry, Panacea. I didn't recognise you. Do you have ID on you?"

"Sure." Amy knew exactly what the woman wanted. She pulled her purse out of her pocket and retrieved the 'PRT Affiliate' card, with the picture of her in costume. Putting it on the desk, she slid it across to the receptionist.

The woman picked it up and looked at her over it. Helpfully, Amy covered her mouth and nose with her purse, to simulate her scarf. "Ah, of course," the woman said. "Thank you, Panacea. We don't have any transports heading north right now, but we've got guest accommodation that you're welcome to use. Do you want us to call New Wave and let them know you're here?"

"Nah, that's okay, I can do that." Amy tapped her pocket with the phone in it. "But a shower and a bed for the night would be wonderful, thanks." While the day hadn't been exactly strenuous, and she'd only had to deal with one healing, it was all starting to pile up on her.

"Certainly." The lady flashed her a bright, professional smile. "I'll just contact someone to take you up and get you settled." She pressed her earpiece twice, and had a murmured conversation with the person on the other end.

It didn't take long before one of the four lifts opened and a teenage girl stepped out. "Panacea?" she called. She wore a skin-tight deep purple costume that immediately brought Tattletale to mind, although the white metal armour panels dispelled the resemblance just as quickly. Also, her eyes were obscured by a visor instead of the Undersider girl's domino mask, and finally, she had long flowing black hair instead of Tattletale's dirty blonde mess. "I'm Flechette. Come on up."

"Cool," Amy said. Approaching Flechette, she held out her hand in greeting. "Call me Amy." She couldn't help but feel vaguely disloyal to Vicky as Flechette's curves caught her eye, but she pushed the thought away. Vicky's not interested, so I can look.

"Nice to meet you, uh, Amy." Flechette was obviously unused to meeting capes who went around unmasked. Still, she shook Amy's hand, then they stepped back into the lift. Flechette hit the button to go up, and the doors closed. As Amy raised her eyes to Flechette's after what she'd thought to be a discreet appraisal of the other girl's body—that costume really didn't leave much to the imagination—she found Flechette looking back at her with a knowing smile on her lips.

Oh, shit. Busted.

"So, you like what you see?" For some reason, Flechette's smile widened as Amy flushed vividly.

"I, uh, what, um …" Amy floundered, wanting to say yes, but not wanting to just come out and say it.

"The building," Flechette said by way of explanation as the lift started upward. "It's very impressive, isn't it?" But the glance she shot Amy made it quite plain that she was throwing the biokinetic a lifeline. Neither one of them believed Flechette was actually talking about the building.

"Uh, very impressive, yes." Amy didn't mean the building either. Daringly, she added, "I'd, uh, like to see a lot more of it."

"On behalf of the Protectorate, thank you." Flechette's smile turned wicked, and she very deliberately checked Amy out. "So … staying the night, huh?" A very pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

"Uh, yeah." Amy flushed again, hard. She'd never had another girl look at her in the way Flechette was. Did that mean she was … interested? Flechette wasn't Vicky, but Vicky wasn't interested, and Amy got so lonely sometimes …

As the lift came to a stop, Flechette gave Amy another quick up-and-down. When her gaze met Amy's, eye contact was total. "Good."

And all Amy could think was, Eidolon's not the only one Taylor was setting up.

Damn, that girl is good.



End of Part Nineteen

Part Twenty [END]

 

[Ack]

It Gets Worse

Part Twenty: Finale



[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Jamie

Stretching a little as she gradually came awake, Jamie became aware of an unfamiliar weight attached to her body. As her brain reasserted itself, she realised that it was her leg—her new leg! Abruptly, she sat up in bed, throwing another unexpected weight off of her waist—oh, wait. That was David's arm. And David himself was now blinking back to wakefulness, staring at her as if he'd never woken up next to anyone before. Which, if she'd read the signs right last night, he hadn't.

But that wasn't her concern right now. Ignoring their mutual nudity, she kicked the covers all the way down and lifted her knee, examining the replaced limb minutely. It all seemed to be there, the toes wiggling when she told them to. "It wasn't a dream," she said wonderingly. Straightening her leg, she threw herself on top of David and kissed him thoroughly, morning breath and all. "It wasn't a dream!"

"No, I guess it wasn't," he mumbled, once the kiss was over and she'd rolled off of him again. "Did we … last night … I mean … were you …?"

She could have laughed at his blushing shyness over what had happened between them, but she didn't. In direct contrast to his public persona, his male ego was very fragile. This wasn't surprising; most male egos were fragile. But as a forty-year-old very recently ex-virgin, his was more so than most. "It was wonderful," she said warmly.

She wasn't lying; there'd been a few hiccups, but they'd gotten past them and she'd made damn certain that he enjoyed himself as much as she did. Which had been a considerable amount. She hadn't gone totally without in the time since she'd lost her leg, but most guys she'd met couldn't get past the leg thing (and some found it kinky, which she thought was a little weird). But David applied himself to making love with her as thoroughly as he did anything else, which meant that the earth had indeed moved for her. Several times.

"Oh," he said awkwardly. "I'm glad. I mean … you were wonderful, too. I … wonder if …" To her secret delight, a flush spread upward from his cheekbones as he looked everywhere but her body.

"David," she said softly. Taking his hand, she placed it on her waist. "Last night was a truly special time for me. And I want to do it again with you, as often as you want." Lowering herself off of her elbow, she slid her arm under his neck to pull him closer. "I think you're an amazing man, and you're a pretty damn cool superhero too." Lifting her leg, she ran her big toe teasingly up and down his calf. Her eyelids lowered as she continued in a sultry tone, "That is, if you're interested …"

Finally he took the hint, and rolled over to meet her. She felt his arms go around her, and she met his kiss with one that was just as fierce and just as passionate. While they'd have to get up eventually, she figured, they could put it off for another hour or so.

<><>​

Lily

As they walked out to the helipad, Lily slipped her hand into Amy's. The frizzy-haired girl squeezed her fingers tightly. Lily worked a finger free and tickled Panacea's palm. When she glanced sideways, a blush was spreading across the healer's cheeks. Lily grinned, recalling just how ticklish Amy was, and how much they'd both learned about each other the night before.

"You'll visit?" Amy asked, her voice barely audible over the sound of turning rotor blades.

"Visit?" Lily laughed out loud. "I might transfer. Unless you want to join the New York Wards? I hear it's gone really quiet in Brockton Bay recently."

Amy chuckled in her turn. "'Quiet' isn't exactly the right word. 'Weird as fuck' is closer." She squeezed Lily's hand a little tighter. "I could join the New York Wards. Or you could transfer to Brockton Bay, if you wanted. I'd be happy either way." She paused for thought. "Actually, screw that. I know what I want. And it's not Brockton Bay."

They had talked a little the night before. Lily was still weirded out by the idea of two grown men, who had somehow captured the Siberian, physically prostrating themselves before a teenage girl who'd just walked Jack Slash under a falling piano. She wondered what it would be like to live in the same city as someone whose power amounted to pure bullshit luck. But she was more interested in what it would be like to live in the same city as Amy Dallon.

"Whatever you want to do, I'm good with," Lily said. She stopped just short of the boarding ramp, and turned to face Amy. She raised her free hand to cup Amy's cheek with her palm. "I've been transferred to more departments around the country than any other three Wards I know, but I've never met anyone like you before." Leaning in, she pressed her lips to Amy's. The kiss was tender and sweet, and over far too soon.

<><>​

Emily Piggot

Being the Director of a PRT Department gave Emily Piggot far too many problems to deal with on a daily basis that she could just casually put aside her responsibilities for no good reason. However, her job also meant that if there was a good reason, then some duties took precedence over others. Such as standing up on the roof of the building instead of sitting in her office, making awkward small-talk with Brandish and Lady Photon of New Wave while they waited for the former's errant daughter to come home. Brandish's other daughter, obviously bored, strolled along the edge of the roof, occasionally leaning out at ninety degrees to look down at the street below. Powers are such bullshit.

She had no idea why Eidolon had dropped off Panacea in New York, but it wasn't like she could tear strips off of the man for neglecting his responsibilities. As it was, she would still have been in her office, Panacea or no Panacea, if it hadn't been for a somewhat puzzling radio call that had come in from the chopper while it was en route. When a superhero of Panacea's capabilities, teenager or otherwise, requested an audience with someone like Emily, it was wise to either grant it or have a really good reason why not. And it wasn't as if she had the up-until-recently normal run of gang violence as an excuse.

Since the video of Butterfly and Jack Slash went viral, the criminal element of Brockton Bay seemed to be in a state of shock. Not to mention the fact that the parahuman criminal element was close to extinct in the city by now. She'd even read on PHO that Faultline and her Crew were considering upping stakes and moving to another city. Any city, anywhere else. Normally, this would be cause for celebration, but Emily knew damn well that it wasn't due to anything she'd done. Except maybe been polite to Butterfly.

The noise of rotors became audible in the distance. Emily turned and shaded her eyes until she spotted the incoming transport. Glory Girl perked up and flew into the air, obviously intending to go meet it.

"Victoria, come back here!" Brandish ordered. "That's an official PRT transport. They aren't permitted to allow you on board."

"Aw, mo-om," pouted Glory Girl, but she came back as directed. "Did Ames even say why she was in New York? She coulda told me, and we coulda gone and done stuff while we were there."

"She did not." Brandish's freezing tone was good at shutting down lines of enquiry like that. "No doubt it's got something to do with this new hobby or whatever it is she's doing. Well, no more. If she can't be responsible enough to either be home at a reasonable hour or ask permission first, she's grounded."

"Isn't that a little harsh?" asked Lady Photon. "I mean, it's the first time she's done something like this, and it is Eidolon, after all …" She glanced at Emily. "Did you ever find out what they were doing in New York?"

Emily shrugged. "I have no idea. Eidolon does what Eidolon does."

She watched as the transport came in for a landing. The helipad was FOD'd (picked over for anything that might cause Foreign Object Damage) before every transport arrival and departure, which meant she had little to worry about except the actual downgust of wind. A stray memory crossed her mind of a visiting Australian cape referring to the FOD procedure as an 'emu parade'. An emu, she'd heard, was a big flightless bird similar to an ostrich, but she had no idea what parades had to do with it.

With a roar of engine and a rush of wind, the transport touched down, settling on to its landing gear. The rear ramp opened and passengers filtered out, but Emily was only looking for one. Even then, Panacea nearly escaped her notice, partly because the girl wasn't in costume (why not?) and partly because of her attitude. Panacea normally walked with her eyes down, as if she were trying to hide from the world. Or maybe because she felt she bore the weight of it on her shoulders.

This Panacea was as far from that girl as someone could be, and still look the same. Her head was up, her eyes bright and she moved with a confident stride. She faltered a little as her eyes swept over Emily's little group (no doubt due to Brandish's censorious glare) but she kept coming anyway. Emily saw her fists clench at her sides, quite possibly without her conscious knowledge.

"Ames!" Emily felt a rush of happiness as Glory Girl rushed at her sister, pulling to a halt at the last moment and spinning the two of them around. "I've been worried sick about you! Stuck in New York all alone? Anything could've happened to you!"

As Emily was opening her mouth to say something, Panacea leaned in and whispered to her sister, and the unnatural emotion died away. Emily shut her mouth again and watched the reunion carefully. Glory Girl had a very … forceful personality, but Panacea seemed to be right up there with her at the moment. "Well, something did," the healer said, a crooked grin quirking her mouth. "Tell you later."

She didn't get the chance to say anything more, because Brandish was marching forward. "Panacea!" she snapped. "Why didn't you call before you went to New York? Your father and I have been worried!"

Panacea turned to look at her, and visibly wilted before Emily's eyes. "I'm sorry," she began. "I didn't know—"

"That's hardly an excuse," Brandish said flatly. "You're grounded until you can prove to be more responsible. You're coming home right now." Nodding to Glory Girl, she turned to Lady Photon. "Let's go."

"You didn't let me finish. No, wait, Vicky. I've got something to say."

Emily's eyes were drawn to Panacea like a magnet. The girl's tone had changed from deferential to forceful, and something had injected iron back into her backbone; the subtle hunch to her shoulders had straightened right out again. Okay, what the hell?

"Ames?" Glory Girl looked at her quizzically, but didn't try to pick her up. "What's going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know, too." Lady Photon rubbed her chin while looking her niece over with a furrowed brow. "Carol, do you seriously not see this?"

"See what?" Brandish pressed her lips together. "Amy left the city without letting me know she was going to be away overnight. That's a serious breach of trust, right there."

"I didn't know I was going to be away overnight," Panacea said flatly. "Eidolon wanted to introduce me to a friend of his. Plans changed, and he ended up being unavailable, so I went straight to the Protectorate base. They put me up for the night."

To Emily's trained ear, the recitation of events sounded almost … rehearsed. If she didn't already have that impression, the way Panacea's eyes jumped around as she was saying it would've aroused her suspicions. A practised liar, Panacea was not. While Emily was almost certain the statements were factual, Emily would have bet rather a lot of money that there was a great deal Panacea was leaving out of the story. Especially considering the faint blush that rose over her face as she said the last sentence.

"What are you talking about, Aunt Sarah?" asked Glory Girl. "See what?"

As fascinating as all this was, Emily Piggot was a busy woman. "Panacea, I understand that you've requested to speak to me. I'm listening."

Panacea's eyes jumped around even more. "Can we, uh, do this in your office? Alone?"

"Certainly not," Brandish said flatly. "You're a minor and you need a parent or legal guardian present when you speak to her. That's me."

Emily wondered if Brandish heard the irritation in the sigh that Panacea let out. "Fine. Director Piggot, I want to join the Wards, on one condition."

"What?" Glory Girl beat out her mother, but only barely.

"What?" Brandish hit the high notes almost immediately.

"What, really?" Lady Photon's eyebrows rose.

What? Emily blinked. She'd been through a lot, but having Panacea simply ask to join the Wards … it certainly made the top ten 'wtf' moments in her life. "I'm sure that can be arranged," she said, purely on reflex. "What is your condition?"

"I want to be transferred to the New York Wards," Panacea said boldly.

The chorus of startled exclamations only went as far as Glory Girl and Brandish, this time. Lady Photon merely looked thoughtful, while Emily felt a burst of enlightenment. Panacea's newfound confidence, coupled with her wish to be in the New York Wards, said one thing to her. It seemed that Panacea's aunt had also caught the ramifications, while Brandish and Glory Girl were still distracted with the peripheral matters.

The choice was a simple one; accept the offer, or no. On the face of it, it was the very definition of a no-brainer. The Director who recruited a high-powered healer such as Panacea into the Wards would earn a well-deserved pat on the back from Chief Director Costa-Brown when the time came. Of course, the condition meant that she wouldn't be able to keep Panacea in Brockton Bay, but the workload facing the Brockton Bay Protectorate and Wards had fallen away dramatically of late. She strongly suspected that the majority of the Protectorate and Wards personnel in the city would be transferring away in the not too distant future anyway.

"I believe that can be arranged," she said smoothly. All she'd need would be proof of consent from Panacea's legal guardians—in the event, Brandish—and the right forms could be filled out and signed just as soon as possible. "Brandish?" This, she suspected, might be more of a problem.

"Absolutely not!" snapped Brandish, confirming Piggot's worst fears. "It's out of the question. Amy, you're coming home right now, and then you're explaining to me and your father exactly where you've been and what you've been doing. This is very irresponsible of you, and—"

"Shut up, Carol!"

To Emily's surprise, the exclamation came from Lady Photon. To be honest, she'd half expected it from Panacea herself. The healer seemed to have been gearing herself up to do it, if Emily was any judge.

If Emily was surprised, Brandish was astonished. "Sarah?" she demanded. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Protecting you from making a costly mistake." Lady Photon looked at Panacea. "You've had your sixteenth birthday, which means you can join anyway without requiring parental approval." It wasn't quite a question.

"That's right." Panacea's response was short, but the tone clued Emily into the fact that she'd already been thinking about it. Probably for most of the flight. Wanted to see how Brandish reacted before popping that little fact in her face.

Oh. Oh. She doesn't like Brandish very much if she's willing to blindside her like that.

That was a new insight into the workings of New Wave, but it wasn't going to be valid for very long. Emily looked at Brandish, who seemed to be working up to a new tirade. "Brandish," she said quietly.

"What?" Brandish didn't sound happy, which didn't surprise Emily.

"I'm inclined to accept Panacea's offer. You can oppose it and lose all hope of keeping any sort of a connection, or you can accept what your daughter wants."

"I'm her mother," Brandish snapped. "You can't transfer her away without parental approval."

"Actually, given certain legal hoops to jump through, yes I can," Emily replied without heat. "We've had incidences of overly-controlling parents before now." Brandish's eyes flashed as the subtext in Emily's words hit her but it was too late to do anything but forge on. "If she joins, Panacea will by definition have a place of residence and a salaried job, which means we would be able to apply for emancipation on her behalf." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Do not try to fight this. You will lose."

"Wait, wait, time out!" Glory Girl protested, holding her hands up in the classic 'T' formation. "Ames, what the heck? Joining the Wards? Transferring to New York? What's going on here? What's got into you?"

Panacea's sudden blush and giggle were unexpected, but they served to cement the supposition that had been growing in Emily's mind. Her feelings about the suspected reasons for Panacea's defection from New Wave were mixed, to say the least. She didn't know who had caught the healer's eye, or how long the infatuation would last, or even if it was mutual. From Panacea's attitude, something significant had happened between herself and the other Ward (at least, Emily hoped it was a Ward), although 'significant' was a term that could only be defined by Panacea herself. And what would happen when (if) the relationship ran its course? Would Panacea want to stay in the Wards, or would she want to wash her hands of them?

Militating against that was the rock-solid assurance that the Chief Director would want her to at least try to get Panacea into the Wards. Not that Emily was against the idea in principle; PRT troopers and capes had a depressing ability to hurt each other and get hurt in a most expensive fashion. But it meant that she was going to have to set some conditions of her own before she accepted.

"Never mind all that," she said firmly. "Panacea, I'm going to provisionally accept your offer. However, I am going to have to give you a complete entrance interview, with a third party available to handle your interests in the matter. At any time, if you wish, you can walk away. Do you understand?" Because there was no way in hell she was going to finish signing Panacea before finding out exactly what had happened, and if it was legal, moral and ethical. If charges needed to be laid … well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

Panacea nodded vigorously. "How soon can we have it?"

<><>​

Eidolon

David rose above the New York skyline. He felt … energised. It couldn't all be due to the extra time spent in bed, or the breakfast that Jamie had insisted on cooking for him, though those had both been … amazing. It was like he'd woken up in an entire different reality, where the sunlight was brighter and the world was a better place. Indeed, for a moment he'd suspected a Master effect might be in play, but then he recalled what he'd read about endorphins and other such matters. This was natural; it had just never happened to him before.

He'd contacted the Protectorate building and verified that Panacea was in their care, which didn't surprise him. The girl was both smart and resourceful. She was a good hero, and she'd been utterly invaluable with his projects with Blasto. Which reminded him; it was time for field trials. Amy and Blasto had forced the food plant through a thousand generations in just a couple of days, and no significant problems had shown up in that time. He wasn't quite sure how they'd made the gene sequence so stable, but that was why one brought in outside assistance, after all.

North Africa, he decided. He'd collect a sample bag of seeds from Blasto, pick a location, speak with the local community leaders, and set about dispersing the food plants. It would take a month for them to show results, but he had plenty of work with his other projects to keep him busy. And once the plants were growing properly, he'd bring Jamie to show her what she'd wrought.

With a broad grin stretching his mouth, he brought up his teleport ability. Green light flashed, and he was gone.

<><>​

Somewhere in America

"You're shitting me. Give." Quarrel, now known as Butcher, reached out for the newspaper.

"Uh, sure." Animos handed it over, then got up and headed for the fridge.

The skulls that Butcher had strung over her shoulder clattered against each other as she sat back with the paper. On the front page, the picture of the teenage girl straightening up with butterflies perched on her head and arms—and knife tip—was actually quite impressive. Below it, smaller pictures showed the girl with the same knife held to her throat by a man Quarrel tentatively identified as Jack Slash, and a blurred image of a piano in the air above him. The headline read: BUTTERFLY: 9. SLAUGHTERHOUSE: 0.

If she was to believe this story, the Slaugherhouse Nine had come to a city called Brockton Bay, and … died. A series of coincidences and unlikely occurrences—including the piano which had fallen on Jack Slash—had killed them all over just a few days, before they had the chance to begin terrorising the place. Before the authorities were even aware of them. The breathless tone of the article made it irritating to read, but she persisted. It seemed that the girl in the picture, one Taylor Hebert (aka 'Butterfly'), was the focal point of all this. Not from anything she'd done, but it seemed that whenever anything bad was about to happen to her, her power kicked in and the misfortune was reflected back tenfold.

There was an interview with Director Emily Piggot of the PRT on page two. Instead of the 'no comment' common in this sort of situation, Piggot had actually gone on the record with a series of statements.

Interviewer: So, this Butterfly … she's a real person? This isn't some sort of hoax?

Piggot: This is not a hoax. Butterfly is a real person. I strongly recommend you not harass her.

I: And her powers are … luck? Just that?

P: Her powers are absolutely genuine. I've seen the evidence, many times.

I: So how soon will she be joining the Wards?

P: She won't be, unless she decides that she wants to.

I: So you haven't tried to recruit her?

P: Not since her power decided that she'd be happier outside the Wards.

I: Her … power decided that?

P: Exactly.

I: And you haven't got a problem with this? Is she a danger to anyone?

P: [expletive deleted], don't ask that question unless you want her to be one. We at the PRT have an agreement with Butterfly. We don't harass her, and she lets us do our job in matters that she doesn't care about. [Pause] Can we wipe the tape on that?

I: Sorry, that's not my call. So she's really that powerful?

P: Yes.

I: Can you expand on that?

P: Okay, let me be absolutely clear on this. I am going on the record, and I want you to print everything I say. Got it?

I: Got it.

P: Good. Now, you have to understand that Butterfly only came to our attention two weeks ago. In that time, her power has exposed more than one case of corruption in the ranks of the PRT and the heroes, brought down both major gangs in the city, apparently converted a number of minor parahuman criminals to heroism, and caused a major solo player to spontaneously decide to become a benefit to society. All while she was attending school, sleeping, or doing other things. Any questions so far?

I: Uh, yeah. About the Nine?

P: They came to our city, all right. And they never stood a chance. You've seen the footage of Uber and Leet capturing the Siberian?

I: The Ghostbusters thing? That was real?

P: That was absolutely, unequivocally real. If I understand matters correctly, Butterfly's power began manipulating reality three weeks ago and thirteen hundred miles away, to counter threats that hadn't even happened yet. And I have no doubt that it's still preparing for threats she might meet in the future. So here's my word on Butterfly: leave her alone. Don't annoy her, and don't threaten anyone she cares about. You'll probably survive the backlash, but I can't guarantee that. [Pause] Actually, she's got quite a few friends now, so if you're considering any sort of criminal activity, don't come to Brockton Bay. You can quote me on that.

Butcher crumpled the paper and threw it aside. "Luck powers," she said derisively. "Bullshit." Raising her eyes to where Animos had opened a beer, she smiled coldly. "Time to see how lucky this bitch really is. Get everyone together. We're going to Brockton Bay."

<><>​

Amy

"Panacea, this is Dolores Henderson," the Director said. "She's our in-house counsel for situations like this. Everything you say to her will be held in strict confidentiality, so long as it doesn't involve an actual breakage of the law. You can have a family member sit with you while you talk to her, if you want."

"Hi, Panacea," said Dolores Henderson, holding out her hand. She was a slender woman with shoulder-length mousy-brown hair and large round glasses. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

Automatically, Amy shook the woman's hand, but her mind was elsewhere. She hadn't thought that anything she'd done might be illegal. "Um, what if I've broken the law? What happens then?"

Piggot sighed. "In which case, it happened on Protectorate property and must be investigated, but coming clean with it from the beginning will give us considerable leeway for dealing with it." She paused. "Understand that I'm not asking for details—that's Ms Henderson's job—but do you think you might have broken the law?"

"I … don't think so?" Amy frowned. "You said earlier that I could just walk away if I wanted to. Can I just walk away now? If I want to?"

"Yes and no," Henderson said. "You could walk out that door right now. However, because the possibility of a legal issue has come up, we would be bound to investigate what happened from the New York Protectorate end, and anything that arose from that would be something we would have to follow up on. Do you understand?"

Which meant they'd question Lily as well as everyone who'd seen the two of them together. She began to regret the kiss just before she got on the transport. Better to sort this out now and hope for the best. "Yeah, I understand. Let's do this."

"A wise decision." Piggot's smile almost reached her eyes this time. "Did you want a family member to sit in?"

Hastily, Amy shook her head. "Uh no." There were details she didn't want anyone in her family to hear.

"Very well. I'll leave you to it." Opening the door, Piggot exited. It closed behind her.

"Well, then." Dolores Henderson sat down at the table and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher that sat there. Flipping open her notebook to a clean page, she clicked her pen then poised it over the paper.

Amy took a seat across from her. "I thought this was being recorded." She nodded to the pad.

"Oh, it is," Henderson said readily. "This is for my own personal thought process. Shall we begin?"

Amy took a deep breath. "When I got to the Protectorate building, they called down Flechette to take me up and get me settled …"

<><>​

Danny Hebert

Roy Christner stood up and leaned over his desk to shake hands with Danny. "Good to see you," he said heartily.

Danny knew he was lying, but it was a politician's lie, so he decided to let it go. "Nice to see you too, Roy." He smiled more widely than Roy had, and saw the first jolt of uncertainty in the mayor's eyes. "I take it you've heard the news over the last few days?"

"I have." Roy's voice was somewhat more cautious than before. "How's your girl holding up? I hear fame can be a strain."

Danny rolled his eyes. "She's loving it. Nobody bothers her if she doesn't want them to. One guy who tried to get in her face with a microphone tripped and fell into an open manhole. Damnedest thing. And then there's that thing with Jack Slash." He saw the man twitch as he said the name, and derived a certain amount of guilty pleasure from it.

"Uh … yes. About that." Roy's voice was still firm and confident, but there was now a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "You didn't give my secretary any actual reason for this meeting."

"No. I didn't." Danny's smile widened slightly. "And yet, here I am."

"Because every person I tried to schedule for this timeslot cancelled their meetings almost immediately afterward, even though I hadn't told them." Roy's eyes searched Danny's. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want." Danny made his voice flat and hard.

"The ferry?"

Danny nodded. "The ferry. Plus, some other things I intend to finance myself. With our share of the Slaugherhouse Nine reward."

"Which are …?"

The chair creaked as Danny leaned back. "I've already started buying up the leases on the buildings immediately surrounding Lord's Port. I intend to renovate them, then get the Port up and running again, just as soon as I can get the Boat Graveyard cleared." Just listing the steps out loud gave him a heady feeling. We really can do this.

" … the Boat Graveyard cleared?" Roy shook his head. "How are you going to do that? And what do you want from me?"

"I'm not sure yet," Danny said lightly. "Something will come up. And as for what I want from you is simple: don't stand in my way." He sat forward abruptly, seeing the shock in Christner's eyes as he closed the distance. "I have tried, and tried, and tried to get the ferry reinstated. But there's always been someone with an agenda to block mine. Well, that ends now. The ferry will come back. And nobody blocks what I'm doing with Lord's Port, or buys up the leases just so they can make a buck selling them back to me. Understood?"

Christner nodded jerkily. "Understood."

"Excellent." Danny got up. "I'll see myself out."

As the door closed behind him, he smiled grimly. That felt good.

<><>​

Emily Piggot

Emily looked up as Henderson entered her office. "So, how bad is it?" she asked. She had hopes that it would be all right, but the world had a way of shitting on her expectations.

"Actually, it's not bad at all," Dolores said cheerfully. "You were correct, of course. The other party in the matter was Flechette. She's seventeen, so that aspect isn't a problem. I put a call through to New York and had Legend ask the girl about her intentions toward Panacea. To quote him, she became 'positively lyrical'. I gather that both of them have been lonely for a long time, and the amount of emotional bonding has been rather intense."

Some of the weight lifted from Emily's shoulders. "So it's not just a casual flirtation on the part of either one of them."

Henderson snorted with dry amusement. "I should think not. They're both lacking dependable outside ties, which I suspect they've formed with each other. Given the opportunity, these will only grow stronger."

There was another potential problem that Emily could think of. "You don't think their relationship will be a problem within the team?"

"Hardly. This is Legend's team, after all." Henderson shrugged. "Even if there was someone in the Wards or Protectorate team with any sort of opinion about openly gay or lesbian relationships, do you honestly think they'd make trouble about it?"

The woman had a point. "So your opinion is that we should go through with the recruitment process and transfer Panacea to New York?"

Dolores Henderson smiled. "I think if you did that, Panacea would love you forever."

<><>​

One Week Later
PRT Building
Brockton Bay
Director Piggot

"All the arrangements have been made." Emily nodded to the stack of forms that sat between her and Dolores Henderson. "Once you sign those, you will be a member of the Wards. Do you understand?"

Panacea nodded. "Yes, I understand." She looked longingly at the documents, but her eyes went back to Emily when the Director kept speaking.

Emily chose her words carefully, wanting to impress on the healer the gravity of what she was doing. "While we understand that your motivations for joining the Wards are strongly connected to your relationship with Flechette, we cannot officially acknowledge this, for obvious reasons. However, we do not disapprove of this relationship, nor will we discourage it, so long as it does not interfere with your duties as a Ward. Do you understand this?"

"Yes." Panacea's voice was subdued but firm. "I won't let you down."

"Good." Emily caught Panacea's eyes with her own. "Finally, if that relationship were to end, this will in no way release you from your contract with the Wards. Is that understood?"

Jerkily, Panacea nodded. "Yeah." She took a deep breath. "But I still want to do it."

Dolores Henderson spoke up for the first time. "That's the spirit." She slid the first form over and placed a pen on top. "Read it through, then sign here and here."

Panacea picked up the pen.

<><>​

Over North Africa
Eidolon

David hovered in the baking air, two thousand feet up, his fists clenched in frustration. "No. No, no, no, NO!"

It wasn't the worst thing that could happen, but it was close. Not only had Ash Beast taken a random turn that had him bearing down on the villages that were even now husbanding the trial crops of food plants, but there were ominous seismic rumblings in the area. Rumblings which had just one meaning: Behemoth was digging his way to the surface.

There was only one problem with that. Behemoth had no reason to attack this region. There were fewer than five thousand people within range of his rampage, and David knew he could evacuate them all before they were in imminent danger. The trouble was, any sort of rampage would see the seedlings destroyed, forcing him to start all over again. And if he engaged Behemoth, then Ash Beast was likely to travel through that area anyway, rendering his efforts futile.

David gritted his teeth, trying to decide whether to save the villagers first, destroy Ash Beast where he stood, or salvage the seedlings. There would be no stopping Behemoth instantly, and engaging the beast when he could be doing something more useful would be counter-productive. I'll save the villagers, he decided. If I can divert Ash Beast after that, then I will. Behemoth won't destroy anything I can't rebuild, so he can wait.

Just as he was preparing to put this plan into action, a small hill burst asunder and Behemoth pulled himself to the surface. He was farther away from the villages than David had thought he would be, and closer to Ash Beast's line of travel. Which made the upcoming battle a little more convenient, for a given definition of the word. David had battled more than one opponent before at a time, but never at this power level. Would it be better to take out Ash Beast so that I can focus on Behemoth? The trouble with that strategy was if he poured all his effort into destroying the almost-indestructible Ash Beast, he would almost certainly leave himself open to any attack Behemoth wanted to throw his way.

And then Behemoth stepped into Ash Beast's path and started loping toward the oncoming unnatural disaster, each footfall shaking the terrain.

What?

Had Behemoth somehow mistaken Ash Beast for a hero? David shook his head in puzzlement, trying to reason out the Endbringer's motivations. The villages, such as they were, stood in the opposite direction. Every other time he'd attacked, he'd aimed for terror and loss of life. This time … he was doing neither.

And then David thought of another explanation, one that sent chills down his back. Perhaps his emergence so far from any city was a ruse. If there was something else nearby that Behemoth could destroy, thus harming a huge number of people, that would make sense of his actions. Perhaps an underground aquifer that he could contaminate with radiation.

Whatever it was, David knew that he'd have to deal with Ash Beast once Behemoth passed the other parahuman by, so that the villagers would be in no danger. And the seedlings, too. After that, he could chase down the running Endbringer and engage him long enough for help to arrive, while the Thinkers figured out what he wanted in this desolate part of the world.

Behemoth stopped in Ash Beast's path, barely a hundred yards ahead of the leading edge of the cloud of fire and destruction. Then he began to walk directly into it. David watched, fully aware of what he was seeing, but in no way comprehending what it meant. The cloud reached Behemoth then engulfed his lower legs, reaching almost up to his waist. He kept walking, the fire breaking around him like an oncoming wave.

David watched carefully but he didn't see any change in Behemoth's stride, even when the fire cut out and the cloud began to dissipate. By the time it was all gone, Behemoth had stopped once more. The trail of destruction left by Ash Beast stretched to the horizon, ending at Behemoth's feet. Of the parahuman himself, there was no sign. Whatever Behemoth had done, it had destroyed him utterly. Perhaps Behemoth had absorbed so much of Ash Beast's energy that he'd killed him outright? It was a working theory, anyway.

Okay … David fought to get his head around the implications. His potential battle had just gone from two opponents down to one, when Behemoth had just annihilated Ash Beast. He had no idea what was going on, except maybe that Behemoth had decided that only one walking proponent of utter destruction was allowed in his vicinity.

That was when Behemoth turned toward where David hovered, two thousand feet up and half a mile away. The Endbringer would still be able to hit him with any of several ranged attacks from that distance, David was aware. But if a fight started here and now, the spillover from the energies unleashed would almost certainly kill people. Maybe he could lead the monster away …

And then Behemoth raised one arm. David tensed, expecting an attack. But instead of flinging fire or lightning at him, Behemoth waved. The motion was jerky, utilising the whole arm, but it was undeniably a wave. While David was still gaping, the Endbringer began to dig himself back underground again. In seconds, all that was left was an area of disturbed (and somewhat scorched) earth, and diminishing seismic traces.

Jamie is never going to believe this.

<><>​

Panacea

" … and sign here." Dolores Henderson slid the last form over toward Amy.

Checking over the wording, Amy saw nothing wrong with it and signed her name at the bottom. "Is that it?" she asked.

"Yes." Director Piggot's smile reached all the way to her eyes, this time. "Congratulations. You're now a Ward. We'll have you on the next flight to New York, if that's what you want."

Oh, I want, I want. Amy tried to keep her smile demure, but inside she was dancing up and down. "I think that would be nice." She paused. "Could I … could I stop back at home? To get some of my stuff?" She hadn't been 'home' since the initial meeting with Piggot. This had been partly because of what Carol was almost certain to say, and partly because she had the obscure feeling that she was somehow cheating on Vicky with Lily, even though there was nothing between her and Vicky, and never would be.

"Certainly," the Director said firmly. "I'll have someone organise a vehicle for you. How long do you need?"

"Um." Amy tried to recall the driving time between the PRT building and Carol's house. "An hour?" That should give her plenty of leeway, even with Carol shouting at her. Well, screw her and the horse she rode in on.

Director Piggot nodded. "One hour it is. Welcome to the Wards." She pushed herself to her feet and left the room, but Amy was already pulling out her phone.

Lily is gonna be so thrilled!

<><>​

Downtown Brockton Bay
Taylor

"Guh."

I smirked at Alec as I stole one of Lisa's chocolates. Lisa didn't seem to mind, as she had three crammed into her own mouth, with a blissful expression on her face. "You okay there?"

Alec stared at the garishly-coloured case in his hands. "You just happened to be the one-millionth customer to walk into the store, so they gifted you with the store copy of the only-on-pre-order new release of BattleMaster: In Extremis. And you gave it to me!" He wasn't big on emotions, but there were a few showing through now. I thought I might have even seen a tear in his eye.

"Well, I wasn't going to be playing it," I said reasonably. "And I was going to get you something nice anyway. We were just lucky enough to show up at the right time, I guess."

Brian snorted with laughter, even as he carefully stroked Chick Norris' downy head. "Yeah, like that's uncommon with you." He gazed back at me as I gave him a dry look. "What? It's true."

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "But it's not like I'm doing it on purpose." I grinned at Alec. "Not like the way you made Emma hit herself in the face with that dessert." That was a memory I would treasure forever.

"Uh huh," he agreed. "Got any other enemies? Line 'em up and I'll hit 'em in the face with dessert as much as you want."

"I'll let you know when I get any more enemies," I noted, my grin widening. It didn't seem likely; that picture of me after Jack Slash had gone viral. Even on PHO, my detractors only seemed to last so long before they thought better of their rash words.

I heard the screech of tyres and turned my head as a PRT van pulled to an abrupt halt at the curb, not five yards away. Brian tensed and stepped up, but Lisa shook her head. "There's no trouble," she assured him.

"Good," he said, relaxing his hands from their protective cage around Chick Norris. "What's going on?"

His question was answered a second or so later when the passenger door burst open and Amy Dallon emerged. She made a beeline toward me and hugged me fiercely. "Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou!" she babbled. "You're amazing! Thank you!"

"Um, wow, okay," I said, returning the hug. "You're welcome. What did I do now?"

She gave me one last squeeze, then stepped back, her face glowing with happiness. "I met someone!"

"And you're joining the Wards so you can be with … uh, her," Lisa guessed. She tilted her head. "Congratulations. And for what it's worth, I think you'll be very happy together."

Amy beamed. "Thank you," she said again, aiming it at all of us indiscriminately. "I'm just going to get my stuff from home, then I'm flying to New York. Come see me sometime?"

I nodded. "Definitely. Wow, you look like you're over the moon. She really must be something."

It was the right thing to say. Amy hugged me again. She looked like she wanted to stay and give us every last detail, but her driver coughed significantly and looked at his watch. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Gotta go. See you guys later?"

"Well, duh." Lisa smirked. "If only so we can tease the two of you for being such a cute couple."

Amy wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at Lisa, then got back in the van. As it pulled back into traffic, she wound the window down and waved goodbye.

"Well, that happened," Brian observed, petting Chick Norris again. The little chicken cheeped at him, obviously enjoying the attention.

"What happened?" asked Alec, tearing himself away from his avid study of the game case. "Did something just happen?"

Lisa sighed. "Seriously, put that away before you walk into traffic—whoa, shit!"

I looked around at the honking of horns and screeching of tyres that had prompted Lisa's exclamation. Cars were swerving to the left and right as two fearsome figures stalked down the middle of the road. One was a tall woman wearing a piecemeal costume which included a bunch of skulls and other brutal imagery. Slung over her shoulder was a minigun that looked as long as I was tall. Her companion looked kind of like a wolf from someone's nightmares. Five feet tall at the shoulder, it had powerful forequarters and a large mouth filled with sharp fangs.

"Shit," Brian muttered. "It's the Teeth."

"Not all of them, though," Lisa replied, sounding more intrigued than scared. "Just Butcher and Animos. Why only the two?"

"And why here and now?" asked Brian.

"Taylor, duh," Lisa said flatly. "They heard about her and Jack Slash, and decided that they could take her."

"If we back up now," Alec murmured, "I think me and Brian can keep her from shooting us."

"Wouldn't help." Lisa didn't sound happy. "She never misses. I think she bends space or something. And she can sense vital organs, even from a distance."

I took a deep breath. "Keep Chick Norris safe," I told Brian. Stepping forward, I raised my voice. "Butcher!" I yelled. "That's far enough! What do you want?"

Butcher took a few more steps, then brought the minigun to bear. "You're Taylor Hebert? You're the lucky girl?"

I spread my hands. It wasn't like I could deny it, after all. "That's me. What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Butcher let her head fall back and she laughed. "We'll fight. If I kill you, I win. If you kill me, the Teeth win. Either way, I get revenge for all the bullshit you just put me through."

"I'm sorry?" I asked cautiously. "What bullshit?"

"Don't tell me you don't know!" Her voice was savage. "I started out with my whole team, plus fifty followers. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Flat tyres, wheels falling off, flash floods, crashed cars, exploding engines, stupid fights, people accidentally shooting each other, people deliberately shooting each other, bees in the cars, venomous snakes in the cars, an African honey badger in one car, the PRT, the Protectorate and the fucking cops. Vex and Spree got as far as the edge of town, then got dumped in the fucking Florida Everglades by some kind of blue-rimmed portal! Vex got eaten by an alligator, and Spree was kidnapped by the Fallen!" She waved her hand at Animos. "We're all that's left. We're the ones you couldn't stop. And now I'm gonna blow your guts out through your ass, then crush your skull under my boot. Got it?"

"You know," I said, trying for the voice of reason, "if you'd just given up and gone home, none of this would've happened."

"Fuck you!" she shouted. "Animos!" She took a long step to the side, to get out of the wolf-like cape's way.

Animos opened its mouth and let out a bellow of … well, it wasn't quite sound. I thought I saw a wavefront washing forward then engulfing us. Butcher snarled in triumph and pointed the minigun at us. The barrels began to spin, faster and faster.

"You don't want to do this," I called out. "It's a really bad idea!"

"Fuck," muttered Brian. "No powers." Lisa had her eyes clenched shut as she mouthed the same word over and over again. I thought it might be 'please', but I couldn't be sure.

"And what are you gonna do to stop me, biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—" Butcher's voice dopplered into the distance as she was shot skyward by a water column under the oversized manhole cover she'd stepped on to.

I blinked. "Well, I didn't expect that, but I'll take it." Shading my eyes, I stared skyward, just in time to see a distant figure swoop down and intercept Butcher's flailing form. White wings spread wide in a number of directions, the pale feminine figure hovered for just a moment. I couldn't see much at this distance, but I got the distinct impression of an amused smile. And then she began to recede once more, taking Butcher with her.

"Um …" Lisa's voice was a little ragged. "Was that … was that the …"

"Simurgh?" Brian didn't sound much better. "Uh, maybe?" By the time he finished speaking, the white form was out of sight, as was Butcher.

I pulled my attention down toward ground level, where Animos was stalking toward us, fur bristled out and teeth bared. It occurred to me that if he could nullify everyone's powers, then he could simply tear us to pieces. And there were no convenient manholes around for him to fall into.

That was when the manhole cover landed on him. It was larger than most, and obviously very heavy, and he collapsed without a sound. While I was still trying to take that in, the water column also began to come down. Weirdly enough, it wasn't spraying everywhere, but instead seemed to be sucking back into the manhole it came from with barely a drop spilled. I stared, wondering what was going to happen next.

I found out when a head popped up from the manhole, bearing a very distinctive appearance. Four eyes, glowing green, asymmetrically placed.

Leviathan.

As we watched, frozen, I heard a whimper from someone. I couldn't guarantee it wasn't me. My luck was good, but there was no way it could shield me if an Endbringer decided to attack me.

One of the glowing green orbs dimmed briefly, as if to convey a wink, and then the head ducked down out of sight. It was replaced by a long clawed arm that reached out and hooked on to the manhole cover. I watched in stunned disbelief as the cover scraped over the asphalt and then clunked into place over the manhole. All that was left was Animos' unmoving body.

The silence that followed was broken by Lisa beginning to giggle. She leaned on me for support, and laughed louder and louder until the rest of us joined in. When the PRT finally arrived, they found us sitting at the side of the road, laughing until our sides hurt.

<><>​

One Month Later
Taylor

Ours was the first reported Endbringer intervention, but it wasn't the last. News reports, skeptical at first, described how Behemoth destroyed the Fallen (including Spree, presumably) in half an hour, leaving their captives alive but bewildered, and disappearing before authorities were able to show up. The Simurgh located Heartbreaker and sang over him and his slaves, releasing them from his power and rendering him incapable of re-enslaving them. By all reports, he led them a merry chase before they caught him. I wasn't quite sure what happened then, but I got the impression he didn't survive the experience.

She was also seen attacking Toronto briefly, confining her effect to one small area before flying off again. Nobody quite knew what that was about, though Dragon spent a lot of time combing the area with her suits afterward.

Leviathan wasn't idle either; Dad showed up at the Lord's Port worksite one morning to find the various ships of the Boat Graveyard compressed into cubes of steel and stacked neatly off to one side, out of the way. The only clue as to who had done it was a large number of footprints that matched the Endbringer perfectly.

Dad's plans for revitalising Brockton Bay were going full steam ahead. With just a little encouragement, Mayor Christner put out the word that Lord's Port was going to be reopening in the next year, increasing interest in the operation. Closer to home, the ferry was also due to be brought back into service, sooner rather than later.

I got to meet Eidolon and Lily, Amy's girlfriend, when the Triumvirate hero brought them up from New York to visit. Apparently they were working on a project to end world hunger, and it was going well. They brought along one of their food-plant fruits for me to try. It was bland, but definitely edible. Lisa teased Amy and Lily endlessly, which surprised nobody.

Rachel's dog shelter was off to a booming start, with Coil's stolen funds giving it the needed boost to begin with. I went and saw her occasionally, bringing Chick Norris along. Norris was getting bigger by the day, almost, but he was still just as devoted to me. Rachel seemed as happy to see him as she was to see me.

<><>​

One Year Later
Cauldron
Legend

"Well, it's official." Doctor Mother leaned back in her chair. "Scion's dead, and the Endbringers are heroes."

"That makes things a little difficult for us," admitted Alexandria. "Especially if this Butterfly decides to out us for whatever reason."

Legend shook his head. "Can anyone even think of a reason why the Endbringers might have shifted their focus so totally? They're literally doing more good than Scion ever did, and he was trying to pretend to be a hero." The conundrum irritated him.

"Don't look at me." Contessa unscrewed the cap from a hip flask and took a drink. "I can't Path any of this shit." She pretended not to notice Legend's annoyed glance.

Alexandria sighed. "Well, they've had a year to change their behaviour, and they haven't. What do we do now?"

"We shut it all down. Start rehabilitating the Case 53s when and where we can," Legend stated flatly. "If and when we're uncovered, we need to show that we're trying to do the right thing." He looked around, frowning. "And where's David, anyway?"

Alexandria shrugged. "On a date, apparently."

"Right." Legend didn't say any more, but the thought crossed his mind. David's been seeing his girlfriend for about as long as the Endbringers have been acting weird. Could there be some sort of connection?

A moment later, he shook his head. Nah. That's ridiculous. I've been married to Arthur for years, and nothing like this happened with us. There's got to be another reason.

<><>​

New York City
Jamie Nightingale's Apartment
Eidolon

David lounged back on the sofa, with Jamie snuggled up under his arm. It felt comfortable. It felt right. "So, our first shipment went through last week," he said idly. "People seem to like it. In another six months, we'll be feeding everyone who needs it."

"You've done a wonderful thing," she murmured. "And the other projects?"

"Crime's down, pollution is down, and we're making headway on global warming." He kissed her on the forehead. "And it's all due to you asking me awkward questions."

"At a play that neither one of us wanted to be at." She giggled. "But I'm glad we were."

"Me too."

<><>​

New York City
Protectorate Base
Panacea

"You ready?"

Amy looked up as Lily leaned in through the door to her room. "Oh, hi, hon. Sure, nearly there." She leaned over to zip up her boots, then blushed as her girlfriend let out a wolf-whistle. "Oh, behave." But she smiled all the same.

"Never." Lily giggled. "I can not believe we're actually going on a first-anniversary date."

"Why? Because you forgot our anniversary was tonight?" Amy smiled to take the sting out of her words, then picked up her purse from the dresser. Going to the door, she took Lily's hand.

"No. Because I've never managed to date anyone for a year before now." Lily shook her head, then leaned in and kissed Amy. "They'd always make excuses and move on, like it was such a chore dating me. But you don't seem to have any trouble at all."

Amy slipped her arm around the waist of the girl she loved and leaned her head on Lily's shoulder. "I'm gonna go with 'every other girl you've dated is an idiot'."

"I like the way you think." Lily smiled down at her. "So are we gonna go on this date, or just make out here in the hallway?"

"Hmm, decisions, decisions …"

<><>​

Brockton Bay
Taylor

"So where are we going?" I asked Lisa as we got out of the car. She was smirking over something she'd been planning for the last couple of weeks. I hadn't been too worried; Lisa loved her secrets. Brian had been invited along as well, which I didn't object to at all. While Rachel was constantly busy running her dog shelter/training facility (and loving every second of it) and Alec had drifted away after hearing about his father's death (and boy, was that a surprise to me) I had kept in close contact with Lisa and Brian. Though I did hear that Alec was dating Brian's sister Aisha, so there was that. I wondered if Brian had given Alec the shovel speech yet.

"Concert," Lisa said, which was more information than she'd given me before.

I frowned. "I'm not big on music venues. Too many people, too much noise." To be honest, I'd much rather stay home and spend time with Dad and Chook Norris. (Dad told me the word was Australian slang.)

"You get to dance with Brian," she hinted.

I tried to conceal my flush. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, puh-leeze," she snorted. "I've seen the way you two look at each other now. How long have you been dating behind my back?"

" … couple of months," I admitted. The first date had been kind of a fluke, to celebrate the reopening of Lord's Port, but we'd gone on a second, and then a third. "It's just that the way you kept shoving us at each other, we really didn't want to give you a reason to gloat about being right all this time."

"Gloating shall commence forthwith," she announced grandly, then spoiled it with a giggle. "No, seriously, I'm glad you two finally saw the light. You're my two best friends, and you deserve the happiness."

"Aw, thanks." I hugged her. "So who's doing the concert?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Hadn't you heard? The Canary trial fell through. She had to pay damages and refrain from performing for something like six months, but there was no jail time, even though everyone was talking Birdcage at the beginning."

"Wow, no, I hadn't heard." Then again, I didn't pay much attention to the news. "What changed their minds?"

Lisa smirked. "Well, nobody's actually admitting to it, but for my money, the prosecution was angling for her resemblance to the Simurgh. Once the Simurgh started doing good stuff, that pulled the rug out from under them. The jury declared her innocent on just about all charges. So she's crossed all the t's and dotted all the i's, and she's allowed to perform again. And I got us front row tickets." Her smirk widened. "And someone might've had a word in her ear. Her opening song's called 'Butterfly'."

"Okay, wow," I admitted. "That is kinda cool. Did you have to pay much for the tickets?"

She snorted with amusement. "Would you believe it, no? They basically fell into my lap. Sheer luck."

"Luck, huh?" I caught her eye and snorted. We both burst out laughing.

My powers are awesome.



End of Part Twenty

End of It Gets Worse​