The Winged Hussar

[SmokeRichards]

EDIT: 11-7-2023

This version is significantly out of date. TWH has seen serious rewrites that rewrote nearly 400k words, none of which have been pushed to the SB or SV mirrors due to apathy when it comes with ensuring my content remains within the bonds of what I feel are rules that restrict my ability to tell a compelling story that doesn't hold back. This story moved off SV and SB years ago, was out of dates years ago, and as of the rewrites, is seriously out of date.

If you feel the desire to read this story, I suggest you find me on QQ in the NSFW section under the same name, or on AO3 under the handle 'theAcidJawa'.

END EDIT

Blurb:
Vinci Astera was a hunter. He didn't hunt animals, or rouge wardroids. He hunted men. Parahumans, to be specific. And he was very good at it. So when an organization called Winter Star asked him to travel to Brockton Bay to help hunt down a member gone rogue, he thought nothing of accepting, only to be plunged into a lethal, quiet game where the stakes were unknown, and the players refused to show themselves.

Now, caught between giants waging war amongst themselves for their own ends, he must keep himself out of the crossfire, and hopefully find his Bondmate, the reason he traveled to Bet in the first place. But safety is something hard to come by when he is a pawn that doesn't even understand the rules of the game being played.

This post is a placeholder in case I need to do anything with it.

Now, there are the normal warnings that apply.

First one is Mature content. Particularly violence. Bet is not a nice place, nor is Worm a nice setting. Expect violence.

Second is characters. I can't particularly think of anything egregious, but if you see something there, I would ask that you remember that these are characters, and their viewpoints are not my own. And discuss it with me. I'm not a mind reader, and none of these characters are intended to be intentionally offensive. Who knows, I might agree with you and change it.

This is being cross posted, because I thought it was about time to do so, So expect a chapter a day until you are all caught up on other sites.

 

[SmokeRichards]

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"Why?" He asked, a frown hidden by his helmet as he stared at the screen of the laptop in front of him. Shrouded by shadows, the blurred figures glanced at each other, then the leftmost one nodded, the action barely visible before the pair returned their attention to the camera, appearing as if they were staring directly at Vinci.

"Before this conversation goes any further, we need assurances" the one on the left said, her voice feminine.

The one on the right spoke, his voice deep and booming. "We are willing to pay you a modest sum in exchange for your silence and time-"

"-which would be for as long as this conversation lasts," the female finished.

Underneath the helmet, Vinci's frown deepened. "I'm no snitch," he said, throwing it out there to see how they'd respond.

The female made a 'settle down' gesture. "And we would never accuse you of being one, but-"

"-the information we are about to share is private. Winter Star would feel better if its interests were formally protected." The male explained.

Enlightening. By custom and loose regulation enforced by Warlords considerable martial might, Myrmdom contracts were confidential by default. Granted, any information divulged before Vinci officially accepted the contract wasn't covered, but talking about the vague details often offered before accepting was frowned upon. This wasn't something minor. "You realize I am still sworn to the Stratocracy?"

"But you are no longer Cadre?" The male asked. "You are an Auxiliary?"

"Yes."

"And you deny you are acting as the representative of anyone but yourself at this point in time?"

"Yes."

"Then that is sufficient for Winter Star."

This sounded like something sensitive enough for Winter Star to utilize their own Cadre, the Grey Wolves. If they weren't, then it was because they couldn't. This reeked of complications. "No." Vinci's hand cut through the air. "I refuse to be bound by anything until I understand why."

Once more, the pair turned to each other. Every few seconds they would shift, body language changing as if they were having a silent conversation between themselves.

Vinci crossed his arms, the wings on his back swaying in shorter arcs. A Bonded pair. What was a Bonded pair doing negotiating a contract with an Auxiliary? The more he saw, the less he liked the contract Warlord had offered him.

Finally, after much gesturing on their end, hard to make out through the shadow that concealed them, the pair's voices returned.

"While we understand your reluctance, we cannot proceed until we have reassurances," The male began.

"Should the knowledge get out, the implications for Winter Star, while not politically sensitive, have the potential to be embarrassing. The Canopus wishes this to be kept in house-" the female stopped, giving a chance for her partner's voice to weave into the silence, and complete her sentence.

"-and more importantly, quiet." The male finished. "We require your discretion in this matter."

"I am sworn to the Stratocracy," Vinci said.

"And I to Winter Star. Your point?"

With a click of his tongue and the blink of an eye, Vinci navigated through his helmets hud and activated a recording function. "I require a statement that any agreement we make becomes null and void if keeping my silence harms the Stratocracy."

The pair shared a quick glance. "Define Hussar interests," The female requested.

"Don't play word games," he snapped, patience running out. Whether he was a mover of Icarus or not, his time was valuable, perhaps more than theirs. "Use a reasonable interpretation as provided by the treaty."

For a moment, there was stillness in the air. The pair gave no sign that they were communicating. Then the male inclined his head in a slow nod. "Very well. Should the information we divulge actively threaten current Hussar interests, any agreement made between Winter Star and you becomes invalid and no longer binding as specified by the treaty of the five under the sections governing Auxiliaries."

"You have permission to negotiate a binding deal?"

"Yes." Both of them spoke in unison.

He suppressed his twitch. That was uncanny. "Send the money."

Half a minute later, his computer pinged. After verifying that it was the money, Vinci returned to the call. "I work for you. Get to the point."

"Of course." Popping open a briefcase with a click, the male withdrew a folder. "One year ago, a Myrmdom of Winter Star went rogue, injuring five and killing three. Of the three killed, one of them was the Canopus' daughter."

There was a lot to unpack there.

News about Myrmdoms within a Pentad organization going rogue was rare, but only because the organizations themselves suppressed the news, and dealt with it themselves. It was considered something of an embarrassment, not being able to handle one of their own without help.

But the daughter of the head of Pentad organization, murdered? That was a big deal. There was only one problem. "I didn't know that the Canopus had a kid."

"A ruse," The woman explained, "The Canopus concealed the relationship in hopes of assuring her safety."

Suspicious. Before his 'retirement', he'd been Tier One, a member of the Hussars special operations branch, and that meant that he'd had access to a lot of information considered classified, yet he'd never heard the Canopus had a kid. However, after five years Hussar subtle assets still couldn't positively identify the Canopus's wife, so it was possible. "My sympathies," he offered, doing his best to inject the appropriate amount of emotion into his voice and failing miserable.

"The Canopus and Winter Star accept your condolences in the spirit they were offered and thanks you."

Bullshit taken care of, Vinci jumped on the more relevant detail. "Why isn't he dead?"

"Because the coward ran," The male said. "By the time we knew what happened, the trail was cold. Even Ventanna couldn't find him despite the hefty fee he took for looking."

Vinci shook his head. "That was then. This is now. You must've found something, otherwise you wouldn't've contacted me. Why hasn't one of your teams kicked in his door?"

The male flexed his fingers like they were knives poised to tear out a throat. "The rogue is still in his hole; we can't find it. However we do know who he is working through. Winter Star can have a kill team on scene in less than twelve hours but he must be flushed out of hiding first."

The woman crossed her legs. "Winter Star is concerned that an overt attempt would spook the traitor. Should he run, he may never resurface."

"Even if the rat bolting wasn't a concern, the presence of multiple parahuman squads combing the city would draw attention from multiple sources, not the least of which is the Protectorate."

"As of right now, Winter Star considers a surgical strike optimal."

"Which is where you come in. Intel has tracked him down to the city of Brockton. It seems that he has co opted a gang locally referred to as the Archers Bridge Merchants."

"Our sources believe that the leadership of the budding criminal organization experienced a radical shift nearly four months ago."

"On the surface, a man called Skidmark is in charge. In reality he is a puppet for our traitor."

"Removing Skidmark and his cohorts from play was considered, but ultimately decided against."

Armor scraped as the man put a hand on his knee and leaned forward in the chair. "Chopping off the head of the Hydra won't work. He would replace the leadership."

"And we cannot clear the board in such a manner a second time."

"He would become suspicious" The man agreed.

Clearing his throat, Vinci tapped his fingers on a greave. "What can I do that you can't?"

"You can be a hero."

Vinci blinked, took the statement, and started reexamining it from other angles. Several second slater, the statement made no more sense than it had when he'd started. "Clarify."

"Winter Star has the best rank and file anywhere but our Grey Wolves specialize in group combat. The style is quite distinctive," the male said.

The female continued where he'd left off, leaning back into her chair, voice cool. "The rogue knows that Winter Star cannot let his actions stand, he will scrutinize any teams that enter the Bay, hero or villain, looking for a potential streak team. A lone hero however?"

Vinci waved his hand, dismissing their words. "You might as well have Svalinn himself track down your rogue. It's the only way you could possibly get more distinctive. Everyone knows me by sight."

"Incorrect." the woman said. "The squad he was assigned to is stationed in the western United States. He has never stepped foot on Atlas."

"That's what his record suggests." The man said.

"Thinker analysis agrees. So long as you are not wearing the Sigils and emblems of the Hussars-"

"-by the time he realizes that you are bait, it will be too late."

"Are you bonded?" He blurted. It had been bugging him all conversation.

Laughing, the pair nodded in unison. "We are," they said, their voices blending together, each inflection exactly the same. "Are you curious as to how it compares to yours?"

"Please don't," he requested. While he understood Bonds did their own thing, the twin voices were creepy. "And is it really that obvious?"

Covering her mouth, the woman giggled. "You have our apologies, I thought it would be funny, and he agreed."

"Against my better judgment." the man interjected. "As for your other question-"

"-you have not bothered with subtlety, anyone-"

"-who has access to Crucible archives-"

"-will note the difference in mobility."

"Why they think that is,-"

"-is for the most part, attributed-"

"-to the idiosyncrasy's of trumps,-"

"-however, others have-"

"-drawn a different conclusion."

"How do you…" he trailed off.

"Finish each other's sentences?" She asked.

He nodded.

"I can hear her thoughts," the man said.

"And I, his."

"Is that going to happen to me?" he asked, a humorous lilt to his tone. He already knew the answer, but they couldn't know that, and it was always worthwhile to see what others thought of the Bond. There were plenty of books out there, but they were absolute trash, and said little that he didn't already know. Few Bonded were willing to talk about something so personal.

The pair shared a glance.

"Possible." the man said.

"But unlikely."

"I could hear her from the get go."

"And power-bleed occurred nearly a month after the initial bond."

"If it hasn't happened by now-"

"It likely never will."

"However, powers are strange,-"

"And bonds, stranger. So don't take our assurance of improbability-"

"-as a guarantee of impossibility."

No new information.

Not exactly what he wanted to hear, but not surprising either. At this point, he'd already exhausted all the channels he trusted, so it was probably the bet he could hope for.

"-is like?"

Missing the question, "What?" he asked, refocusing.

"Seeing as how we answered your question, would you tell us what your bond is like?" the man repeated.

Underneath his sealed helm, Vinci's eyes narrowed as he considered the request, then decided the information was harmless. If the Stratocracy was unable to find them, Vinci doubted Winter Star would fair any better. "Emotion," he murmured, voice soft. "I can feel what they feel." Tapping a single finger against his bracer, Vinci asked "If I accepted, what would my job be?"

"To throw a wrench in the gears of the gang." the man said.

The woman tapped the palm of her hand. "Become such a thorn in the paw of the rogues budding little fiefdom that he has no choice but to respond personally."

"Crusade against the Merchants, take what you can, and salt the rest. Winter Star offers a bounty on every asset of theirs you destroy, steal, or otherwise deprive them of. We will accept recordings as proof."

A bounty. Now they were talking. "What kind of bounty?"

"Two percent of the market value, cash included."

Vinci snorted. "I don't get out of bed for two percent. Make me a serious offer."

"Three."

"Five."

"Four."

"Five." Vinci's tone hardened.

The woman meshed her fingers together, resting her hands on a knee. "Very well. Five percent."

The males voice was rough, an edge of eagerness betraying his true thoughts. "Once he is in the open, or he flees the city, the contract is considered complete. Step back and contact us. We will handle the rest."

On the other hand, the woman's tone was all business. "The bounties will be paid out weekly, the lump sum for the contract proper after the mission is complete. In addition to the already generous sum originally stated, the Canopus is willing to offer a bonus from his personal coffers. If your actions result in the Cape known as Blood Hound being captured by Winter Star, he will match any money made on the job, bounties included, on a one to one ratio."

Vinci's silver eyes sharpened. "What interest does the Canopus have in this 'Blood Hound'?"

"Winter Star does not believe that detail is relevant."

Resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, after a few moments Vinci accepted that. Money was money, and while he didn't need it, each dollar or mark he made was that much more of a buffer between him and the gnawing hunger he'd never forgotten. "What will happen to Blood Hound when you have him?"

The woman tilted her head slightly. "Bloodhound is currently absent without leave, and stands accused of murder. He will face a tribunal."

Death then.

Justice on Atlas was always harsh, but Bloodhound was no civilian. As a Myrmdom of Winter Star, if Bloodhound had really killed three members of his parent organization without permission, then what he had done was worse than murder. It was an act of betrayal.

And there was only one punishment for traitors.

"Will I have any support, information, aid?"

"No. You will be on your own until Bloodhound is flushed out."

"It will take longer," he warned.

"Winter Star recognizes this and has planned for it. We are willing to wait for it to be done right."

Reconnect with a world that he'd left behind what seemed like forever ago, harass a gang, help track down a murderer, and get paid for it? There was only one question left.

"When do I start?"

"Now." they said in unison.

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It'd been years since he'd left Chicago behind just after it'd been hit by the Slaughterhouse. Back then, he'd been hurting, alone, and terrified that the Protectorate would find him. A silly fear; Minstral had thought him dead and the rest of the Protectorate had no reason to look, but back then the threat had seemed very real.

Vinci still remembered the smell of rotting corpses buried underneath the rubble.

But he also remembered before the Nine had hit.

While neither were where he was born, the slums of Brockton and the slums of Chicago weren't all that different, even separated by a thousand miles and two years.

Potholes to step over, boarded up windows, condemned buildings, and streets that had needed repair for years. It was almost enough to give him a faint whiff of nostalgia.

Some things he couldn't get away from no matter how far he ran.

Directly ahead an old man rested on a bench, the warmth from a nearby flaming barrel chasing off the autum chill.

That was his target, and the reason he was here. Winter Star's dossier had been through, but there were things he could learn from a local that some paper pusher in a different dimension wouldn't think was important to include.

The homeless knew more than most people realized.

Pausing outside the cone of light cast by the fire, Vinci picked a crumpled aluminum can by his feet and kicked it. The can flew through the air, clattering onto the ground.

The homeless man started, jumping to his feet in fright. Whirling to face where the can had landed, a wrinkled hand slipped into the pocket of a coat where the fabric had been torn and repaired until it was more patchwork than coat. "Who's there?" he cried, a tremble to his words.

Vinci eyed the hand in the jacket. Armed. Perhaps a knife or something with more of a kick. "Just a friend," Vinci called. Whatever the old man had, nothing that could penetrate his armor was going to fit inside a coat pocket unless it was Tinkertech.

Twisting, the old man faced Vinci's general direction. "Why don't you come closer where I can see you then, friend?"

At the invitation, Vinci stepped forward into the firelight.

"Jesus fuck!" Paling, the homeless man scrambled back, tripping over his feet and onto his back.

Vinci huffed, amused as he raised his hands, showing that they were empty. The gesture was an empty one when it came to Parahumans, but it was the thought that counted. "I'm not here to hurt you." In the back of his mind, where some emotion that wasn't his dwelled, curiosity swelled as it brushed against Vinci's amusement. He did cut an intimidating sight afterall.

It wasn't a costume, not as capes in North America understood it, though it could serve as one. It hid everything that needed to be hid and then some, but Vinci had made his current outfit with war in mind. White plates attached to a black undersuit, overlapping in places where he needed protection, gaps in others where he needed flexibility. A system of leather straps criss-crossed his thighs, waist, and chest, providing carry-space in the form of leather pouches. From his belt hung a sheath for a curved cavalry saber made out of the same whitish-yellow material as his armor. Red lenses peered out of a fully enclosed helmet, seeming to bore into the homeless man's soul. Once, the armor had been painted as evidenced by the flecks of green which had survived over the years, but that had been long ago.

Completing the look, or more accurately doing its own thing was a pair of pale white, feathery wings tucked tight against his back, elbows swooping up higher than his helmet then curving down again, each pinyon ending in long primaries which hung inches above the ground, feathers ruffling in the cool october breeze.

With a slow wave, Vinci let his hands fall down to his sides. "I just want to ask some questions."

Scrambling to his feet, the homeless man examined him with wary eyes, a glint of greed warring for control. "Informations not free."

It never was, but that was why he liked the homeless population. They'd sell it for cheap. "I have food," he offered.

The homeless man perked up at the mention of food but didn't move closer. "What kind of food?"

With a final glance at the homeless man's stance, which was now more 'interested' and less 'need-to-run', he stepped forward towards the concrete bench that the homeless man had vacated and sat down, taking care to make sure his long feathers were out of the way. Pulling a grease stained paper bag from his left pouch, he gave it a little shake. "Joe's burger shack. Still warm. It's yours if you choose to answer my question. There's a pack of cigarettes in my other pouch if I find your answers useful, or a twenty. Whichever is better."

The homeless man eyed the bag, licking his lips. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything about the merchants."

"Why?"

"Because I hate drugs, and I hate drug dealers." It was even true. Vinci despised compulsive alcoholics and angry drunks.

"You thinking of hitting some of their houses?"

"I'm thinking of hurting them so bad that when I'm done they won't be around anymore."

The homeless man glanced at Vinci's boots, then his head. "Big words for a little guy."

There was only the barest flicker of irritation at the jab. On Atlas, people had long since learned that while he came in a small package, he brought hell. "We'll see."

Cursing once, the homeless man sat down next to Vinci. "Why not. Gimme the food."

He raised an eyebrow under his helmet. Setting the bag down on the bench, he slid it over.

"Heros arrest Villains all the time, nothin` ever changes. What makes you different?"

"Hero's go after villains, I won't."

The homeless man gave him a funny look. "Yeah, and what are you going to go after?"

"Everything else."

The homeless man froze, the bag in his lap halfway open. "Really, and uh, what did you say your name was?"

Smiling, Vinci leaned back. "Scorch."

"Right. Scorch. Why?"

"Because I want to hurt them, and I don't care how I do it." A lie, actually. He'd prefer no civilian casualties, but after that anything was free game.

Vinci hummed. "They'll try." American Cape fights were common but gentle. Atlas cape fights were rare but vicious. Vinci wasn't afraid of a little violence.

"Whatever is wrong in your life," The homeless man broke the silence "you don't need to go suicide by cape man. Life is still worth living."

"I don't plan on losing."

"No one ever does."

"I am not afraid of the gangs."

"You should be." The homeless man said seriously, taking a bite of the hamburger.

What did the gangs have to offer that hasn't already been done to him? "Are you going to answer my question?"

"A deals a deal. Yeah I'll answer your questions. Merchants are bad news."

"There must be more to it than that."

"There is. They have always been minor, and they used to act like it-"

"Used to?" He interrupted.

"Yeah. I dunno, maybe four, five month ago, they changed. Got all aggressive. They started recruiting heavily, drugging people and offering more drugs in exchange for fighting. Real ugly."

His eyes sharpened. That was the change in leadership Winter Star talked about. "What was it like before?"

"Passive. They stayed in the areas the ABB and the Empire didn't think were worth fighting over, let people come to them. If someone couldn't pay, they'd make a deal. Drugs for services."

"Does anyone know why they changed?"

"The merchants. Most don't know anything, those that do ain't talkin`"

"Can you tell who knows something?"

"The capes. Screamer or somethin?" The homeless man shrugged. "They were small-time crooks, Their names used to be unimportant."

They still were. Blood Hound was the target, not the capes he controlled. "Do you know where their territory is?" He asked.

"Northern edge of the bay. They have a solid hold on the trainyard and the boat graveyard. A friend told me they are trying to take some of the slums from the ABB."

"How's that going for them?" If he could fan the flames between the Merchants and this ABB, it would make his job easier.

"It's Lung, so not well."

"Who?"

Almost immediately, he knew he made a mistake, just from the way the homeless man glanced at him before returning to the food. "You aren't from around here are you?"

"No."

"Then why do you hate the Merchants?"

"I don't."

"But you do want to destroy them."

He nodded.

"You follow one of their capes from somewhere else? This a grudge?"

"Something like that."

Still frowning, the homeless man shrugged. "You might know Lung by a different name. The dragon of Kyushu."

Frowning, he tried to think. The name seemed familiar but he wasn't quite sure where… "I feel like I should remember that one," he admitted.

"He fought leviathan to a standstill in ninety-nine." The homeless man sounded exasperated, like he was a gunnery sergeant explaining to a particularly slow private something about his field piece the private should already know.

"Oh." That dragon of kyushu. "I didn't realize he was still alive. Why is he here? This is nowhere."

"Hey!" The homeless man halfheartedly said.

He crossed his arms. It was true.

This was a dying city in Maine of all places, and Lung, the man who fought Leviathan to a standstill even as his island crumbled around him chose to live here?

Vinci chose it because it was a shithole where people wouldn't ask questions. What was Lung's excuse?

"Brockton may have issues, but it's my home." the homeless man weakly defended.

"Lung is powerful, he could have chosen any city. Why here?"

The homeless man shrugged. "Maybe he likes the weather?"

Well, it didn't matter. Lung wasn't his target, and fighting the man who was famous for soloing an endbringer wasn't something he was planning on doing unless he had no choice. It wasn't profitable. Which left him wondering why the Merchants were. "And they are willingly fighting him?"

"When the merchants fight they are so hopped up on drugs that they would charge God naked with nothing but an Ak-47."

Ah. Not suicidal, just high. "And they can always get more people to fight." He mused.

"Yeah. I think that the guns the druggies use cost the merchants more than the druggy." The homeless man glanced at him. "I mean that. Those guns are nice. All shiny and new, every time. No one really knows how they can afford it."

So it was completely pointless to go after the rank and file as well. Sure, he could try, but it sounded like the Merchants rank and file were as poor as he used to be. People like that had nothing worth taking, and there were always more desperate people willing to take their place. It was more likely the police would start releasing people because their cells were all full than the Merchants running out of desperate people for him to drop off at the nearest station

He glanced around at the desolate road, and all of the 'forclosed' signs mixed in with the bright red 'Condemned' tape. Especially in a city like this.

Admittedly, using street trash while giving them high quality firearms was odd, but he was sure the homeless man didn't know what he was talking about. To an inexperienced eye, there wasn't much difference between cheap, knock off stuff, and the real deal.

"Do you know anything I can use? Safe houses, locations, dealers I can hit for information?"

The homeless man perked up. "If you got a map, I can mark some dealers' locations."

Pulling out a map, picked up from the same gas station he'd bought the cigarettes from, and fishing a pen out a belt pouch, he passed them over to the homeless man, watching in silence as the man circled several locations.

He could work with this. "Cigarettes, or the twenty?"

"What kind of smokes are they?"

"Marlboro?" he guessed. He had just walked in, grabbed a pack, paid for it and left without paying attention to the brand. It was like he was going to use them after all. No one had asked anything either. Perks of full body armor. No one was going to ask the scary 'man' with a sword if they were legal.

Nose wrinkled in disgust, the man shook his head. "You trying to poison me with that shit? I'll take the twenty."

Pulling the appropriate coin from his pouch, pausing only long enough to make sure it wasn't one of the hundred coin's that he usually kept there, and handed it over.

"Thanks." The old man grumbled.

Standing, he turned to leave.

"Hey, wait!"

Craning his neck, he glanced back at the homeless man.

"Good luck on whatever it is you are trying to do. Just… don't get too many innocent people hurt."

"I'll do my best." Vinci didn't like collateral. Collateral was sloppy. Reaching out, Vinci grabbed his Bondmates power and tugged. Space bent, then he was gone.

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Walking down the boardwalk, his wings shrunk till the they could hide underneath his shirt, with each person that stared at Vinci like he was a freak, Vinci felt that much more alone.

As a Myrmdom, Vinci was no stranger to staring. As something of a Hussar icon staring was expected. But when he took off the mask Vinci could blend into a crowd like he was anyone else in Emilton. Atlas was a hard place. Between Parahumans, the Defense Grid, and the way people were more willing to resort to violence scars weren't something strange. Granted, few were marred as heavily as Vinci was, but the crowds had simple solutions for that too; anyone who looked like they'd been fed face-first into a woodchipper was probably a Myrmdom so staring was a bad idea. They pretended he didn't exist, Vinci got his stuff, paid for it, then left. It worked for everyone and nobody had to worry about potentially offending a Myrmdom.

Going from a place where scars like his were, if not normal, accepted was a hard transition. Vinci felt far from home.

Entering a shop, when the cashier caught sight of him, their eyes widened. Vinci resisted opposing urges to blush and bare his teeth in anger.

Next time he was going to shop in armor. At least it was normal for people to stare at him then, and he wouldn't feel so out of place. Making the idea more appealing was the fact that no one would stop and ask him where his parents were.

For some reason, he was sure that 'dead' wasn't an acceptable answer. He was alo getting tired of dodging cops who wanted to know why he wasn't in school. 'Haven't gone for three years' probably wasn't an acceptable answer either.

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"The staring bothers me," he admitted in a whisper.

Vinci lay curled up against a duffle bag almost as big as he was deep underground, a laptop on the ground facing him. Besides the quiet hum of the ventilation fans necessary to pump breathable air this deep, everything was silent, and in its own way it felt like home. The bunker he now owned was deep underground in the caverns underneath Brockton Bay, old aquifers sucked dry by the needs of the thirsty city above. While Vinci didn't know where Warlord had gotten the bunker before Vinci'd purchased it, all that mattered was the man was discreet and could keep a secret. The only people who knew Vinci's hideout existed were the people who made it, Warlord, and now Vinci.

On the screen, Dash set the multi-shot grenade launcher down on a blanket that covered the floor of Vinci's old barracks. "Bet is a soft world, and the people there are softer."

Looking down at his hands, Vinci swallowed. "It's changed."

Dash huffed, taking on a chiding tone. "No. It's the same as it's always been. You changed. The world always had drug dealers on the corners of its streets."

Looking up, Vinci saw that Dash had set down his screwdriver, giving Vinci his full attention. "Is it strange that I feel like I don't belong here?"

"You wouldn't be the first soldier who had trouble adjusting to peace, and you won't be the last." There was a sad curve to Dash's lip. "Why'd you even return in the first place? Atlas is your home."

"I don't know," Vinci whispered.

"Bollocks. Your looking. Aren't you."

Vinci said nothing.

"Have you found a lead?"

After a moment, Vinci's shoulders hunched. "Not even a little one."

"So you what?" Sitting down on the floor, Dash picked up his screwdriver and return to disassembling his weapon. "Expect to run into them on the streets? This isn't one of your story books kid. Magic doesn't happen."

"I'm hoping they'll come to me."

It took three seconds for Dash to catch on. "You think their in hiding."

Vinci nodded. It was the explanation that made sense. The reason he couldn't find anyone with powers that matched his was because there was nothing to be found. "I'm going to make some noise. Not much, but if their looking, they'll find me sooner or later."

There was silence as Dash popped open the Grenade launcher, and removed the firing mechanism. "And what if they don't?" He finally asked. "If people are in hiding, it's normally because they don't want to be found. Maybe not even by you kid."

The bitter taste on his tongue agreed with Dash. Two years of searching and nothing substantial had dulled his hope. Whoever his Bondmate was, they didn't believe in making things easy for him. But when had his life ever been easy? Finally getting to say hello to whoever was the source of these emotions he felt even now was worth a little difficulty. And, if in a few months, it turned out there really was nothing to be found?

It had only ever been a hope, and a slim one at that.

"I have to at least try," he whispered.

Dash nodded. "You gonna look into giving the Nine some grief?"

Vinci's face twisted like he'd bitten into something disgusting. "Bonesaws dead. STAT team got her half a year ago." It was a bitter pill to swallow. He'd wanted to kill her. Vinci knew that Bonesaw had many victims, people who'd gotten off worse than he had, and they each had a reason to want to kill her. But instead of celebrating her death as many had, Vinci felt lost. As he'd grown into his strength and realized that revenge was an option, it'd never been a question that he'd take it. And now… someone had beat him to it. Vinci felt cheated. Like he'd never take back the feeling of safety and control she'd stolen from him that day.

For a moment, Dash stilled, holding the grenade launcher with a white-knuckled grip. Then he took a deep breath and relaxed. "I'm sorry kid. I know what that's like."

Anyone else, and he would've thrown their words back in their face. But it was Dash. The man had his own demons of the past. Vinci accepted it and moved on.

Sighing, Dash put down the weapon, trading the firing pin for an oily rag he used to wipe down the barrel. "Anyways, what do you need kid? I doubt you called to talk about old memories considering how irritating it is to bounce a signal through dimensions. What do you need?"

"I need you to put the word out that Scorch wants to meet Ventanna."

Dash stilled mid-wipe. Then he turned to look at the camera, seeming to look Vinci directly in the eye. "Why?"

"I need information. If there's anyone who'd have a network on Bet, it's Ventanna."

After a moment, Dash pursed his lips and gave a hard nod. "I'm not going to ask if you thought this out. I'll pass it along to a friend who knows a friend. Kid?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. I'd hate for Icarus to become a three man squad."

"Thank you."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A series of sharp raps echoed on the blast door which served as the entrance to Vinci's bunker.

Vinci froze, then tossed the book he'd been reading on the ground as space bent, placing Vinci next to his armor. Shedding his clothes in seconds, Vinci reached for his undersuit, ready to turn and fight, whether he was armored or not, the second the enemy blasted through his front door.

One minute and twenty-seven seconds later, Vinci's door was standing, much to his surprise. He didn't know if that was a good sign or not. Only three parties knew his Bunker existed. One was the people who'd sold it to Warlord, the other was Warlord, and last was Vinci. No one should know he was here, let alone be knocking on his door. As Vinci slid his helmet on with a his of engaging seals, unseen power coiled around him, ready to lash out in a rain of destruction.

One minute and forty seconds after someone had knocked on his door, Vinci was standing to the side of it so that if things went hot, he'd be out of the direct line of fire. Gesturing at the door, three twenty-pound bolts jerked out of the reinforced concrete frame. The door opened a crack.

Vinci held his breath, waiting to see who'd make the first daring move.

"Scorch?" A polite, refined voice echoed in the caverns. "You wished to speak to me?"

Flicking his finger, Vinci pushed the door open wider, shutting off the lights as he did so. He knew that voice. "Come where I can see you," he demanded, activating his helmet's night vision with a wink of the eye and click of the tongue.

In the absence of light from within Vinci's bunker, the cavern outside was pitch black, Vinci's HUD illuminating stalactites and stalagmites in an eerie green. Despite that, a man wearing a crips, freshly pressed suit stepped forward into Vinci's field of view, hands visible. Polished shoes, a briefcase, even three pens within a pocket protector located in the pocket of his shirt, Ventanna was the spitting image of an office worker, the only visible concession to who and what he was the featureless silver mask that covered his face.

It was hard to imagine a less practical uniform; in fact the only thing Vinci could come up with involved heels.

Despite that, when Vinci stepped into the door frame, every muscle was tense as Vinci faced his visitor. "Ventanna."

Ventanna stepped up to the rough hewn rock just outside the door frame, looking down at Vinci. "Scorch." If the total absence of light bothered Ventanna, he gave no sign of it, the pupils of his eyes focused on Vinci's head.

It explained why someone knew where Vinci was. If anyone was capable of getting information like that, it was Ventanna, probably stolen from the people who'd built the bunker. Vinci doubted that the information had been taken from Warlord. While Ventanna and Warlord were, well, warlords, Warlord's distaste for Ventanna had become something of an urban legend more than a decade before Vinci had first set foot on Atlas. If Ventannna had somehow pillaged Warlords personal files, there was nothing on Bet or Atlas that would keep Warlord's blade from Ventanna's neck.

Vinci stepped aside, gesturing at the empty industrial wire spool he'd stolen from a construction site and now used as a table. "Would you like to come inside?"

Ventanna said nothing as he stepped inside. With a final glance out the doorway, Vinci closed and bolted the blastdoor behind him. Nothing like some good steel and concrete to buy time.

Then he led Ventanna into the kitchen, pulling an empty crate from across the room with a wave of his hand. "I just got here, so I'm afraid that I don't have anything but rations."

"Rations are fine," Ventanna murmured.

And that was how two minutes later found Vinci sitting on a stool that wobbled facing Ventanna who sat on an empty wooden crate, an empty wrapper of skittles in the center of the makeshift table, and two neat piles of the sugary treat. Removing the faceplate for his helmet with a hiss of broken seals, Vinci reached out and plucked a candy from the pile. He wasn't sure which one he'd gotten; Ventanna seemed to be doing just fine in the dark, which suited Vinci, so he hadn't bothered to turn his lights back on. Popping the skittle into his mouth, Vinci bit down, the taste of apple exploding in his mouth. "It's not poisoned," he declared.

Opposite him, Ventanna reached up and pried his mask off, revealing an aged face full of wrinkles, a few scattered wisps of gray hair remaining on a bald dome.

Vinci frowned. "I hope you don't expect me to return the courtesy."

"I would expect nothing different, Hussar." Setting the mask down on the table, Ventanna grabbed a handful of skittles. "I don't need to see your face to know everything worth knowing about you," he said before throwing the skittles into his mouth.

As the echoes left by those ominous words faded, Vinci's expression didn't change. Even if Ventanna had paper copies of every single psychological evaluation Vinci'd had since joining the Stratocracy, it wouldn't surprise him.

Silence fell as Ventanna chewed and swallowed, the air solemn.

The laws enforced on Atlas depended on which faction controlled the land one was on at the time. Few rules were enforced by the Pentad as a whole, and this wasn't one of them. But there were some traditions that were as universal as they were keenly adhered to. The sharing of food and drink was an old practice that predated Vinci's presence on Atlas, not that said much. But Tetrarch claimed that the practice had predated him as well, which added at least another two decades to its aged. Personally, Vinci thought that it was a holdover from the warlording era, where strangers had needed assurance that as long as they shared the same campfire, there would be no violence between them. If so, it's meaning hadn't changed much, nor had the significance the Myrmdoms placed in it.

For such a simple act, the universal disgust Ventanna would be regarded with if it became known that he'd attacked Vinci in his own home after being acknowledged as a guest was the kind of guarantee that neither money nor threats of violence could buy.

After swallowing, Ventanna was the first to speak. "I will not reveal your location to anyone, even if they offer to pay."

Without a word, Vinci pushed the rest of his skittles over to Ventanna. Ventanna's statement wasn't unexpected, and as a gesture of goodwill it cost him nothing. Even as an Auxiliary, Vinci was Hussar. While Ventanna had done worse, provoking the Stratocracy for no reason was bad business.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Ventanna murmured, making no move to reach for the skittles. "You must be curious as to why I came in person, rather than send an emissary."

"I am more curious about why you are in my house." While Vinci's tone was mild, he made no effort to hide the undercurrent of displeasure, because showing up on someones doorstepped unannounced and uninvited was impolite in the same way threatening to murder someones family was impolite. It was an act that often provoked an immediate, violent response.

"Because I am being watched."

Taken aback, Vinci blinked. "Then kill them," he said, as if the solution were obvious, because it was.

Ventanna's expression didn't change. "I cannot."

Vinci's did, morphing into a deep frown. "Pentad?"

"I prefer not to say."

"Which still doesn't explain why you are here, at my house, in person."

"Some things are too sensitive to be trusted to an underling, no matter how trusted. And I prefer this meeting to occur in a place where unseen eyes and ears are absent."

Crossing his arms, Vinci growled, "Then you could've arranged a meeting at a park."

Ventanna shook his head, sharp eyes never leaving Vinci. "As far as my watchers are concerned, I am still on Atlas. I wish to keep it that way. No one will ever know I am here."

If Ventanna couldn't kill his watchers, then they worked for someone Ventanna couldn't afford to offend. Only the five factions fit that criteria. And if Ventanna was trying to avoid the five factions eyes and ears, that sounded like trouble and Vinci wanted no part of it. "All I want is a little information. I am willing to pay."

"Information about Blood Hound I assume?"

First Vinci's location, now the details of his contract with Winter Star. Maybe Ventanna had raided Warlords personal files. If that thought wasn't so terrifying, it would've been impressive. "Yes."

"I know exactly how much you are worth, and I can tell you that it isn't enough to buy that information."

Underneath the helmet, a fierce frown marred Vinci's face, his scars turning the normal expression of distaste into something grotesque. Theories aside, Ventanna's presence was a fact. "Then why are you here?"

Ventanna smiled, a glint in his green-tinted eyes. "Why, I'd like to make a deal with you Hussar. The information you wish to buy is too expensive for you to buy with someone as common as money. However, I've found myself in something of a predicament as of late. I am in need of a new sword. My gladius has served me well, but it's getting old, and I hear you made that saber you wear on your belt. Information in exchange for a weapon."

"I've never sold to anyone outside the Stratocracy before," Vinci noted. Dealing arms to the Hussar's rivals carried too many ugly political implications that Vinci was keen to avoid.

"I think you'll make an exception for me."

Vinci put the pieces together. "You want me to know whatever it is about Blood Hound."

Ventanna inclined his head. "I do."

"Why not sell me the information for a cheaper price, one I'm willing to pay?"

"This information is- Hmm. How ought this be put? The information is sensitive." Ventanna licked his lips, his eyes boring into Vinci. "It would change things. Shift political landscapes. And I agreed to stay out of politics. It was on of the conditions I agreed to in exchange for Svalinn sparing my life. If I sold you that information for coppers on the mark, some might… misconstrue my intent. It might appear as though I was meddling in something I shouldn't be. But if a private deal were to occur, one where I sold sensitive information to an Auxiliary in exchange for a Tinker artifact of great value, well?" A cruel smile crossed Ventanna's lips as he tilted his head. "That's just business. Isn't it, my young friend? So." Ventenna rested his elbows on the table, leaning closer to Vinci. "Do we have a deal?"

"No." This sounded like nothing but trouble, and Vinci wanted no part of it. He'd rather find the information needed himself. "Get out."

Ventanna grinned, showing more teeth than was friendly. "Disappointing. Expected. But disappointing nonetheless."

"You'll have to live with it."

"Perhaps." Reaching into his jacket, Ventanna's arm vanished up to the elbow, writhing shadows caressing the skin. "Or perhaps not. It pays to be prepared in this business."

Vinci's palm was level with Ventanna's head in an instant, ready to blow the man's skull wide open, air shimmering between his fingers. "I'm sure it does," he said, voice grim.

Ventanna's eyes sparkled. "Yes," he murmured. "You'll do nicely." Slowly, he pulled his hand out of the jacket. In his hand was a letter. Ventanna offered it to Vinci. "It's for you."

Glancing at the letter, Vinci's eyebrows arched at the symbol embossed on its face. It was an old alchemist's symbol that meant crucible, something Vinci only knew because of the symbols importance to Atlas as a whole. Taking the letter, Vinci placed it on the table, his other palm still facing Ventanna. Though it was Vetanna who was one thought away from death, every feather of Vinci's was upright. There was nothing about this situation that made him feel like he was in control. "All I want is information on the drug shipments," he repeated. Nothing more, nothing less.

Moving closer, Ventanna placed his forehead inches away from Vinci's palm. It was the action of a suicidal man, and from the look in his eyes Ventanna knew it and relished the fact. "What a coincidence. Such information is in my posession; I wish to sell."

Vinci was sick of this game. Underneath the helmet, his expression blanked, as did his voice. Fuck it. "Why are you here." It was hard, it was ugly, and Vinci's tone conveyed how close he was to killing Ventanna and dumping the body somewhere it wouldn't be found.

Ventanna had a dossier, eh?

Ventanna didn't want the Pentad to know that he was doing something, huh?

Ventanna's closest aids couldn't be trusted, right?

Ventanna had come here alone, without anyone's knowledge. It was just him and Vinci in this bunker. And if Ventanna died here, the only person who knew it would be Vinci.

As if sensing his thoughts, Ventanna said, "Do you think I came here without taking precautions. Tell me Hussar, is this a game you're ready to play?

No. It wasn't a game Vinci was ready to play. But it was one that Ventanna seemed hellbent on dragging him into anyways.

Mistaking wariness for hesitation, Ventanna grinned. "Why don't you remove your hand and apologize, like a good boy, and perhaps I shall forget this ever happened."

Vinci's fingers curled.

It wasn't hard enough to choke or bruise, but Ventanna's eyes bulged all the same. Recoiling back into his seat, Ventanna was no longer smiling, something nervous about the way he licked his lips, each word chosen as though it could be his last. "This isn't who you are. I've offered neither you insult nor threat. If anyone discovered what you've done, you would never be accepted anywhere on Atlas again."

"What makes you think that means anything? It's a big multiverse, and I'm not on Atlas, am I?"

"You aren't a murderer."

It was Vinci's turn to lean forward, voice a hushed, ugly whisper. "I'm certain I want to play this game. Check."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Ventanna started laughing, careful to make no other movement. "My dossier was wrong," he said, a delighted smile on his face. "Your psychologists lied in their reports."

"Why are you here?" There was no give in Vinci's tone.

Placing a hand over his heart, Ventanna stared into Vinci's eye lenses. "I swear, on my honor, that I will answer the question. How about it, Hussar? Why don't we settle this like civilized folk."

With a flick of his fingers, Vinci dissipated the energy. "Talk."

Ventanna rubbed his throat. "I shan't misjudge you again," he promised.

Vinci shook his hand, drawing Ventanna's eyes to it. "If you try to kill me, you'd better not miss."

"No," Ventanna murmured before speaking louder. "No. I don't think that will be necessary. After all, it's just good business."

"Just good business," Vinci echoed in agreement.

Resting his elbows on the wirespool, Ventanna clasped his hands together. "To business then, and a promise that needs keeping. Let's play a game of pretend. Pretend that you are an information broker, and you have a dilemma, a minor nuisance that is quickly becoming a major irritant. You see, someone is being naughty." Leaning back, Ventanna's smile faded. "Now, there are reasons, secrets to everyone, that prevent you from acting. You need an intemediary, and have been waiting for months for one to come alone. And lo and behold, a certain organization is taking a close look at the one thing that will unravel the whole charade in the most delectable manner. Clearly, it's time for some little hints, here, and there. But the information you want to give, it doesn't come cheap, and giving it out for free… Well, people would ask questions. And you don't like mess." Ventanna nodded at the letter sitting between them. "Go ahead. I assure you, it's no forgery."

After a moment, Vinci reached for the letter, handling it like it had teeth. It certainly looked real. The stationary was the expensive kind that Warlord liked to use, and the alchemic symbol was curved in the right places; Either this was a convincing fake, or Warlord has personally written this.

Vinci tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter within.

Two sentences were written on that paper in bold ink.

I directed you to Brockton because it has a secret waiting to be found, one of great personal interest to you. Take the rat up on his offer, it will place you in the secrets path.

There was no signature.

Vinci set the letter down on the table with exceptional care as if it were the live grenade Vinci wished it was. A live grenade would've been easily to deal with than the political bomb Ventanna had just dropped on his lap. That letter was enough to cause a purge or purges, plural. Ventanna now had his undivided attention, not that he hadn't had it before. "You two are playing a dangerous game. If Svalinn finds out you two are working together…"

Ventanna laughed. "Why would you ever think Svalinn doesn't know?"

Fuck. That was even worse, and Vinci hadn't thought that possible. He was so glad he hadn't started recording the conversation with his helmet because forget purges, that little fact could conceivably cause a war. Complications his ass. "Say I agree. What's in it for me?"

Ventanna waved his hand in a dismissive manner. Information of course. The little tidbits you desire, and something extra for your troubles."

"How much extra?"

"Six months worth. Anything you want to know that won't cause open hostilities to break out between the Pentad"

Vinci sucked in a sharp breath. Ventanna said it like he wasn't casually offering more than everything Vinci had over owned in his life put together. That was more than a kings ransom. Hell, there were small cities that probably weren't worth what Vinci had just been offered. "What's so important about this?"

"Why, the future human race of course." Ventanna offered an indulgent smile.

When Vinci stood, Ventanna did as well. "I'm not agreeing to anything yet." He needed to speak with Warlord and verify that letter was real.

"You will. When Warlord assures you that the letter on the table bears his mark, ask him for the contract. It will specify what I desire. Good day."

As Ventana melted into the shadows Vinci couldn't help but believe Ventanna.

After all, the darkened alleys of Verge were splattered with the blood of those who thought they'd gotten one over the enigmatic relic of an era gone by.

 

[SmokeRichards]

Yeet

 

[SmokeRichards]

"How long have you known." His voice was somewhat curt. He didn't know exactly what Warlord knew, but he did know Warlord was keeping something from him that he shouldn't, and that was enough to piss him off.

Warlord didn't even bother looking up from his papers. "That there is something in Brockton for you?"

"Yes."

"The information was verified mere hours before you walked into my office."

To anyone else, the sight of Warlord doing paperwork would be comical. A big man, Warlord towered over Vinci, at least he would've had they been in the same room. That wasn't unusual, he was still growing, everyone towered over him. But he said big, he meant big. Warlord towered over everyone the same way everyone towered over Vinci. Dressed in armor the color of rust, horns like prongs, sprouting from either side of his helmet, and a massive battle axe larger than Vinci was tall strapped to his back, Warlord looked like a berserker warrior from some fantasy game. To see a man as imposing as that sitting behind a desk far too small for him, hunched over as he signed forms, there was something ridiculous about that.

But the humor in absurdity was dampened by the memory of the man throwing him around with no more effort than it took a little girl to throw her rag doll. More than once, Warlord taught him that power was no replacement for sound tactics and strategy.

What he'd learned in the arena had saved his life more than once. But that lingering sense of debt didn't dispel the faint irritation that had his Bondmate nudging him with their faint curiosity. "You didn't tell me then, and you won't tell me now." It was a statement, not a question, and an irritated one at that.

It wasn't even that Warlord hadn't told him. The world and Warlord owed him nothing. Neither did Ventanna for that matter. If they knew something he would be interested in and decided not to tell him, that was fine.

Mocking him with the knowledge they knew something he didn't but never allowing him to learn it was not.

"He made a contract." Warlord leaned forward over his desk and opened a folder to his left, one of the many that were littered on the aged oak. A handful of seconds was all it took for brutish fingers to scrawl a signature on the dotted line before placing it in a growing stack to the right. "Ventanna is wiley, as all rats are. Age brings decay, but the roots of his information network have done nothing but flower. He knew, knew or guessed, that you would walk through my door before I did. Before you arrived, he was here, in my office, finishing a deal, secure in the knowledge that I will honor the terms agreed on. And thirteen hours later, there you were, against expectation and common sense."

"And the terms?" Usually, the details of a contract were something Warlord refused to divulge. In a world where terms hinted at intent, confidentiality was prized. His eyebrows arched when Warlord answered him.

"I am not to divulge the information given by Ventanna, to me, concerning what was talked about from zero nine hundred to zero nine seventeen, Atlas local time, without his prior permission, but I am allowed to discuss it, should the asker already know it. I am allowed to speak to Scorch, and only Scorch, of the terms of the contract, provided Scorch asks. I am allowed to give Scorch, and only Scorch, an honest assessment of the information provided. I am allowed to act on the information provided as I see fit, so long as my actions do not violate any of the contractual terms."

"Are there any hidden clauses?"

Picking up another file, Warlord opened it, took a glance, and snapped it shut just as quickly as it had been opened, setting it down on the aged oak wood of the desk. "Would I be able to tell you if there were?" he asked, sounding bored.

Vinci grunted. Sometimes stupid questions got answers. "Have you acted on the information? If so, how?"

Warlord paused, pen hovering in the air, then raised his gaze to the camera transmitting his image to Vinci. Then he was moving, picking up another folder with the deft fingers of a surgeon. "When you walked through my door, I nudged you to Brockton Bay instead of Winnipeg."

Taking care to not pinch any feathers, Vinci leaned against the cold concrete wall of the bunker. His bones were pretty durable, even the pinyons unless his wings were shrunk, but the hairs of his feathers were prone to misalignment. "You said I'd fit better in Brockton Bay."

"I said fewer people would ask questions in the Bay. However, you would have felt more at home in Winnipeg. For a city in Canada, the violence is surprising. The nearest main branch is located in Toronto, leaving the local office overwhelmed. None of the heroes would blink at a particularly vicious independent tearing chunks out of the local malcontents so long as you were discreet. It wouldn't take long for the local Villain population to learn that the brand of professional violence you represent is bad for business. They are stupid, but not insane; they would leave you alone."

"You didn't do anything else?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Underneath the helmet, Vinci's lips pursed, but he nodded, accepting the warning for what it was even if he didn't like it. "And if I dropped Winter Stars contract and started looking? Would I find what's been hidden?"

Warlord set the pen down on his desk and rested an elbow on the paper which littered the desk, chin propped up by armor-covered knuckles. "It is likely, yes."

"Then why should I play Ventanna's game?"

"Ventanna asks for nothing other than what you already planned to do. The contract has not changed, nor has Ventanna's interest in the Bay. Only your knowledge." Warlord sounded almost intrigued, as if the man was on the verge of deciding that he was curious.

"And that isn't something I should worry about? Bad things happen to people around Ventanna."

"Only a fool wouldn't be concerned about the rat turning his sight on them. Ventanna has been a player in games of power for decades longer than you have lived and is a sore loser. Do you believe you can engineer a scenario where he does not win?"

Underneath the armor and undersuit, his fingers flexed. "I don't have to play his game."

Warlord snorted, leaned back in the chair, and picked up his pen, the moment and interest gone. "You don't even know the rules. I have seen hundreds of Myrmdoms, each a force in their own right, believe they could outsmart the man they call Ventanna. Each one of them turned to ash on the funeral pyre, and now no one so much as remembers their name. Some had played the games of the shadows for years. They knew what they were doing, and died in spite of that. Ventanna knew I would send you to the bay, knowing what I know. He knew that Winter Star wanted you in particular for this mission and would go great lengths to acquire your services. These are just the variables I see. The second you entered the Bay, you stepped onto someone else's chessboard. I taught you to recognize when you are outmatched. What do you see?"

The words came from unwilling lips. There were people better than him, but what little childish pride that remained didn't want to admit it, no matter how that flaw would get him killed. "My position isn't tenable."

People like Ventanna were dangerous, not because of their powers but because of their minds. They delighted in positioning themselves so no matter the outcome, they never lost. Ventanna had been working behind the scenes for weeks, maybe even months. Now he'd decided to play his hand. Maybe Vinci was the target. Maybe he was just a pawn being positioned. It didn't matter. Ventanna had the terrain and prep advantage, one Vinci was reluctant to challenge considering the brokers track record.

Warlord nodded with an approving hum. "In the fields of manipulation, information, and deception, the rat outclasses you by a wide margin. There is no shame in defeat, only the inability to learn. Choose how you wish to take this loss, be grateful you are the knight instead of the king, and move on."

Stupid people didn't last long in the business. Warlord was honest, and his advice was sound. No matter how little Vinci wanted to hear it. Vinci glanced at the laptop resting on his knees. "What's your stake in this?"

Warlord chuckled, amused with a dark hint of vindictive anticipation. "I think the rat might have overstepped his bounds with this one. I see the same thing he does; a chance to change the status quo, but I am not as eager for change as he is. I think arrogance has blinded him. Even skilled fencers can overextend. He has always scurried in the shadows like vermin, taking care to walk where my boots cannot stomp him to death. But now?" Tossing his pen on the floor where it skittered over the edge, Warlord leaned his elbow on the desk. "I wish to make a wager against Ventanna little Hussar. A private contract between you and I. Be the pawn he expects, make the moves he calls, and, if after six moons have passed you haven't found what waits for you in the bay, I will find a way to skirt the edges of my contract with Ventanna without breaking it. One way or another, you will find what you wish to know. And, should you be able to stand in front of Styx and swear the time waited was not worth the prize gained, I will offer a lump sum; Two hundred thousand is a worthwhile investment for the death of that rat."

Two hundred thousand? Vinci resisted the urge to scoff. Not worth six months of time. Close, but not quite. Warlord knew it too. But combined with what Winter Star was offering?

Tempting. Just what was in the bay? And if it was so important, why hadn't it been found already? It was a dangerous game, but not a new one. And Vinci wasn't helpless, even if Ventenna's newfound generosity scared the fuck out of him.

Unless there were clear signs of betrayal, Vinci'd finish what he started.

"Ventanna said you had specifications for a sword?"

Wood scraped as Warlord slid back in his chair, giving him space to access a desk drawer. "Indeed. Along with directions for a meetup. A packet of information is already ready to go. All that remains is for you to show up. Good hunting Scorch. If you die, I will be quite disappointed."

"Who? Me?" Vinci scoffed, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. "God hates me. I'll live forever."

The almighty had always loved making jokes out of people after all.

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Children laughed as they crawled over the playground in the cool autumn air. Vinci felt a twinge of envy as he watched their smiling faces from a park bench three hundred feet away.

Envy wasn't new. Envy directed at children younger than he was, well, was. It was hard not to envy someone for being afraid of the monster under their bed instead of the ones that wore a human face. They had good clothes, and mothers who cared to watch over them.

Their innocence was something he envied too.

One threw a half-eaten apple on the ground, earning him a baleful glare.

That was good food. Still was, even with dirt all over it. There were times he'd've cried to find such a treasure in a dumpster. The memory of being hungry had never left him.

It was unfair. They had everything and didn't realize nor appreciate it.

Bundled up in good pants and a thick hoodie, to Vinci the park bench felt cold and lonely, and damn how he ran hot. Alone with all these people around him. Vinci couldn't help the bitter look in his silver eyes. That summed up the last two years of his life, from the world that didn't exist to the oath he'd never taken just so he could leave it.

Looking. Watching. Waiting. And others got to go about their daily lives. They got to be happy.

Someone separated from the foot traffic moving through the park. There was nothing strange about her. The movement was natural, the makeup skilled but not suspiciously so, her clothes fashionable but not outrageously expensive. Normal. Boring. Forgettable.

Perhaps that was what caught his eye. She was too boring, in a way that wasn't natural.

His contact sat upwind of him, nose twitching as he smelt the reek of her perfume. The caustic, overapplied scent was thick enough to cover any scent he could think of including blood. Perhaps she wasn't so boring after all. "Hello," She greeted, voice smooth in the way only people who spoke for a living could achieve, "nice weather we are having."

Vinci looked up at the setting sun and the cloudless sky that came with it then shrugged. "It's okay I guess," he muttered, the indecisive statement grating as it left his mouth, "but I wanted snow."

Covering her mouth, she offered a polite titter. "Snow? In the middle of autumn?"

"It's cooler than rain."

"It certainly is hot for the bay this time of year, isn't it?" She tugged at the collar of her white button-up shirt.

The words sealed the deal. Without even looking at her, he accepted the blank manilla envelope she offered. For a time she lingered, smiling at the sky, children, other parents, and the world itself, looking like nothing more than a woman taking a break from the storm of life.

Then she was up and merged with the crowd.

Suppressing a yawn, Vinci spared one last glance for the children and did the same. Jetlag had nothing on Jumplag. As he left the park, he sank deeper into the shadows of his hoodie, allowing the setting sun to conceal the worst of his scars.

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Pulling the tight tube top over his head, Vinci breathed a sigh of relief as he flexed cramped wings. While he could hide among the civilians, it wasn't fun. Feathers and muscles rippled as the appendages grew. In no time at all Vinci stood with feathers that stopped just short of the floor, feeling freer than he had all day.

With a sign, he eased himself down onto his makeshift bed, grabbing the thick envelope while he was at it. Breaking the seal, he started to read.

Pulling the hoodie over his head, he tossed it to the ground before jumping onto his makeshift bed,

Then his eyebrows arched. Enclosed within was a term Vinci hated to use in relation to Ventanna because of the dire political implications that came with a Warlord getting back into the game, and yet there was no other way of putting it.

Vinci was holding an operation briefing.

The target? A shipping vessel called the Ever Lenient, or more specifically, a shipping container on it originating from Columbia, though it'd passed through several countries to get there. All the necessary information was there; Crew, the serial number for the vessel, satellite scans showing the exact container he was after, even the predicted path the cargo ship would take, though that was something considerably hazier considering ocean-faring vessels didn't need to file a sail plan and stick to it.

And the shipping container… Licking his finger, Vinci thumbed through the documents, memorizing photo after photo. With each new rustle in the silence of his bunker, his scowl grew deeper.

After half an hour of silent work, Vinci reached the end, where a final paper with a single sentence stared back at him with the motto of Ventanna and his band of contrary band of bastards.

~Memores acti prudentes futuri

That was… incredibly concerning, and Vinci didn't like it. Not what the papers told him about the target, not what the target told him about his client, and not how all of it put together left him with more questions than he'd started with.

Taking the operations plan, Vinci glanced at it and then threw it aside.

It was a good one. Maybe even one that he'd make. But he didn't trust it, or the person who'd given it to him. Ventanna was no enemy, but only a fool thought of him as a friend of anything but survival.

Pulling his laptop from across the room with a dismissive wave, Vinci opened the device and pulled up weather predictions, the harsh look on his face softening as he saw the welcome sight of recently updated high altitude charts.

Ventanna wanted a predictable pawn?

Well… They'd see.

But first, a message to Ventanna. Some of those photos had been up-to-date satellite imagery. Good imagery too. That clarity wasn't commercial.

It was time to see just how far Ventanna's information network ran on Bet. Granted, the deal hadn't been completed yet, but if Ventanna wanted something this bad, Vinci was certain the man would be willing to tweak the rules.

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By the time Vinci stumbled into bed, eyes bleary, he had an ops plan he liked. Granted, the situation stunk. He trusted (and was horrified) by both Ventanna's information and its quality, but that was as far as it went.

Whatever Ventanna wanted, he wanted it bad, something which only reinforced Vinci's impression that staying as far away from it was the best choice he could possibly make from a survival standpoint.

When he'd told Sokolik he needed some time, tangling with a warlord in the old sense of the word wasn't what he had in mind. This situation would've made him uneasy even with Icarus squad for backup.

And yet… There was something about this city that wasn't quite right. Vinci couldn't put his finger on it, it was nothing concrete, not like the intelligence Ventanna'd offered. Just something deep in his gut whispering that something big was about to happen. Something familiar called him home.

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Vinci didn't groan as he got up. Sound and waking hadn't mixed for him in years. Too much time spent on patrols and doing dangerous shit in even more dangerous places. But when his eyes popped open in the kind of dead silence found only deep underground, there was something aggravated about his bloodshot eyes.

Fucking Bond. Fucking shitty bondmate. Something'd pissed them off last night, and whatever it was, damn it and them to hell.

He could sleep through the constant pounding of the big guns, but the boil of emotions from a pissed-off counterpart was all but impossible without drugs he refused to take. Or as Dash tended to say; 'When have you ever seen an old Myrmdom who wasn't a light sleeper?'

Blinking to try and get the grit out of his eyes, Vinci considered going back to bed. He needed that sleep, and the ship would wait.

The crystal clear memory of the container's dossier was dredged up from the depths of his mind.

Fuck.

No. He needed to know today. With a groan, Vinci rolled out of bed. It was time to get to work.

But first, a shirt.

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Pulling up, Vinci slammed into the side of the shipping container with a thud, latching onto the bars running across the doors. On his back, wings flexed, the thick coating of ice dragging normally light feathers down. His world was a sea of green, allowing him to see the white serial number on the shipping container with ease as the sea howled its fury and the ship swayed on the swells.

He should've stayed in bed.

Make no mistake, he loved flying almost as much as he loved his beautiful wings, but the forecasts had told him the storm was brewing and he knew the signs of a real nasty tempest in the prickle of his feathers. Both warnings were ignored. After all, he'd dealt with thunderstorms on Atlas, hadn't he? This was something he could handle. Well, he'd been proven right, but not before the storm had made a point of its own, trying to slam him into the surf with a downburst, and when it couldn't, sucking him up into the pouring rain clouds and through the falling hail that existed at higher altitudes before spitting him out in the lower stratosphere. The lights from the thunder below had been beautiful, but not worth the bruises he could already feel forming from baseball-sized hail.

Shoving his foot onto a horizontal bar, Vinci carefully looked down at the deck forty feet below, searching for crew members. At this time of night, most should've been in bed long ago, but chances were things for other people. Besides, After the shitshow that'd been the flight out, some wandering sailor seeing him fit the luck of the day.

Finding none, he pulled himself up, comparing the serial number in the upper corner to the one Ventenna had memorized.

It was a match.

Hands trembling from adrenaline wrapped around the grip of his sword, pulling it out of its sheath with a scrape of wraithbone against wraithbone. Reaching for his power, he channeled it into the sword, intricate runes coming to life on the flat of the blade, his helmet adjusting its night vision to accommodate the dull glow.

Three cuts later and a slam of his hilt later, he was in. It wasn't neat, and it wasn't pretty, but it did the job, and more importantly, it didn't force him to weave a more elegant working while he was tired, putting himself in more danger than necessary in the process.

The sight that greeted him inside the container was worthy of the pursed lips that followed.

To the left, secured tight with ropes and stacked higher than he was tall were transparent bags full of a bleached white powder. To the right, massive blue water barrels sloshed with the rocking of the ship. And filling the space in between were thick bales of dried leaves

Pulling a penlight out of his pouch, Vinci deactivated his night vision with a wink accompanied by the click of his tongue, jerking the cap off one of the barrels and shining the light inside.

The liquid was a nice amber color.

Ventanna was right. Vinci hadn't wanted him to be right. Ventanna being right meant that Vinci was being lied to, or someone wasn't doing their job. Neither option was comforting. Back in Chicago, a gallon of PCP had a street price of a million dollars. Granted, it had been two years since then, but that didn't change the fact he was looking at enough PCP in a single barrel alone to flood a city the size of New York for more time than he cared to think.

Replacing the cap, Vinci stepped back to look at the entire haul.

Even a single barrel meant that something was wrong with the information Winter Star had given him. He saw four, two on the ground, two stacked on top of the other two. And that was only because the rest were buried behind the four he could see. Add enough weed to cushion those barrels and a similar amount of cocaine…

"Small operation my ass," he said, and clicked his helmet's recording feature on. "This is Scorch, op date, October ninth, two thousand nine. The time is zero zero three one. Intercept of the medium bulk freighter the Ever Lenient was a success, as was the location of a container meant for the Archer's Bridge Merchants. Intercept has yielded a significant quantity of drugs." The tip of his sword flicked out like the tongue of a snake, slashing one of the powder bags open. Vinci crouched next to the pile that formed before the rocking of the ship could scatter the mound. "First is what appeared to be cocaine. Note the exceptionally fine grain-"

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The boom of metal as the containers shifted was covered by the fury of the storm above, lighting flashes illuminating the churning sea from horizon to foaming horizon. Vinci didn't care.

With another tug, he tore the container loose and hurled it into the churning sea, a timer in the corner of his hud counting upwards as he watched it sink beneath the waves.

How many millions was that? More money in one haul than the Hussar had ever paid him over the course of his career, that was for sure. The thought couldn't take the edge off the bitter taste in his mouth. Clients lied, and Vinci didn't appreciate the reminder.

Standing on top of a cargo container, the few sailors still awake at this time easily visible directly ahead of him through the glass that illuminated the bridge, Vinci turned around and started looking for a place to spend the night.

They were only three hundred kilometers from Brockton. That was a day's sailing at the cargo ship's current pace.

Considering how close he'd had to having his wing broken, Vinci had no intention of testing himself against the rage of an ocean storm again. He'd had enough the first time.

Besides, he still needed confirmation.

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[SmokeRichards]

Unlatching his face plate for a brief second, he shoved the pill into his mouth and swallowed, replacing the plate before any more rain got on his face. Technically speaking, that seven-milligram dose of Dexedrine was every bit as illegal as the cargo these scumbags had come to take possession of. Vinci didn't care. This wasn't about morals. It wasn't even about business anymore. It was personal.

There would be a price for using stimulants to stay awake this way, but that was a sleep debt Vinci was willing to pay.

Faulty intel was unacceptable. Nothing got good people killed more than bad intelligence. And he wanted to know why he'd been fed it.

It'd been nearly forty hours since he'd left his bunker.

That was two whole rations ago. The Cold Weather hadn't changed a bit. The orange chicken had been good, he'd finally gotten a dreaded enchilada which tasted like ass just like Woodsman claimed (not knowing what ass tasted like didn't stop Vinci from agreeing in spirit), and the Pizza had been decent. On the other hand, the new First Strike had been excellent. Dry as hell, but excellent.

One of those rations had been spent waiting for the cargo ship to reach the port.

Half of the second one had been waiting for the crates to be unloaded.

And the rest?

Eating the finger foods of the First Strike as Vinci followed an increasingly panicked worker around the dock from the top of the stacks as the pudgy man attempted to find his lost cargo. Vinci didn't blame the man. That had been what? At least half a billion in street value for the LSD alone? Sure, the purchase price had probably been less, but both a hundred million and half a billion were murder-worthy amounts.

And now the time had come to pay the toll, Vinci's helmet recording every second of it.

Down below in a canyon created by two stacks of shipping containers, a man in a stained leather mask which covered half his face was screaming at the cowering customs officer wearing a bright orange helmet and a yellow reflective vest. Behind them, a woman in a welding mask leaned against the tires of a tinkered-out semi-truck hauling a specialized trailer just the right size for the cargo container Vinci'd thrown into the ocean. Flanking the man in the stained mask were two men with guns. Nice guns.

At times like these, Vinci's keen eyes were both a gift and a curse.

A curse, because he could see just how filthy both of the Parahumans were. Crusted dirt, grime, and stains he knew better than he wished from Emiltons redlight district reminded him of just how disgusting people'd seemed after he'd just gotten powers. And back then, he'd been dealing with reasonably clean people.

And a gift, because he could clearly see the two men flanking the woman from the dossier, Squealer. Both men were of Hispanic descent, and while he hesitated to call them well groomed, they did at least look like they showered more than once a month.

Of greater interest were their weapons.

It'd been a little while since he'd dealt with a proper projectile weapon. Not long, but considering how most warfighters on Atlas preferred the punch of plasma weaponry made from parts scavenged from the Defense Grid, it hadn't been within the last month either.

But it didn't take a gunsmith to recognize a well-maintained firearm. While the two men were scuffed and worn, the weapons gleamed with freshly applied oil that the rain slid off of, and there wasn't a hint of dirt anywhere. They were more disciplined than expected from street trash, both fingers well clear of the trigger.

By now, the customs officer was cringing away, and Skidmark was advancing. Without warning, he spun and turn away.

Vinci shifted on the balls of his feet. Should he intervene? Winter Star was certain that Skidmark answered directly to Vinci's bounty, and yet Winter Star had been certain that their gang, this Archer's Bridge Merchants, were minor players. Shipping enough drugs in a single shipment to flood the entire coastline from Canada to Florida with enough LSD to last for weeks did not fit Vinci's definition of minor.

As the men standing next to Squealer brought their rifles to bear, Vinci settled in on his heels.

No. He didn't have enough information.

Six sharp retorts sounded in the space of two seconds. The customs officer staggered, clutching at his chest as a pool of red marred the yellow of the safety vest. Disbelief etched on every feature, he shambled forward before falling face down onto the concrete.

Vinci's eyes narrowed underneath the helmet as the gunmen picked up three gleaming bass shells each while the Parahumans got into their Semi.

Twenty seconds later, they were gone, and Vinci was moving. Space bent in a line between the top of the stack and the ground directly in front of the dying man. Wraithbone boots splashed into the pinkish puddle of rain-diluted blood. On the ground in front of him, the worker was already dead, four bullet holes in his lungs, two in his head.

Gesturing with two fingers, he rolled the body over, ignoring the wet squelch as he did so. Rifling through the corpse's pockets, he pulled out a wallet, removing the ID card and flipping it around so his hud could get a clear view of both the front and the back. Then he slid the ID card back into the wallet and the wallet back into the man's pocket, just the way he'd found it. Moving on, he found a phone, which he took, along with a few other odds and ends that he didn't.

The whole search took less than two minutes and ended with him shoving a pair of wet feet back into their boots before he turned and walked away.

Space bending in front of him, Vinci clicked his tongue, the little red dot in the corner of his vision vanishing.

Those shots had been accurate. Too accurate for the gang that existed in the dossier offered by Winter Star. Those gunmen were disciplined, their rifles of high quality, and the way they'd cleaned up after themselves intelligent.

After a forty-hour intelligence gathering op, Vinci only had more questions.

It was time for him to get some answers.

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[SmokeRichards]

Yeeted.

 

[SmokeRichards]

The bunker was dim, cool, and while it wasn't home and probably never would be, the reinforced concrete of the bunker was comforting in its own way. Armor plates ground against wood as Vinci shifted on his stool next to the table, unhooking a cable from the back of his helmet as he picked it up and slid it onto his head with the hiss of engaging seals. Resting on the table, a warning message popped up on his hardened laptop, informing him that a device had been disconnected. Vinci closed it out.

It was time to get this fuck-fuck circus on the road.

With a flurry of button clicks that were becoming familiar, connections were established, data packets exchanged, then the screen of his laptop resolved to show two figures wreathed in shadows. Nothing had changed since he'd first seen them. Same obscured room, same chairs, same people- Scratch that. They'd changed positions. The female was on the right, the male to her left.

"Scorch, a pleasure to see you once more." The female inclined her head.

The male grunted, crossing his arms. "We were surprised to be contacted so soon. Winter Star was under the impression you were capable of… taking the initiative. Unless you have found our traitor?"

Vinci shook his head. "I have questions."

"What kind of questions?"

Something in Vinci cooled at the dismissive tone. It was as if they thought he would call them if it wasn't important. Leaning forward, he pressed send, transferring several files to one of their servers. "Questions like why your dossier was faulty." Both Myrmdoms stilled at the same time.

"Faulty?" the Female ventured.

"Faulty," Vinci replied, tone hard.

The male looked offscreen. "Open them."

There was a sharp hiss from the female. "What is this?"

Behind him, Vinci's beautiful wings (they were always beautiful) swayed in a smooth back-and-forth motion. "Visual data from an interception performed three hundred kilometers off Brocktons coast."

Without taking his eyes whatever it was he was looking at outside Vinci's field of view, the man asked, "These were the Merchants?"

"The second file shows two persons of interest showing up to take possession of it inside Brocktons harbor." Taking a deep, unhappy breath, Vinci leaned forward. "Why was I told this was a minor gang?"

The man tore his gaze away from offscreen. "We gave you the best data we had at the time."

"Why did Winter Star want me in particular?"

The female shook her head. "The contract was open to all."

Somehow, she even sounded like she believed it.

But fuck that.

Everyone had secrets, and as an Auxiliary sworn to a different faction it made sense that Winter Star was more careful when it came to sharing theirs with him. To a degree, it was even expected in the business. After all, clients lied. To. A. Degree. This was not a degree, and Vinci wasn't having it. So he started quoting from the contract they left with Warlord.

"Two to three years experience with Cadre level combat operations, shock action specialization preferred. Experience with quick response forces?" Vinci paused, then continued. "Prefered. Experience facing Myrmdoms required. Experience facing the Defense Grid preferred but not mandatory. Eighty percent mission completion rate or higher required. Preferred background and factional allegiance? Hussar Special Operations, First Brigade, Vanguard Specialist Detachment Alpha, Forge Dust Walkers, Choregos Charter Trailblazers, or Navarch Combat Controllers."

No one spoke as his words faded.

Vinci leaned forward, resting his jaw on his knuckles. "Quite the qualifications. Impossible qualifications. After all, anyone with those qualifications aren't Auxiliaries, are they? Only Cadre are going to have served with those particular units." And Cadre were Cadre because they didn't leave. Even Vinci was only considered a Hussar Auxiliary at the moment because the time he wanted off had exceeded his yearly allowance, so they'd bumped him down with the expectation that the second he'd done what he needed to, he'd return to the first battalion immediately. No one had bothered to read him out either. He knew the rules.

And oh how the silence was exquisite. Vinci hadn't heard this kind of bated breath since the support battalions' quartermaster had been informed that the pallet of Dexedrine they'd ordered had somehow been swapped with cooking pads.

"How did you get this information?" the male finally asked, polite, but clipped.

"I read the contract." As the pair glanced at each other, Vinci tilted his head. "Were the requirements supposed to be hidden?"

"No," the man muttered, each syllable dripping with barely contained fury, "of course not. You were intended to know."

"Why didn't you inquire about the requirements beforehand," the woman interjected, drawing Vinci's attention. "Were you not curious?"

"Of course I was. But if I needed to know, I expected to be told. When I wasn't, that was all the answer I needed. Of course," silky velvet covered the steel in his words, "that was before I was given information that wasn't just incorrect, but outrageously so. It looks bad. In fact, it almost looks like you were trying to get a Hussar Tier One killed-"

The man cut him off before Vinci could finish the dangerous accusation. "Winter Star's alliance with the Hussar Stratocracy is highly valued by the Canopus. Any inconsistency in the information we provided to you was a terrible error on our part; an investigation will be launched. We- no, I want answers just as badly as you do Hussar. This failure of our intelligence apparatus is unacceptable."

After a moment, the female bowed her head. "Winter Star thanks you for bringing this lapse to our attention. You have done both Winter Star and the Canopus a great service."

"Not good enough," Vinci bit out. "Why were my services needed?"

"Your track record is excellent," the man replied.

"But not unique. Don't expect me to believe that Winter Star doesn't have an operations division capable of tracking down your murderer. I was willing to believe you wanted a deniable asset, after all the Stratocracy is on very good terms with Winter Star after that nasty business down in Bittercreek. This was just one more gesture of goodwill from the Stratocracy to Winter Star." Vinci's hand sliced through the air. "That leeway is gone. Read me in, or I will buy out my contract."

The pair looked at each other, body language shifting every few seconds as if they were having an entire conversation in silence. Considering their bond, they probably were.

Finally, the woman turned back to face the screen. "The Canopus requested you."

Underneath his helmet, Vinci raised an eyebrow. "In particular?" When the woman nodded, Vinci continued. "Why?"

"The events of GeoStation three, and the tribunal that followed brought you to the Canopus' attention in a way that could not be ignored. The quick response, as well as the adaptability you displayed, impressed him greatly. When he heard you had taken a leave of absence from your position in the Tier Ones, he knew he wanted you for this mission."

Strike two. And he was out. His finger moved for the escape button. "I'm buying out my contract. I will inform Warlord to transfer the money within the day."

"The Canopus wanted to marry his daughter to you," The man barked.

His hand froze.

The woman leaped to her feet and whirled to face the man. "You didn't have authorization to divulge that! The Canopus-"

"-will understand my reasoning," the man smoothly interrupted, looking up at his partner. "And should he not, then the consequences will be my burden to bear."

His mind, still reeling, began the long and frankly fucking insane journey to catch up with what he'd heard. Then it clicked, and he went rigid, back ramrod straight. Clearly, there'd been a communication error. "Say again?"

The man leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "The youngest to be accepted into the first battalion in a decade. It made the Canopus curious. He asked for and was granted access to footage of your actions in GeoStation three. Relations between the Stratocracy and Winter Star were tense at the time and confidence in the Canopus was low. It is even said that were some who questioned the Canopus's fitness to lead. Meetings were held in private between your Field Marshall and the Canopus. A solution was entertained; A political alliance sealed by a marriage between our two different nations. This young pair would serve as a symbol of the unity we could achieve while cementing the Canopus's position."

Vinci scooted back, staggered by what he was hearing and the implications that came with it. "I am Bonded," he hissed.

"Duty before self Hussar," the female said.

Vinci glanced at her, his lip curling underneath his helmet. "A Grey Wolve of Winter Star has no standing to lecture a Tier One of the Hussar on the meaning of honor."

The woman recoiled.

"That is enough," The man barked, making a 'settle down' gesture with his hands. "No offense was meant."

"No." Vinci shook his head. He didn't think it was. "I was twelve at the time you raging nonce!" And fuck the difference between their respective factions.

"And she was nine. You were both young perhaps, but that meant that a betrothal would suffice until you were both ready." Then the man's shoulders sagged. "The point is moot now. She is dead, and you are not."

That headache was maturing.

This. All this.

This bullshit was why he stayed out of Stratocracy politics, even though he had a voice and the power to make that voice heard. It was bad enough when all the Tier Ones were doing were settling petty grievances or one of the Miranda groups Thinkers decided they had a revolutionary plan that involved converting twenty percent of the population into raw resources and needed to be told 'no'.

But the Stratocracy was calmer, possibly even reasonable compared to the politics of lineage-based factions like the Navarch Houses or Choregos Charter.

Looking up at the ceiling, Vinci tried to find the words that would explain things that came naturally to normal, rational, sane people who weren't taking notes from feudalism. Why, why couldn't they just all be like Vanguard? Only god knew, and he wasn't sharing because the answer was probably dumb. "I didn't even know that the Canopus had a brat until you told me she was dead. Winter Star would've offered that contract, and I would've refused." Immediately. Without even thinking about it. Because 'fuck Winter Star' and 'fucking Winter Star'.

Wait. A political marriage- Color drained from his face as Vinci realized that if this lovely brand of 'please-just-fucking-stop' had gone through, he would've been expected to play diplomat in a few years.

Suddenly, he was very glad Bloodhound had committed murder, though he still disapproved of murder in general. The deserter had, whether Bloodhound knew it or not, helped Vinci dodge a plasma bolt.

The woman sniffed as if offended. "The lack of a relationship, while problematic, could be easily remedied."

"How?" He barked. "Play dates?"

This was the Navarch's fault. He just knew it. They'd started this bullshit with their need to unite their houses and the barbaric way they'd gone about it. Just because feudal politics were pretty applicable to what the factions were doing didn't mean that Vinci had to like it. No one would ever call him well educated, but Hypergen's rant on the difference between family trees and family circles had been enlightening.
Folding one leg over the other in a prim motion, the woman sat in her chair, back straight. "You use 'play dates' as if it were a slur. Had the Grand Field Marshall accepted our offer, I find it likely you would've been nudged to take part in social events, as would she."

Social. Events. What kind of social events? Atlas didn't have social events unless the Woman counted the Crimson Sand blood matches- "The dances the five houses host!?" Vinci started giggling. This wasn't funny and he wanted it to stop, but he just couldn't help it. The idea was insane. "You want a Hussar shock trooper to attend the poison-fest that is a Navarch dance!? Was Winter Star looking for an excuse to start a war?"

"Politics are not always elegant," the woman murmured. "Some gaffes are to be expected, and we would've planned for them. Perhaps the original stage proposed was ill-thought out, but that's all it was; a stage. Any medium that would have allowed the two of you to bond would suffice. The Hussars assigning one of their best to act as a bodyguard for the daughter of a politically important but relatively minor Winter Star Myrmdom would have been a significant showing of unity between our respective factions. With enough meetings, perhaps a connection would have formed."

Vinci held up a hand. "Stop." He hadn't done anything this month to deserve this kind of suffering. "The past is the past. Obviously, these plans never materialized, leaving me with no connection to the Canopus's daughter. So why am I involved?"

It was the male who provided an answer. "Considering what could have been, the Canopus thought it fitting you were the one who brought his daughter to justice. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"Then why the secrecy?"

"It is not yet common knowledge among the Grey Wolves that the Canopus's daughter was killed by one of their own. The Canopus wishes to keep it that way for now, at least intel the Orion collective has had a chance to investigate those linked to Bloodhound."

"I need to verify this with my people."

The male made a dismissive gesture. "Do as you please so long as you keep your inquiries subtle."

It would take some creative wording, and people would wonder why he was asking, but it could be done even if it would be awkward as hell. "Fine. Say you're telling the truth. That doesn't change the bad intel."

"A matter for the Orion Collective," the woman murmured. "They will root out any potential traitors we have in intelligence."

"Where does that leave this contract?"

The pair shared a glance. Then the man turned to the camera and opened his mouth. "We require time to determine whether your contract should be amended or dissolved."

"You want me to sit on my ass? My time is more valuable than that."

"Winter Star will compensate you for your time."

He crossed his arms. "I won't wait forever."

"We don't need forever. Just two weeks." Glancing to the left, the man drew his hand across his throat. The screen went black.

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Vinci hunched over the workbench in a secluded corner of his bunker, humming a tune a hair too deep for the sound to be human as a yellow-white material flowed into existence. Absent-mindedly, he scratched his right arm, fingers tracing over pasty white blotches and red spots which competed for space, skin bunched where it should be loose, and stiff with a glossy sheen where it should be loose. Somedays, when the weather was bad like it currently was up above, some of Vinci's scars ached. A few bones did too, such as his left knee in particular, but considering what he was doing, it was his burn scar that his fingers couldn't help but stray to.

Most powers came with something that prevented the Parahuman from hurting themself.

Vinci wasn't that lucky. For him, learning had been painful, and not all the scars had been physical. The mind could be wounded too, something many didn't think about. Ever since that day, the thought of using fire-

Gritting his teeth, Vinci banished the thought and the churning and his stomach with it as he focused on bringing Ventanna's blade into existence. There would be no channels in this weapon, nothing Vinci could pour power into for special effects like there were in his own saber. What was the point? Ventanna couldn't use them, and they took a great deal of effort to make on top of the already difficult process of crystallizing energy into a form suitable for a blade. Brittleness was needed to hold an edge, and a hint of flexibility so the entire thing wouldn't shatter, and both needed to be in the right range which was finicky to get.

What a drag.

He'd rather be moving, tracking, hunting. Learning more information about the enemy and preparing for his next strike. Fulfilling his obligations to Ventanna meant he wasn't wasting his time, but this near idleness didn't sit well with him. There was a time for cooldown, and this didn't feel like it, not when the op had just begun.

As he forced the gladius to harden, Vinci wished he were flying instead.

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"Um, hey?" a nervous voice interrupted his thoughts as he waited in line.

Turning around, Vinci looked up at the speaker, a twenty-something, scarless female with blue eyes. "Yeah?" he grunted, his wings stilling as he spoke.

Flinching at the curt tone, she rallied seconds later, displaying a remarkable lack of self-preservation instinct. "Are you a cape? A real cape, and not just a cosplayer or something?"

One of Vinci's pinyons flexed. Opening his bag, he showed her the twisting geometry inside. It was petty, but pettiness seemed fair for stupid questions as she blanched. "Not a cosplayer," he muttered, turning around and moving closer to the checkout.

The act bought him half a minute of blessed silence before she managed to overcome her survival instincts once more. "So," she trailed off, drawing out the word, "I haven't seen you before. Like, in the news or anything."

Vinci grunted.

"Are you like, new or something?"

"Sure." He was whatever made her stop talking to him. Children were one thing, but he was under no obligation to be nice to adults. They ought to know better. How many times had he been scolded about stranger danger?

"A new cape? That's great! Your costume looks amazing."

It wasn't a compliment about his wings, so Vinci ignored it. His 'costume wasn't a costume, it was armor. And armor didn't look amazing, it looked functional.

As the next person paid for their stuff, and the line moved forward, the woman tried again. "So, are you a hero?"

He admired her persistence in trying to strike up a conversation with someone who wouldn't even look at her, but he wished she would stop. "Independent." Stepping up to the register, he hefted the bag and turned it upside down. From it, a mountain of food, mostly tin cans filled with foodstuffs ranging from corn to meat poured out, but there was a smattering of perishables he planned to eat later today in the mix.

"Woah" came a whisper from behind him.

At the register, the cashier took one tired look at the mound of food on the conveyor belt, glanced at the bagger, whose eyes had widened, then shrugged. "Would you like paper or plastic sir?" he asked, grabbing the first item, and waving it over the scanner.

"Just use the bag." He tossed the bag over to the bagger, who caught it.

The cashier grabbed another can and waved it over the scanner, which beeped, before sliding it over to the bagger. "The customer is always right," the cashier said, sounding bored. Upon closer inspection, Vinci realized the cashier's pupils were dilated. Meanwhile, the bagger was handling Vinci's bag with all the ginger touches Vinci used with live bombs.

Smart man. Vinci liked the attitude.

"Hey, how'd you get the bag to hold so much stuff?" The woman sounded excited now. "Powers or Tinker tech?"

"Powers."

"Oh, like Scintilla?"

Vinci stiffened. Her dogged persistence had turned from admirable though foolish to irritating and stupid. "No. Not like Scintilla," he growled.

He'd done a little bit of research before he'd come to the Bay and even more after entering Brockton. Not much, but enough to get a good idea of the major players, and what was going on in the city. Out of every Parahuman, Scintilla'd been the one he was most interested in. Her powers, they were so close. For a little while, he'd thought-

Clenching his fists, Vinci wrenched his thoughts away from that particular line of inquiry.

It didn't matter what he'd thought. She wasn't.

Pulling five one hundred dollar coins out of his belt pouch, the one near the hilt of his sword, he handed them over to the cashier and accepted his change.

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"Movement," Dash said, the camera showing him standing over a stove in PT shorts and t-shirt, an apron hanging from his neck as he heated some water. "A lot of movement." There was a bitter twist to Dash's face, whiskers that needed to be shaved twitching.

"War?" The question was quiet. It had been eight days since his conversation with Winter Star, and Vinci was uneasier than ever before. Something was wrong.

Dash shook his head. "Movements all wrong. No one's massing troops near the border. Instead, line units are being transferred to the heartlands. The bigger the population center, the more troops. A new ROE card was disseminated throughout the first battalion yesterday."

Brown eyebrows knitted together. "An actual card?" he asked.

"An actual card kid."

"Huh." That was unusual. Rule of Engagement cards weren't something the first battalion usually got. There wasn't any point. The situations Tier Ones responded to were often eccentric and rules needed to be decided on a case-by-case basis. Actual ROE cards only ever appeared for massive operations, and even then they were more of a formality for the Tier Ones. "Anything interesting?"

"It outlined acceptable use of riot agents on civilians."

Vinci blinked, then reached for his thermos of coconut milk. The stuff was… well, it tasted fine, but he didn't drink it for the taste, but for the calories. "And the Stratocracy is moving troops into the cities?" "Not just the Stratocracy. Vanguard, Winter Star, Choregos Charter, the Navarchs, even Forge."

"Have riot control agents actually been distributed?"

Dash dropped a plate of chopped vegetables into the bubbling pot with a pinched expression. "I don't know. Probably. We're at RedCon green, and command is playing this one close to the chest. I had plans this week, the fucking wankers."

Vinci snorted, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Plans? You?" When Dash didn't even crack a smile, Vinci's vanished. "There will always be next week," he said, quiet.

"Kid, the army is RedCon green, not the Cadre."

Oh. Oh. Swallowing hard, Vinci capped his thermos and set it down on the table with a careful clink. "The entire army?"

"All of it. Everyone's leave was canceled. Gradient was arrested by the Cursarii yesterday. The charges were treason. Sokolik says there's substance to the accusations."

Hearing that word was like being bathed in ice. Goosebumps appeared on Vinci's arms, or at least the arm that wasn't scarred beyond recognition. "Treason," Vinci whispered. It was hard to believe. "He was Cadre."

"He was," Dash agreed, sounding grim.

With a click, the pieces came together. "Boots expects internal strife," he breathed.

Picking up a plate of raw meat cut into neat little cubes, Dash upended the chunks into the pot, scowling.

Vinci wasn't much happier. Just confused. Why hadn't he been recalled? "Do you think there is a conspiracy?"

It was an ugly question, but one that needed to be asked. Compared to Bet, Atlas was brutal, a product of their violent history. The last time a member of the First Battalion had been accused of treason, it had been shortly after Boots had been voted into power by the Cadre years before Vinci had joined the Hussars. A small group of Myrmdoms had publicly challenged Boots' newfound authority as Grand Field Marshal. The result had been bloody, with the guilty being eliminated by Cursarii Guard, a small but elite unit charged with protecting the Grand Field Marshal but sworn to the Stratocracy as a whole. The fallout had lasted for years, but the Cursarii's decisive actions put an immediate rest to questions of Boots' legitimacy. The Guard served the Stratocracy above all else. Their devotion was unquestionable, and with such a public declaration of support, the rest of the Tier Ones had fallen in line.

"Does it matter? The Cursarii wouldn't move unless there is a threat to the Stratocracy."

"And there would be no reason not to reactivate me unless they had reason to think I'm compromised," Vinci slowly said, thinking of how he'd taken the contract with Winter Star. Technically, it wasn't illegal. Technically. When he'd been downgraded from Auxiliary to Cadre, the change in status had allowed him to contract with other factions, an unintended side effect of the action. In any other circumstance, it was a minor infraction easily overlooked. But if the Cursarii were hunting for traitors, things that were once minor would be placed under a microscope.

Dash offered a violent jerk of his head, rejecting Vinci's statement. "Or the threat isn't severe enough to need all hands on deck. Or they don't want anyone going to Bet at this time to retrieve you. Or you're right where HighCom wants you. HighCom keeps its own council. Unless you are explicitly told, we may never know why you weren't officially informed."

The words were reassuring in their own way. Dash was right, and the minor infraction of Vinci's was just that; minor. Boots' personal guard making an issue out of the matter would be like Vinci handing out parking tickets.

"I guess we'll wait and see," he murmured.

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[SmokeRichards]

The bunker was dim, cool, and while it wasn't home and probably never would be, the reinforced concrete of the bunker was comforting in its own way. Armor plates ground against wood as Vinci shifted on his stool next to the table, unhooking a cable from the back of his helmet as he picked it up and slid it onto his head with the hiss of engaging seals. Resting on the table, a warning message popped up on his hardened laptop, informing him that a device had been disconnected. Vinci closed it out.

It was time to get this fuck-fuck circus on the road.

With a flurry of button clicks that were becoming familiar, connections were established, data packets exchanged, then the screen of his laptop resolved to show two figures wreathed in shadows. Nothing had changed since he'd first seen them. Same obscured room, same chairs, same people- Scratch that. They'd changed positions. The female was on the right, the male to her left.

"Scorch, a pleasure to see you once more." The female inclined her head.

The male grunted, crossing his arms. "We were surprised to be contacted so soon. Winter Star was under the impression you were capable of… taking the initiative. Unless you have found our traitor?"

Vinci shook his head. "I have questions."

"What kind of questions?"

Something in Vinci cooled at the dismissive tone. It was as if they thought he would call them if it wasn't important. Leaning forward, he pressed send, transferring several files to one of their servers. "Questions like why your dossier was faulty." Both Myrmdoms stilled at the same time.

"Faulty?" the Female ventured.

"Faulty," Vinci replied, tone hard.

The male looked offscreen. "Open them."

There was a sharp hiss from the female. "What is this?"

Behind him, Vinci's beautiful wings (they were always beautiful) swayed in a smooth back-and-forth motion. "Visual data from an interception performed three hundred kilometers off Brocktons coast."

Without taking his eyes whatever it was he was looking at outside Vinci's field of view, the man asked, "These were the Merchants?"

"The second file shows two persons of interest showing up to take possession of it inside Brocktons harbor." Taking a deep, unhappy breath, Vinci leaned forward. "Why was I told this was a minor gang?"

The man tore his gaze away from offscreen. "We gave you the best data we had at the time."

"Why did Winter Star want me in particular?"

The female shook her head. "The contract was open to all."

Somehow, she even sounded like she believed it.

But fuck that.

Everyone had secrets, and as an Auxiliary sworn to a different faction it made sense that Winter Star was more careful when it came to sharing theirs with him. To a degree, it was even expected in the business. After all, clients lied. To. A. Degree. This was not a degree, and Vinci wasn't having it. So he started quoting from the contract they left with Warlord.

"Two to three years experience with Cadre level combat operations, shock action specialization preferred. Experience with quick response forces?" Vinci paused, then continued. "Prefered. Experience facing Myrmdoms required. Experience facing the Defense Grid preferred but not mandatory. Eighty percent mission completion rate or higher required. Preferred background and factional allegiance? Hussar Special Operations, First Brigade, Vanguard Specialist Detachment Alpha, Forge Dust Walkers, Choregos Charter Trailblazers, or Navarch Combat Controllers."

No one spoke as his words faded.

Vinci leaned forward, resting his jaw on his knuckles. "Quite the qualifications. Impossible qualifications. After all, anyone with those qualifications aren't Auxiliaries, are they? Only Cadre are going to have served with those particular units." And Cadre were Cadre because they didn't leave. Even Vinci was only considered a Hussar Auxiliary at the moment because the time he wanted off had exceeded his yearly allowance, so they'd bumped him down with the expectation that the second he'd done what he needed to, he'd return to the first battalion immediately. No one had bothered to read him out either. He knew the rules.

And oh how the silence was exquisite. Vinci hadn't heard this kind of bated breath since the support battalions' quartermaster had been informed that the pallet of Dexedrine they'd ordered had somehow been swapped with cooking pads.

"How did you get this information?" the male finally asked, polite, but clipped.

"I read the contract." As the pair glanced at each other, Vinci tilted his head. "Were the requirements supposed to be hidden?"

"No," the man muttered, each syllable dripping with barely contained fury, "of course not. You were intended to know."

"Why didn't you inquire about the requirements beforehand," the woman interjected, drawing Vinci's attention. "Were you not curious?"

"Of course I was. But if I needed to know, I expected to be told. When I wasn't, that was all the answer I needed. Of course," silky velvet covered the steel in his words, "that was before I was given information that wasn't just incorrect, but outrageously so. It looks bad. In fact, it almost looks like you were trying to get a Hussar Tier One killed-"

The man cut him off before Vinci could finish the dangerous accusation. "Winter Star's alliance with the Hussar Stratocracy is highly valued by the Canopus. Any inconsistency in the information we provided to you was a terrible error on our part; an investigation will be launched. We- no, I want answers just as badly as you do Hussar. This failure of our intelligence apparatus is unacceptable."

After a moment, the female bowed her head. "Winter Star thanks you for bringing this lapse to our attention. You have done both Winter Star and the Canopus a great service."

"Not good enough," Vinci bit out. "Why were my services needed?"

"Your track record is excellent," the man replied.

"But not unique. Don't expect me to believe that Winter Star doesn't have an operations division capable of tracking down your murderer. I was willing to believe you wanted a deniable asset, after all the Stratocracy is on very good terms with Winter Star after that nasty business down in Bittercreek. This was just one more gesture of goodwill from the Stratocracy to Winter Star." Vinci's hand sliced through the air. "That leeway is gone. Read me in, or I will buy out my contract."

The pair looked at each other, body language shifting every few seconds as if they were having an entire conversation in silence. Considering their bond, they probably were.

Finally, the woman turned back to face the screen. "The Canopus requested you."

Underneath his helmet, Vinci raised an eyebrow. "In particular?" When the woman nodded, Vinci continued. "Why?"

"The events of GeoStation three, and the tribunal that followed brought you to the Canopus' attention in a way that could not be ignored. The quick response, as well as the adaptability you displayed, impressed him greatly. When he heard you had taken a leave of absence from your position in the Tier Ones, he knew he wanted you for this mission."

Strike two. And he was out. His finger moved for the escape button. "I'm buying out my contract. I will inform Warlord to transfer the money within the day."

"The Canopus wanted to marry his daughter to you," The man barked.

His hand froze.

The woman leaped to her feet and whirled to face the man. "You didn't have authorization to divulge that! The Canopus-"

"-will understand my reasoning," the man smoothly interrupted, looking up at his partner. "And should he not, then the consequences will be my burden to bear."

His mind, still reeling, began the long and frankly fucking insane journey to catch up with what he'd heard. Then it clicked, and he went rigid, back ramrod straight. Clearly, there'd been a communication error. "Say again?"

The man leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. "The youngest to be accepted into the first battalion in a decade. It made the Canopus curious. He asked for and was granted access to footage of your actions in GeoStation three. Relations between the Stratocracy and Winter Star were tense at the time and confidence in the Canopus was low. It is even said that were some who questioned the Canopus's fitness to lead. Meetings were held in private between your Field Marshall and the Canopus. A solution was entertained; A political alliance sealed by a marriage between our two different nations. This young pair would serve as a symbol of the unity we could achieve while cementing the Canopus's position."

Vinci scooted back, staggered by what he was hearing and the implications that came with it. "I am Bonded," he hissed.

"Duty before self Hussar," the female said.

Vinci glanced at her, his lip curling underneath his helmet. "A Grey Wolve of Winter Star has no standing to lecture a Tier One of the Hussar on the meaning of honor."

The woman recoiled.

"That is enough," The man barked, making a 'settle down' gesture with his hands. "No offense was meant."

"No." Vinci shook his head. He didn't think it was. "I was twelve at the time you raging nonce!" And fuck the difference between their respective factions.

"And she was nine. You were both young perhaps, but that meant that a betrothal would suffice until you were both ready." Then the man's shoulders sagged. "The point is moot now. She is dead, and you are not."

That headache was maturing.

This. All this.

This bullshit was why he stayed out of Stratocracy politics, even though he had a voice and the power to make that voice heard. It was bad enough when all the Tier Ones were doing were settling petty grievances or one of the Miranda groups Thinkers decided they had a revolutionary plan that involved converting twenty percent of the population into raw resources and needed to be told 'no'.

But the Stratocracy was calmer, possibly even reasonable compared to the politics of lineage-based factions like the Navarch Houses or Choregos Charter.

Looking up at the ceiling, Vinci tried to find the words that would explain things that came naturally to normal, rational, sane people who weren't taking notes from feudalism. Why, why couldn't they just all be like Vanguard? Only god knew, and he wasn't sharing because the answer was probably dumb. "I didn't even know that the Canopus had a brat until you told me she was dead. Winter Star would've offered that contract, and I would've refused." Immediately. Without even thinking about it. Because 'fuck Winter Star' and 'fucking Winter Star'.

Wait. A political marriage- Color drained from his face as Vinci realized that if this lovely brand of 'please-just-fucking-stop' had gone through, he would've been expected to play diplomat in a few years.

Suddenly, he was very glad Bloodhound had committed murder, though he still disapproved of murder in general. The deserter had, whether Bloodhound knew it or not, helped Vinci dodge a plasma bolt.

The woman sniffed as if offended. "The lack of a relationship, while problematic, could be easily remedied."

"How?" He barked. "Play dates?"

This was the Navarch's fault. He just knew it. They'd started this bullshit with their need to unite their houses and the barbaric way they'd gone about it. Just because feudal politics were pretty applicable to what the factions were doing didn't mean that Vinci had to like it. No one would ever call him well educated, but Hypergen's rant on the difference between family trees and family circles had been enlightening.
Folding one leg over the other in a prim motion, the woman sat in her chair, back straight. "You use 'play dates' as if it were a slur. Had the Grand Field Marshall accepted our offer, I find it likely you would've been nudged to take part in social events, as would she."

Social. Events. What kind of social events? Atlas didn't have social events unless the Woman counted the Crimson Sand blood matches- "The dances the five houses host!?" Vinci started giggling. This wasn't funny and he wanted it to stop, but he just couldn't help it. The idea was insane. "You want a Hussar shock trooper to attend the poison-fest that is a Navarch dance!? Was Winter Star looking for an excuse to start a war?"

"Politics are not always elegant," the woman murmured. "Some gaffes are to be expected, and we would've planned for them. Perhaps the original stage proposed was ill-thought out, but that's all it was; a stage. Any medium that would have allowed the two of you to bond would suffice. The Hussars assigning one of their best to act as a bodyguard for the daughter of a politically important but relatively minor Winter Star Myrmdom would have been a significant showing of unity between our respective factions. With enough meetings, perhaps a connection would have formed."

Vinci held up a hand. "Stop." He hadn't done anything this month to deserve this kind of suffering. "The past is the past. Obviously, these plans never materialized, leaving me with no connection to the Canopus's daughter. So why am I involved?"

It was the male who provided an answer. "Considering what could have been, the Canopus thought it fitting you were the one who brought his daughter to justice. Nothing more, and nothing less."

"Then why the secrecy?"

"It is not yet common knowledge among the Grey Wolves that the Canopus's daughter was killed by one of their own. The Canopus wishes to keep it that way for now, at least intel the Orion collective has had a chance to investigate those linked to Bloodhound."

"I need to verify this with my people."

The male made a dismissive gesture. "Do as you please so long as you keep your inquiries subtle."

It would take some creative wording, and people would wonder why he was asking, but it could be done even if it would be awkward as hell. "Fine. Say you're telling the truth. That doesn't change the bad intel."

"A matter for the Orion Collective," the woman murmured. "They will root out any potential traitors we have in intelligence."

"Where does that leave this contract?"

The pair shared a glance. Then the man turned to the camera and opened his mouth. "We require time to determine whether your contract should be amended or dissolved."

"You want me to sit on my ass? My time is more valuable than that."

"Winter Star will compensate you for your time."

He crossed his arms. "I won't wait forever."

"We don't need forever. Just two weeks." Glancing to the left, the man drew his hand across his throat. The screen went black.

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Vinci hunched over the workbench in a secluded corner of his bunker, humming a tune a hair too deep for the sound to be human as a yellow-white material flowed into existence. Absent-mindedly, he scratched his right arm, fingers tracing over pasty white blotches and red spots which competed for space, skin bunched where it should be loose, and stiff with a glossy sheen where it should be loose. Somedays, when the weather was bad like it currently was up above, some of Vinci's scars ached. A few bones did too, such as his left knee in particular, but considering what he was doing, it was his burn scar that his fingers couldn't help but stray to.

Most powers came with something that prevented the Parahuman from hurting themself.

Vinci wasn't that lucky. For him, learning had been painful, and not all the scars had been physical. The mind could be wounded too, something many didn't think about. Ever since that day, the thought of using fire-

Gritting his teeth, Vinci banished the thought and the churning and his stomach with it as he focused on bringing Ventanna's blade into existence. There would be no channels in this weapon, nothing Vinci could pour power into for special effects like there were in his own saber. What was the point? Ventanna couldn't use them, and they took a great deal of effort to make on top of the already difficult process of crystallizing energy into a form suitable for a blade. Brittleness was needed to hold an edge, and a hint of flexibility so the entire thing wouldn't shatter, and both needed to be in the right range which was finicky to get.

What a drag.

He'd rather be moving, tracking, hunting. Learning more information about the enemy and preparing for his next strike. Fulfilling his obligations to Ventanna meant he wasn't wasting his time, but this near idleness didn't sit well with him. There was a time for cooldown, and this didn't feel like it, not when the op had just begun.

As he forced the gladius to harden, Vinci wished he were flying instead.

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"Um, hey?" a nervous voice interrupted his thoughts as he waited in line.

Turning around, Vinci looked up at the speaker, a twenty-something, scarless female with blue eyes. "Yeah?" he grunted, his wings stilling as he spoke.

Flinching at the curt tone, she rallied seconds later, displaying a remarkable lack of self-preservation instinct. "Are you a cape? A real cape, and not just a cosplayer or something?"

One of Vinci's pinyons flexed. Opening his bag, he showed her the twisting geometry inside. It was petty, but pettiness seemed fair for stupid questions as she blanched. "Not a cosplayer," he muttered, turning around and moving closer to the checkout.

The act bought him half a minute of blessed silence before she managed to overcome her survival instincts once more. "So," she trailed off, drawing out the word, "I haven't seen you before. Like, in the news or anything."

Vinci grunted.

"Are you like, new or something?"

"Sure." He was whatever made her stop talking to him. Children were one thing, but he was under no obligation to be nice to adults. They ought to know better. How many times had he been scolded about stranger danger?

"A new cape? That's great! Your costume looks amazing."

It wasn't a compliment about his wings, so Vinci ignored it. His 'costume wasn't a costume, it was armor. And armor didn't look amazing, it looked functional.

As the next person paid for their stuff, and the line moved forward, the woman tried again. "So, are you a hero?"

He admired her persistence in trying to strike up a conversation with someone who wouldn't even look at her, but he wished she would stop. "Independent." Stepping up to the register, he hefted the bag and turned it upside down. From it, a mountain of food, mostly tin cans filled with foodstuffs ranging from corn to meat poured out, but there was a smattering of perishables he planned to eat later today in the mix.

"Woah" came a whisper from behind him.

At the register, the cashier took one tired look at the mound of food on the conveyor belt, glanced at the bagger, whose eyes had widened, then shrugged. "Would you like paper or plastic sir?" he asked, grabbing the first item, and waving it over the scanner.

"Just use the bag." He tossed the bag over to the bagger, who caught it.

The cashier grabbed another can and waved it over the scanner, which beeped, before sliding it over to the bagger. "The customer is always right," the cashier said, sounding bored. Upon closer inspection, Vinci realized the cashier's pupils were dilated. Meanwhile, the bagger was handling Vinci's bag with all the ginger touches Vinci used with live bombs.

Smart man. Vinci liked the attitude.

"Hey, how'd you get the bag to hold so much stuff?" The woman sounded excited now. "Powers or Tinker tech?"

"Powers."

"Oh, like Scintilla?"

Vinci stiffened. Her dogged persistence had turned from admirable though foolish to irritating and stupid. "No. Not like Scintilla," he growled.

He'd done a little bit of research before he'd come to the Bay and even more after entering Brockton. Not much, but enough to get a good idea of the major players, and what was going on in the city. Out of every Parahuman, Scintilla'd been the one he was most interested in. Her powers, they were so close. For a little while, he'd thought-

Clenching his fists, Vinci wrenched his thoughts away from that particular line of inquiry.

It didn't matter what he'd thought. She wasn't.

Pulling five one hundred dollar coins out of his belt pouch, the one near the hilt of his sword, he handed them over to the cashier and accepted his change.

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"Movement," Dash said, the camera showing him standing over a stove in PT shorts and t-shirt, an apron hanging from his neck as he heated some water. "A lot of movement." There was a bitter twist to Dash's face, whiskers that needed to be shaved twitching.

"War?" The question was quiet. It had been eight days since his conversation with Winter Star, and Vinci was uneasier than ever before. Something was wrong.

Dash shook his head. "Movements all wrong. No one's massing troops near the border. Instead, line units are being transferred to the heartlands. The bigger the population center, the more troops. A new ROE card was disseminated throughout the first battalion yesterday."

Brown eyebrows knitted together. "An actual card?" he asked.

"An actual card kid."

"Huh." That was unusual. Rule of Engagement cards weren't something the first battalion usually got. There wasn't any point. The situations Tier Ones responded to were often eccentric and rules needed to be decided on a case-by-case basis. Actual ROE cards only ever appeared for massive operations, and even then they were more of a formality for the Tier Ones. "Anything interesting?"

"It outlined acceptable use of riot agents on civilians."

Vinci blinked, then reached for his thermos of coconut milk. The stuff was… well, it tasted fine, but he didn't drink it for the taste, but for the calories. "And the Stratocracy is moving troops into the cities?" "Not just the Stratocracy. Vanguard, Winter Star, Choregos Charter, the Navarchs, even Forge."

"Have riot control agents actually been distributed?"

Dash dropped a plate of chopped vegetables into the bubbling pot with a pinched expression. "I don't know. Probably. We're at RedCon green, and command is playing this one close to the chest. I had plans this week, the fucking wankers."

Vinci snorted, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Plans? You?" When Dash didn't even crack a smile, Vinci's vanished. "There will always be next week," he said, quiet.

"Kid, the army is RedCon green, not the Cadre."

Oh. Oh. Swallowing hard, Vinci capped his thermos and set it down on the table with a careful clink. "The entire army?"

"All of it. Everyone's leave was canceled. Gradient was arrested by the Cursarii yesterday. The charges were treason. Sokolik says there's substance to the accusations."

Hearing that word was like being bathed in ice. Goosebumps appeared on Vinci's arms, or at least the arm that wasn't scarred beyond recognition. "Treason," Vinci whispered. It was hard to believe. "He was Cadre."

"He was," Dash agreed, sounding grim.

With a click, the pieces came together. "Boots expects internal strife," he breathed.

Picking up a plate of raw meat cut into neat little cubes, Dash upended the chunks into the pot, scowling.

Vinci wasn't much happier. Just confused. Why hadn't he been recalled? "Do you think there is a conspiracy?"

It was an ugly question, but one that needed to be asked. Compared to Bet, Atlas was brutal, a product of their violent history. The last time a member of the First Battalion had been accused of treason, it had been shortly after Boots had been voted into power by the Cadre years before Vinci had joined the Hussars. A small group of Myrmdoms had publicly challenged Boots' newfound authority as Grand Field Marshal. The result had been bloody, with the guilty being eliminated by Cursarii Guard, a small but elite unit charged with protecting the Grand Field Marshal but sworn to the Stratocracy as a whole. The fallout had lasted for years, but the Cursarii's decisive actions put an immediate rest to questions of Boots' legitimacy. The Guard served the Stratocracy above all else. Their devotion was unquestionable, and with such a public declaration of support, the rest of the Tier Ones had fallen in line.

"Does it matter? The Cursarii wouldn't move unless there is a threat to the Stratocracy."

"And there would be no reason not to reactivate me unless they had reason to think I'm compromised," Vinci slowly said, thinking of how he'd taken the contract with Winter Star. Technically, it wasn't illegal. Technically. When he'd been downgraded from Auxiliary to Cadre, the change in status had allowed him to contract with other factions, an unintended side effect of the action. In any other circumstance, it was a minor infraction easily overlooked. But if the Cursarii were hunting for traitors, things that were once minor would be placed under a microscope.

Dash offered a violent jerk of his head, rejecting Vinci's statement. "Or the threat isn't severe enough to need all hands on deck. Or they don't want anyone going to Bet at this time to retrieve you. Or you're right where HighCom wants you. HighCom keeps its own council. Unless you are explicitly told, we may never know why you weren't officially informed."

The words were reassuring in their own way. Dash was right, and the minor infraction of Vinci's was just that; minor. Boots' personal guard making an issue out of the matter would be like Vinci handing out parking tickets.

"I guess we'll wait and see," he murmured.

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Break chappie here.

"Scorch," The woman said, inclining her head in greeting.

"Winter Star," Vinci replied, staring at the computer screen.

The man shifted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "The past few days have been busy. Do you object to skipping pleasantries?"

Vinci gestured. "By all means."

"Very well. You gave us information, we investigated. Our findings have the highest echelons of Winter Star reeling. This went all the way to the Canopus. Winter Star wishes to amend your contract, that is if you're willing."

"Tell me what you need, and we'll talk about it."

"Winter Star wants the Merchants gone, branch, and root." The female said.

Vinci blinked. "I'm not able to track down every petty ganger the Merchants have, and even if the prisons had space to hold them, dealing with common thugs is a waste of my very expensive time."

"Winter Star has no interest in the common thugs. We want the capes, all of them, out of the picture," the male declared.

"Which would do nothing." Shifting, Vinci stretched out on his side, resting his head on his hand. The upper half of his body was armored, enough to make it appear as if he was combat-ready, but below the belt all he had was the body glove, which clung to him like a second skin. "Take the capes and someone else is going to come in and take the reins. You don't ship a hundred million worth of drugs in a single shipment unless the path is well established, and I have no doubt that shipment was worth more than Bloodhounds gang and everything in it, including the people. It was too big for the Merchants to be acting as anything other than intermediaries, either for some gang deeper in the continent or the South American cartels. This is a hydra. Cutting off the heads won't work."

"Bloodhound inherited the gang from a cartel in South America."

Vinci's free wing twitched. "Then my point stands. The cartels won't stop selling just because there's been a change in management."

"Winter Star will deal with Colombia, but someone must deal with the local capes. If we place a bounty on their heads, will you eliminate the Merchant's leadership?"

"I'm not killing them if that's what you're asking. I don't need that kind of heat."

The female held out her hand in the universal command for 'stop'. "Winter Star has no opinion on how any Parahumans other than Bloodhound are neutralized. Only that they are."

Which was better, but that only led them into the technical side of the operation, if he chose to accept that was. "I can start immediately. Let's talk payment."

The two shrouded figures on the screen shared a glance that seemed uneasy before turning back to the screen. "The scope of Winter Star's interest in this affair has expanded," the male said. "A task force has been assembled under the aegis 'Backhand'. We require your strike to happen simultaneously with ours."

"The cartel?"

"It is so."

Vinci tilted his head. "What did they do that crawled up Winter Star's ass and died? I thought this was supposed to be quiet for political reasons."

"That is beyond what you need to know. Are you interested?"

"All you need me to do is handle the Merchant's leadership?"

"Yes. Winter Star may decide to dispatch a Grey Wolf fireteam to assist you in your efforts. You would be required to coordinate with them."

"I'm no stranger to joint ops." Falling silent, Vinci considered the offer from every angle he could, and while there seemed to be no downsides on the Bet side of things, the politics of Atlas worried him. "Will this operation run counter to the interests of the Stratocracy?"

For a moment, nothing happened as his shrouded contacts shifted and twitched, acting and reacting in turn as they silently communicated. Finally, they came to a decision and the female answered him, her voice soft and clear. "The results of Winter Star's investigation were given to the Canopus, but it did not end with his highness. The Hussar Stratocracy has been informed of Winter Star's intentions in this matter, and has made accommodations for it."

Silver eyes widened as Vinci took a deep breath, stunned. If they were saying what he thought they were saying, then this was an international incident. Vinci chose his next words with care. "And has this," pausing, he searched for the right word, "affair prompted a reaction from the Stratocracy beyond accommodations."

"One could almost say that the Stratocracy's reactions have been as severe as our own," the female said, her tone demure.

Taking a deep breath, Vinci set his shoulders. Winter Star's intelligence was good enough at their jobs that Hussar intelligence sometimes swapped information with them that ended up in Tier One pre-combat briefings. If what the woman said was true, then the Stratocracy wasn't the only one purging their ranks. Who was it that had infiltrated the Stratocracy this deeply? Choregos Charter? The Navarch houses? "Would Winter Star take issue if I confirmed that the Stratocracy is aware of Winter Stars' upcoming operation?"

"Winter Star would not so long as you inquire with the understanding that your original contracts' bounds of confidentiality have not changed," the male said.

"Then I'm in, pending confirmation that command doesn't need me," Vinci said. "Let's talk price."

"Indeed. To start with, Winter Star is prepared to offer a lump sum-"

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Vinci sat on his bed with legs crossed and a wing in his lap, eyes traveling from left to right then back again as he read from his laptop. In his hand, a preening comb ran through his feathers, aligning barbules with the shaft of each feather as he groomed himself. It had been part of his daily routine for years. Even with the pink patches of scarring left by Bonesaw, his wings were beautiful and deserved to be treated as such. As Vinci read, he picked out keywords, unraveling the truth from the extra files that Winter Star hadn't sanitized as thoroughly as the original documents he'd been provided for this mission.

'-shown to be willing to do what needed to be done.' Able to set aside morals to do something wrong, or doesn't have morals in the first place.

'-is driven-' Very good at what he did. Enough to surprise them at what he could do.

'-as such, the reports provided by the operative tend to be sparse, with few details-' The work he did was the kind where plausible deniability was important. The reports were sparse because his superiors needed them to be sparse.

'-lacking emotional depth, but capable of recognizing the vulnerability and exploiting it in others-" Silver eyes skipped to the next phase. '-erratic-' And the next. '-often aggressive-'

Brows furrowed. Vinci blinked and scooted back, the specialized comb in his hands slowing. A sociopath. Winter Star had a sociopath doing who knew what on Bet, though Vinci had guesses. Both involved killing, with the only difference being whether Bloodhound had been using his tracking ability to find external or internal enemies of Winter Star.

God only knew what had led to Bloodhound meeting the very young daughter of the Canopus.

Thinking a little bit longer, he put the final puzzle pieces together. Bloodhound hadn't ever been on Atlas. Vinci's lips pursed. This didn't sound like a Myrmdom at all. This sounded like a local asset recruited by Winter Star had gone rogue. Not because Myrmdoms couldn't be psychopaths, Vinci'd met a few over the years, but because he didn't even know enough about Vinci to recognize someone plastered all over Hussar propaganda. That suggested limited contact. Limited contact plus plausible deniability meant disposable. Aggression and behavior so erratic that both were explicitly noted as being exceptional rather than just being assumed as a given only reinforced that notion, regardless of whether or not Bloodhound was actually a psychopath. While Vinci wasn't a psychologist, unreliability and extreme aggression were among the worst traits he could imagine in someone meant to act as independently as this file suggested Bloodhound once had. That was where disposable came in. Winter Star hadn't cared that Bloodhound had a limited shelf life because he'd never been a significant investment for the organization in the first place.

All things considered, Vinci would be shocked if Hussar intelligence didn't do something similar.

It did raise the question of why a disposable asset like Bloodhound had come into contact with such a politically important figure as the Canopus's daughter, but at this point that mattered much less than the fact that Bloodhound had the girl, then killed the girl, and that the Stratocracy intelligence officer Vinci had contacted had confirmed the Hussars knowledge of Winter Star activities while at the same time green-lighting Vinci's involvement in whatever Winter Star was planning.

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Armored gloves knocked on the residential door, a white bag in one hand, the other coming to comfortably rest on the hilt of his sword. To his left and right were a boy and girl respectively, both in costume.

He didn't look unusual among the costumed crowd, with both of his wings shrunk, and hidden underneath his armor.

The door opened and he opened his mouth. "Trick or treat!" he chorused with the rest of the group.

"My, my" the woman said, holding out a bowl of candy, "what a varied group we have here, I see an Eidolon, Miss Militia, two ghosts," She frowned as she turned to Vinci, "And who might you be dear?"

"I'm Scorch." Taking a piece of candy, he dropped it in his bag. "Thank you." It was the best kind of lie, the type he adored. The one where he told the truth, and people still didn't believe him.

The woman's brow furrowed before she shook the confusion off, plastering a smile every bit as polite as Vinci's thanks on her face. "Well, the costume looks amazing dear, and you are most welcome."

As the group turned round and headed back down the driveway, he followed, splitting from the group as they hit the sidewalk.

Through the bond, the feeling he got was the happiness of someone content to live in the moment layered with the hazy distortion of exhaustion.

He didn't share his bondmates' sleepiness, the opposite actually. This was quite early for him, but if he found a mirror and unmasked, there was no doubt that the grin he wore would be just as soft and happy as they felt.

Deciding to go out and mingle was honestly one of the best decisions he'd made in months.

This was fun. Mundane fun perhaps, but that didn't diminish his enjoyment. It was like playing a big joke on the world. It wasn't often that he could go out in public wearing serious armor and not stand out. Today, however, all he'd had to do was tuck his shrunken wings inside his armor, cramped and a tad uncomfortable but not unbearable, and he was like everyone else.

Exactly like everyone else.

The thought brought a sad, wistful smile to his face, the motion twisting scars hidden by his helmet. It had been a long time since he'd been treated like a child. This was the first Halloween he'd enjoyed since Chicago, Atlas didn't celebrate it, and it felt special. Today was important not just because he got free candy, but because he could walk around and people didn't look at him with fear because Parahumans were dangerous, or stared with pity at seeing such a scarred, broken child.

He was normal. And while he didn't think he could stand to be like this every day, today he liked how it felt.

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Vinci walked through the maze with a light step, all alone and not frightened a bit. With each step, his armor clinked, and the bag looped around his neck rustled as his ill-gotten gains for the night shifted. Smiling at cotton cobwebs, and grinning at each jack-o-lantern he saw that had a real candle burning inside, Vinci hummed a happy little tune.

The teenager manning the entrance hadn't wanted to let Vinci in, something about him being too young. The rules hadn't stopped Vinci of course, and after demonstrating the power of 'the bribe', Vinci was allowed to pass twenty dollars poorer, and three cans of green beans lighter.

From behind a tree, a masked man wielding a bloodstained axe stepped onto the path, crimson droplets falling from the gleaming blade to spatter on the dirt below. "Hey there," he growled. "What's a little 'un like you doing in a place like this?"

And this was supposed to be scary? Vinci chuckled. "Your fake blood is all wrong."

Stopping his advance, the masked man tilted his head in an enquiring manner. Dropping the hick accent, he inquired, "Really? Why?"

Pulling a small but bright pen-light from his pouch, Vinci shone it at the crimson liquid. "It's too dark to be dripping like it. If you want the drip, it needs to look fresher. Lighten the red. If you want to keep the color, you need blood chunks in there and thicken the mixture while you're at it. More ooze, less drip."

With an awkward laugh, the man avoided looking into the gleaming red of Vinci's lenses, scratching the back of his head. "It's uh, not supposed to look completely real. Hell, how do you know all that anyways?"

It was Vinci's turn to awkwardly laugh now as he tried to think up a believable lie. Such a stupid little thing to slip up on, but it was just blood. He'd thought nothing of correcting the minor error. For Icarus, blood and gore were uncommon, but not shocking. "You know…" Vinci trailed off, giving a guilty little shrug. "I used to live in a bad neighborhood."

"Ah." Gone was the curiosity, and in its place the bittersweet tones of someone slamming face first into reality and remembering that it wasn't as pretty as they wished it were. "That sucks kid." Shaking his head, the masked man pointed down the path. "The next group'll be here in a bit, so why don't you get going."

Taking care to keep some distance between himself and that blade, Vinci circled around the masked man, feeling a little down himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why'd he have to ruin the mood like that?

With a soft sigh, Vinci squared his shoulders and trudged onwards, doing his best to recapture the happy feelings he'd so carelessly chased away.

He never quite managed it. With the grim reminder of the differences that divided him from those who'd passed through before, the fake blood and gore wasn't funny. Not anymore. The volunteers gave it their best shot, but Vinci knew violence. It was something that existed in intent and was communicated through body language. His father had taught Vinci what someone who wanted to hurt him looked like, and when Vinci's eyes were good enough to see the grind marks in each brandished weapon despite the darkness, convincing himself to take bladeless chainsaws seriously was impossible.

Despite that, the sign that thanked him for his support as he left brought a slight smile to his face. At the very least, it hadn't been pointless. The canned goods he'd donated were bound for a local charity, so some good had come of it.

As Vinci stepped into the street a sense of unease tugged at his gut, telling him something wasn't right. Stopping his fingers before they could curl, Vinci made no sign anything had changed.

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Atlas had things Bet couldn't match. Monuments like the funny-looking tower in Paris seemed insignificant when Vinci had fought his way through an electricity-generating geothermal heat sink the size of a small mountain that extended deeper into the crust than Vinci was capable of going.

Or at least they should.

Downtown was funny like that. Compared to orbital arrays that made grids in Atlas's night sky, skyscrapers were mundane, petty even. But Vinci couldn't help but enjoy them. Maybe they weren't as grand as some of the sights Atlas had to offer, but the honesty of buildings made by men using nothing but sweat and blood was appealing.

One day, Vinci hoped that the buildings in Emilton, the capital of the Hussars, would tower over him in the same way as the nation he served became mighty. But until then, the downtown of Brockton would have to do.

By now, night had long since fallen and the boardwalks were all but deserted. The only trick-or-treaters that remained were teens hoping to get bags of candy that no one needed anymore, adults attending adult-only parties, and workers that hadn't gotten the nights off.

His Linkmate had gone to bed roughly an hour ago, their emotions a hazed monotone, not placid by any means, but something that changed slowly as they dreamed, calm, content, even happy.

Vinci was not calm. Summoned power writhed as if it were a living thing furious at being bound by the iron will of a mortal, every bit unruly as it had been when first called half an hour ago.

As he passed a window, the bright street lights turned the glass into a mirror, reflecting Vinci's armored visage back at him. And, in the background, distorted by the glass, a spot of red moved.

No, Vinci was not calm. He wasn't panicked either.

Vinci was irritated. It was Halloween. Couldn't whatever it was wait for tomorrow? But noooo, someone was doing this now, which meant he had to do this now too. And he wasn't happy about that.

The only question was whether his tail was actually incompetent or just bait.

Sweeping his gaze from side to side, Vinci frowned at all the pedestrians still about. Deserted for downtown Brockton still had more collateral present than he was comfortable with. That, and his Linkmate's power worked best in places free of people. The civilians were scarce enough that it was possible to work around them, but that took effort. This terrain didn't suit him.

Patience running dry, Vinci headed for the glass double doors of an office tower.

It was time to change that.

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One leg resting on the foot-wide concrete barrier which separated the roof from the void, the other dangling over the edge, Vinci sat in a deceptively relaxed pose, deceptive in the sense that Vinci wasn't relaxed and there was nothing casual about the way he sat. From where he was, he had an excellent view of the street below, his Linkmates readied power providing an escape route and a direct line of sight to the door as he waited for his tail to show themselves.

A simple tactical assessment revealed a simple fact as well as a binary. If this was an ambush, then it was better to spring it now while Vinci was ready for it than to be attacked out of the blue. The binary was just as simple. If this was an ambush, then the attacker was either well prepared or they didn't know who Vinci was. His escape route would buy him time to figure out a plan of attack for the former, and Newton would take care of the latter in a clean, efficient manner. The air was Vinci's territory, and anyone who wanted to fight on the rooftops had better be prepared to be blasted off it or they were going to die a grisly death. Dealing with the possibility of snipers was more difficult; the weave he had formed around him like a transparent bubble was only enough to block small caliber rounds. A foolish person would hope that 'serious' rounds would have enough energy siphoned off by the shield to bounce off his armor. Vinci didn't deal in hope. This was dangerous. Maybe even excessively so. But without backup, his options were limited. He had to trust that his armor would do the job it was designed to do and that his skills would keep him alive as they had before.

This location wasn't perfect, but it suited him more than it suited any would-be ambusher. That was why he'd chosen it.

As he waited, Vinci's eyes never stopped moving, sweeping over his surroundings as he searched for anything out of place, gaze moving from rooftop to rooftop, window to window, and streetlight to streetlight. Midway through the third sweep, the door behind him creaked open, rusted hinges that hadn't been greased in years loud enough to be heard over the stiff breeze.

Curled fingers twitched.

Showtime.

Crafting a kinetic lance, Vinci turned, ready to engage, only for his mouth to twist into a fierce frown.

Hero.

The simple red armor was illuminated by the pale glow of the full moon shining from above. There was an undersuit that plates were attached to, but that was where the similarities between Vinci's armor and the hero's ended. For one, there were less armor plates placed in strategic positions over vitals compared to Vinci's comprehensive cladding. For another, a dark blue pattern reminiscent of circuitry was etched into the undersuit, though Vinci knew from research those patterns could shine a brilliant white when charged. The biggest difference however was the helmet. The hero didn't have one, instead wearing a simple opaque band that wrapped around the head and covered both the eyes and ears, leaving the rest of the face unprotected.

Closing the door behind him, the man grinned, flashing photogenic teeth white enough to make any movie star jealous. "Hey there, saw your costume, and I gotta say, I'm a fan," he called.

Underneath his helmet, Vinci's eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

The lack of response didn't phase the hero. "Names Assault by the way. You may have heard of me."

Vinci's lips pursed. "Why are you here?" And more importantly, why had a Protectorate hero followed him for the past hour.

Assault placed his hand over his heart, careful to make no sudden movements. "It sounds like you're not happy to see me. I'm hurt. Truly. Heartbroken. The doctor says it'll never recover."

"That's not an answer."

"We-eelll," Assault drew the sound out, "you know, the usual. Was in the area. Saw something neat. Decided to follow. Hey, if I come closer, you aren't going to jump, are you?" Glancing at the edge, Assault scratched the back of his head. "'Cause it's awkward to shout at you from across the roof, but that awkwardness won't get any better if I have to explain to my boss why someone decided to commit suicide rather than spend another moment in my fabulous company."

"No." The refusal was accompanied by a minute shake of the head, Vinci never taking his eyes off Assault. "You are close enough." Online research indicated that Assault was something of a Brute. Dangerous in close quarters, even more dangerous if given time to prepare. Hard to damage as well. This was already too close. Keeping one eye on Assault, Vinci gave his surroundings a once over as best he was able. "Where's your Bondmate?"

Pointing to himself, Assault arched one eyebrow as if to say 'Who? Me?' "Bondmate?"

"It's obvious."

A red finger was held up. "But not officially confirmed." Assault flashed his trademark grin that had resulted in more than one female-run online forum popping up online.

"You've been following me for a while."

"An action that could be construed as a little stalkerish, but it's not what it looks like, I swear."

Seeing the chance to direct the conversation where he wanted, Vinci leapt on it. "And what does it look like?"

The humor faded, giving way to a neutral expression. Behind that visor of his, Vinci couldn't help but feel Assault was assessing him. "Oh, you know, just touching base with a new Parahuman. Some pictures of an unknown Parahuman buying food made the rounds on PHO. We've been keeping an eye out for you ever since. Where did your wings go?"

Underneath the body glove, tightly wrapped pinyons shifted as the hair on the back of Vinci's neck prickled. "That's none of your business."

Assault shrugged. "Alright. Is there any reason you were shopping in armor?"

Vinci's eyebrows arched, surprised that Assault had agreed so easily. Seconds later, it was as if the scowl had never left. "That's none of your business either."

Hands still where Vinci could see them, each movement telegraphed, Assault's lips quirked, and he offered a good-natured chuckle. "Well, that's where you and I are going to have to agree to disagree. See, my job is to keep the public safe from Parahumans. Vice versa too. Sometimes, it's a good idea to help out a Parahuman or two before they do something stupid. So, if you need help, I'm here to offer it if I can."

Things fell into place. This was a poaching attempt. Vinci's tone was hard. "Once I join."

"Woah," Assault held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, "slow down there. It's not that kind of offer. I meant what I said. Granted, joining does open up some options for us. You'd be surprised at the wide array of deals the Protectorate is willing to negotiate if it means gaining another pair of helping hands in the fight of good against evil. But you don't have to. If it comes down to a choice of helping out a friend in need or watching another Parahuman turn to villainy for something that could've been easily avoided- Well," Assault tilted his head, "do you know just how expensive the average cape fight is?"

No. And he didn't care. "I'm not your friend," Vinci pointed out.

"But you could be. If you're determined to see the worst in our actions, consider the price of our help a little goodwill. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but one way or another, we win. Maybe being a lawman isn't the path for you, but kindness pays off. There might be a day where you are faced with a choice of helping us or doing nothing. Our kindness might be the thing that tips the scales in our favor. No joining necessary."

Which was good because Vinci had no intention of joining the Protectorate, PRT, Wards, or anything vaguely affiliated with the three organizations.

He'd been burned one too many times trying to do the right thing. Even the thought of Chicago-

Suppressing the flinch through force of will, Vinci gathered the unwelcome memories and shoved them into the box, where they belonged.

"I don't need help," he said, curt.

Assault spread his hands. "Hey, that's great. I mean that. I'm happy you're in a good position. But one day you might. So- Hey, I'm going to reach into my belt to get a business card. Please, don't shoot me." Slowly, Assault reached into a utility pouch and pulled out a flimsy piece of cardstock. Crouching, he placed it down onto the ground before straightening. "So, if that day ever comes, here's my number."

Despite his irritation, Vinci couldn't help but be intrigued. At the same time, no way in hell was he getting close to Assault. Like most blasters, he was squishy. With a gesture, he split power away from the strands he was already channeling, forming them into something new.

Assault started as the card lept from the grounds, and they both tensed, Vinci at the unexpected movement and Assault at Vinci tensing.

As the card flew into Vinci's waiting fingers, Assault forced himself to relax, and Vinci followed, a soft sigh echoing in his helmet. There would be no violence here today, which was good. Vinci didn't want to deal with the problems neutralizing two heroes would cause. And it would be two. Assault was Bonded, and to attack one half of a pair was to attack both. If Assault died to Vinci, the other hero, the one whose name started with a B, would need to be dealt with before she tried to avenge her deceased partner.

With a wink and a pair of tongue-clicks, Vinci glanced down, his helmet recording the business card as Vinci flipped it over.

A snort echoed inside his helmet as he saw what it said.

Assault: Professional good looker

_______________________________________________________________

Email: Assault@ProtectorateENE.gov Fax: 1-801-865-4081

Phone Number: 1-801-865-4143 WWW.handsomeheroes.net/Assault.html

When you need Assault like Assault needs Battery

___________________________________________________________________

Protectorate East North-East Branch

"Your website is a fan forum?!"

"Hey!" Assault growled in mock outrage. "Not just any fan forum. A fan forum that has cardboard cutouts of me flexing my arms for sale. And Battery." His lips took on a wry curve. "I bought one of the Battery ones. It drives her crazy," he admitted.

Vinci couldn't help it; He giggled. That was ridiculous, and just maybe a little bit funny.

Assault's smile changed into something honest. "So you do have a sense of humor. I'd wondered."

Rolling his eyes, Vinci dispersed his gathered power with a snap of his fingers. "I still don't need help."

"Alright." Relaxing, Assault cocked his head. "Think I can approach now?"

"Fine," Vinci huffed, gesturing at the skyscrapers' concrete lip. "Five feet minimum."

"Sounds good to me." Assault started forward, whistling as he peered over the lip. "Long way down, ain't it?"

"Scared?" Vinci challenged.

"Not on your life." sitting down, Assault threw his legs over the edge. The way he kicked them in the air with the ground hundreds of feet below made him look like a toddler in their highchair. "So, what happens if you fall?"

Vinci's amusement dimmed at the information-gathering attempt. "What happens to anyone if they fall?"

"Well…" Assault seemed to mull it over. "I guess they hit the ground. And I guess that hurts."

"Probably a good guess." Eyeing the pavement below, Vinci started humming an old tune he'd heard sung once or twice when he was requalifying for his jump certs, the lyrics remembered without effort. 'Bloody bloody, that's a helluva way 'ta die, and they aren't gonna jump no more.'

From a good seven feet away, well out of arm's reach, Assault leaned closer to Vinci, his whisper anything but, a necessity to be heard over the whistling of the wind. "Hey, uh, do me a favor? Don't post that number online. My shippers are rabid."

"No promises."

Recoiling, Assault turned his head to look at Vinci, eyebrows narrowed. "You wouldn't."

Vinci shrugged, happy to look at the glittering city lights, though he always kept the majority of his attention on Assault, just in case. "You were the one who gave me your business card."

Staring for a second longer, Assault sighed and followed Vinci's gaze to a downtown streetlight a drunk was in the process of urinating on. "Battery is going to have my head," he muttered.

That sounded suspiciously like 'not Vinci's problem'.

Some of the indifference must've leaked into Vinci's body language because Assault's shoulders sagged. "No, seriously. Did you know that out of all the ENE heroes, there are only two whose PHO wiki articles are locked down? I'll give you one guess who, and anyone who isn't me or Battery doesn't count. Our head of PR loves it because it's really helped merchandise sales, but she doesn't have to deal with the fangirls." A shudder wracked Assault. "They are rabid," he whispered.

Vinci glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You chose how you were marketed." Min- That man had been a shitbag, but not everything he'd told Vinci was a lie. Assault agreed to this.

Crossing his arms, Assault scowled. "I was convinced against my better judgment." However, the indignation broke the second Vinci turned to look at him. "Fine," Assault muttered, "I convinced Battery against her better judgment. Look, it's not my fault that the public doesn't believe there's a difference between Platonic-Linked and Romantic-Linked."

With a shrug, Vinci gave their surroundings another once over. The city was beautiful, but that unease coiled in his gut wouldn't go away. It was probably just paranoia. The PRT didn't know they had a good reason to want Vinci dead, and they were the only ones who knew where Vinci was at the moment. Unfortunately, that didn't make him feel better. "It's not like they can tell."

"They can."

"I couldn't." And that was the truth. He'd seen one platonic Linked Pair in his time as a Parahuman, and they'd been all but welded together. No different from any other Linked Pair. It was the kind of closeness where adding kissing and fucking wouldn't change much.

It was Assault's turn to eye him, arched brow visible. "Have experience with Linkers do you? We're pretty uncommon."

Vinci shrugged, concluding his sweep. "Some." Maybe they were uncommon, but dual powers tended to be versatile no matter what they were. And then there were absolute monsters like Vinci.

"Some, huh?" The way Assault emphasized the word made the hair on the back of Vinci's neck prickle more than it already was." He grinned. "Have you met them yet?"

Vinci went rigid like ceramic plates and twice as brittle. "We're done here," He growled, slipping forward.

"Wait- No!" Assault shouted, reaching for Vinci as Vinci fell.

Grabbing his partner's power, Vinci twisted, turning the space between him and the ground into nothing. Armored boots clacked onto the concrete as Vinci landed with a light crouch.

Space snapped back before Assault finished processing, and Vinci was gone.

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Deep underground, Vinci stood underneath a showerhead, letting the warm water soak into his full-sized wings. Once he got out, it was going to take hours to dry them even with the blow dryer he'd purchased, and working his artificial substitute for preen oil back into the feathers would be a chore as well, but for now he was happy to stand underneath the relaxing stream and pretend it was washing all his worries away.

Assault's comment had hurt. Vinci wasn't sure why he was surprised. That was what heroes did, wasn't it? They failed him. Sometimes, it had been because they didn't know he existed and needed help. Others, they'd taken a more direct approach to it, like Minst-

No.

Vinci shoved the thought away, forcing tense muscles to relax. All his worries were being washed down that drain. All of them.

So what if he hadn't met his Linkmate yet? He wasn't the only one. So what if it was a little bit of a sore spot? That was normal too.

Tonight, he was going to preen his wings, carefully aligning each barbule and feather till they gleamed with a healthy, waxy sheen.

Bringing a wing around, he wrapped it around his torso, hugging himself even as water trickled off the scratchy surface. Even with the pink patches, scars left by Bonesaw where feathers would never grow again, they were beautiful. Perhaps the only thing about him that wasn't ugly. Something he loved instead of hated.

Tomorrow, the op with Winter Star commenced, and he needed to- No, he would look perfect.

Preening his wings was a habit born out of both nervousness and deliberate calculation.

Anyone who said the thought of fighting Parahumans didn't scare them were damn dirty liars or plain fucking broken. Vinci'd been in the bloody Company business for two years and was a grizzled veteran by all but the oldest Myrmdom's standards. Even he got nervous by stuff like this. And just like everyone else, he had his own way of coping with the pre-battle jitters.

Packrat Tinkered. Dash cleaned his weapons. Tetrarch obsessively went over the battle plans, searching for weaknesses to be corrected.

Vinci groomed his wings. Again. And again. And again. It gave his hands something to do until it was time to fall asleep, and he loved them. But there was another part of him that couldn't forget that each time he went into battle, people watched him, looking for weakness. All they ever found was strength.

It was funny, it really was.

Vinci didn't feel strong. He felt weak, tired, and too old for his age.

But wings that gleamed with health made him look healthy. It made him look strong.

And looking strong was almost as important as actually being strong.

 

[Nielsjuh]

Freaking love the story so far!

 

[SmokeRichards]

Freaking love the story so far!

Click to shrink...

Glad to hear it. Theres been alot of work put into it, and when you have put alot of effort into anything, its only natural to want to show that hard work off, and be recognized for it.

 

[SmokeRichards]

"Overlord, this is Gemini actual, over."

"Gemini actual, this is Overlord, send your traffic, over."

Vinci sat on top of a corrugated metal roof in the industrial district, watching a run-down warehouse nearly a thousand feet directly ahead, waiting for the operation to start. To the east, the sun was only barely rising over the horizon, peeking over the choppy waves of the sea. He'd been in position for nearly half an hour, and while bored, he didn't begrudge the necessity of it.

Drug dealers started early, and so did he.

The objectives had strayed as he'd helped develop an op plan with a Grey Wolf squad called Gemini, a team Winter Star few in prior to back-briefing Winter Star's command structure, but Vinci wasn't displeased with the changes. A generalized search and destroy order had been added as a secondary objective in addition to his primary; hunting priority targets. The rules of engagement were tailored for non-lethal takedowns, they had overwatch coordinating his actions with that of Gemini, and the intelligence had been as thorough as it was useful.

The only minor gripe he had were supplies. He was more or less limited to what he could procure himself, with the exception of thirty flex cuffs, disposable handcuffs that looked like zip ties. They hung from every buckle, belt loop, and strap he had, making him look like a psychotic sniper in the strangest flat gray ghillie suit the world had ever known, but hey, it worked.

Oh, and they were also maybe planning a kidnapping, but that was Gemini's objective, not Vinci's, and besides, it was none of his business.

These weren't good people.

Static on the comms caught Vinci's attention.

"-lord, I have eleven, that is one-one merchants leaving stash house Alpha with a variety of small arms and entering a pair of vans, one white, one gray. Gemini is requesting orders. Should we engage? Over."

There was a pause, then Overlord chimed in, their voice crisp and authoritative. "Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. Negative on permission to engage. I say again, Gemini is not cleared to engage the hostiles. Over."

"Solid copy Overlord. Gemini is not cleared to engage. It just doesn't seem right to let them go, over."

"Gemini Actual, do you have eyes on the van's license plates? Over."

"That is a-firm. Over."

"Read them to me. Over."

"Roger. White van as follows. One six two six tango alpha. Grey van as follows. Four four two five x-ray juliett. How copy? Over."

"Solid copy on all Gemini Actual. I'll see if I can keep an eye on them through the city's traffic cams as a potential target of opportunity, but don't be surprised if there isn't the chance. Today is going to be a busy day. Overlord out."

Underneath the helmet, chapped lips quirked as Vinci listened in on Charnel conversation over the radio as the leader of Gemini squad talked with overwatch. It seemed he wasn't the only one impatient to start fighting.

Waiting was always the worst.

At the very least, he was wasting his time with the best.

Vinci'd never encountered Charnel before, and while the Dossier wasn't clear, it seemed to suggest that he could track a target over several hundred miles if some unspecified criteria were met.

The second in command was a Myrmdom by the name of Altair, who Vinci did recognize from several months back. Technically a thinker power, Altair was capable of making any shot, no matter how impossible. Paired with an artillery cannon and a crew to serve it, that seemingly lackluster power turned into some of the most precise overwatch Vinci'd ever had the pleasure to utilize in a joint operation tasked with taking one of the cloning vaults.

Next was Dee-dos. There hadn't been a dossier for him, but Charnel had informed Vinci that Dee-dos was a power null on the basis that if they were working together then Vinci needed to know.

It was a shame everything was covered under Warlords non-disclosure agreements because Dee-dos seemed like someone intelligence would be interested in investigating.

Rounding out the squad, and bringing some much-needed firepower was Blast-load, a Grey Wolve capable of amplifying and directing shockwaves, even if he was unable to generate them himself. A vague description, but one that set Vinci's danger sense tingling. Shockwave was a broad term, and might not even be a correct one. Vinci expected Blast-load to be distressingly versatile to bring the oomph the rest of the squad lacked.

All in all, they seemed like a well-rounded Parahuman-oriented hunter squad.

Glancing at the clock in the corner of his hud, Vinci shifted to get more comfortable. Half an hour left to go.

Not much changed as thirty minutes became fifteen, and fifteen became five save the position of the sun.

After a wait that felt like both forever and far too soon, go time found Vinci crouched on the edge of a warehouse roof at the edge of the residential district, rocking on his heels.

"Remember," Overlord stressed over the radio, "Winter Star wishes this to be clean, quick, and professional. RCAs are preferred. You are allowed to respond with lethal force if you believe that lethal force is necessary to protect the lives of you or your squad. In all cases, use the bare minimum level of force necessary to achieve your objectives. All, Standby."

Vinci licked his lips, waiting for the signal, eyes on his first target, a warehouse down below. The clock ticked down to the designated time, then passed it. Still, Vinci waited.

The order came over the radio like a whip crack. "All, this is Overlord. Execute. Out."

Space twisted, and Vinci burst into motion, coming out directly in front of a faded garage door. No time was wasted. Power boomed, and the door tore off its tracks with a shriek of twisted metal, flying back in a blur. Thunder boomed as it impacted the wall on the far end of the warehouse.

Startled cries echoed as Vinci walked into the warehouse. A single click echoed inside Vinci's helmet.

Time to get to work.

"Overlord, this is Abacus, contact-"

Power flared, scruffed men and sunken-eyed women looked up from their tables where mounds of drugs ranging from weed to meth were being divided and placed in bags.

"-objective juliet-"

Vinci lifted his hands as he scanned the room, hesitating when he saw Skidmark, eyes wide and jaw hanging with the gleaming tip of a syringe millimeters from the skin, then continuing with his sweep.

"-fifteen to twenty infantry-"

Vinci's hand jabbed forward.

Power shrieked outwards, too fast to perceive in the dim confines of the warehouse.

Skidmark's fingers hand only started to unwrap from around the syringe when the blast of force came in low and shattered his kneecaps.

Time seemed to resume.

The grisly crunch that should've been audible was drowned out by the dull roar of power pulverizing the wall behind Skidmark into a fine powder. An agonized shriek rose above the general din of shouting Merchants and crumbling walls.

"-HVT copperhead. Currently engaged. Out."

As the other gang members dove for weapons or stared in shock, space bent. Vinci stepped over Skidmark, raising an armored boot in the air and stomped down on the capes moving hand with all his might, grinding it into the concrete. Applying force with a gesture, he pinned Skidmark to the ground with one hand and retrieved a syringe with the other. With a click, the auto-injector slammed into Skidmark's neck as Vinci crouched, a needle biting deep into what little muscle the target had."

Seconds later, Skidmark went limp.

Spinning on one heel, Vinci slammed the tip of his boot into Skidmark's shattered knee, making sure the addict wasn't faking it.

He wasn't, so Vinci moved on.

The next minute and a half was a blur of gunfire, screaming, and power flowing through him as the gang members were dealt with.

Bullets slammed into shields that shimmered into existence in the space of a heartbeat and stayed until rifles clicked empty, before vanishing with the clink of flattened bullets bouncing onto the concrete. Invisible fingers of force tore rifles away from gang members' hands, breaking bones and drawing screams. Rapped knuckles and bruises sapped the will to fight, and twisted space prevented escape without going through Vinci first.

Vinci took his time, pinning them one by one and applying flex cuffs to each target's hands and feet.

Most resisted.

Vinci barely noticed, maintaining his deliberate tempo until it was all said and done, and the last gang member had been cuffed.

Standing up, Vinci paused next to Skidmark long enough to ensure that Skidmark was still breathing before exiting through the now doorless entrance. "Overlord, this is Scorch. Objective Juliet secure. Twenty-three targets restrained and HVT Copperhead sedated. Over."

"Scorch, this is Overlord. I readback; Objective juliet secure. Twenty-three targets restrained and high-value target Copperhead sedated. Alerting authorities. Scorch, move to Objective Charlie and secure the building. Over."

"Roger that Overlord. Move to Objective Charlie and secure the building. Wilco. Out."

Space in front of him bent as he started moving, sticking to the rooftops of the city to abuse the mobility advantage his partner offered him for all it was worth.

By the time Gemini hit their second target, he was in the middle of his third.

In the moment, it was like any other fight, icy fear and surging adrenaline. But the screams fell silent, it seemed tame. Boring even, at least as much as any potential life and death situation could be called boring.

Shock tactics were his bread and butter, and the gang members were unprepared for the extreme aggression and brutality that came with it.

By the time any of them knew what was going on, it was already over.

Judging from the comms chatter, Gemini was making decent time. There'd been a hiccup in their first objective, an apartment building where the merchants had set up an honest to god machine gun nest to guard one of the larger stockpiles of product waiting to be shipped out of the city, but a Myrmdom fireteam was hard to stop.

He'd fallen into a good rhythm by the time Gemini hit their second target and things changed.

"-remember, we want Viper alive," Charnel said as Vinci listened in on their squad frequency.

Altair grunted. "Should I knock? It's polite after all."

"Give her a warm greeting. Three CS rounds through the window."

"Roger that. Three rounds being sent downrange."

Underneath his helmet, Vinci arched an eyebrow, glancing at the time in the corner.

For ten seconds, there was silence over the comms as Vinci moved to his next target, a suspected stash of munitions the merchants used to resupply their foot soldiers, then;

"What the hell is driving that forklift? Is that a chimp?"

"Hit the dirt!"

A chimp? Vinci's train of thought short-circuited. It seemed the kidnapping of Squealer had gone wrong.

The radio crackled. "Hit it with the HEDP rounds!" Audible in between the shouting was the boom of gunfire. He wasn't sure what caliber, but from how deep it was, he was guessing fifty cal.

Altair's strained voice shouted back, "I'm trying si- Fuck! That fifty cal is going through my cover!"

For a moment, he considered circling around to back up Gemini, then decided against it. If they needed his help, they would tell him. He had his objectives, they had theirs.

Stepping from the roof to cracked asphalt, Vinci gave the area a quick once over. Around him, the rusted shells of broken cars rested on flat tires, or red concrete bricks, the junkyard using them for spare parts. Behind the main building imaginatively titled 'Al's junkyard' was a pair of wooden doors set flush into the concrete ground.

"Draw its fire, and I'll hit it," Backblast said.

Bending over, he placed a gloved hand on the surface of the doors and shoved three strands of energy into the wood. The trio of strands harmonized and then intertwined. Both doors simultaneously shattered in a shower of splinters and a cloud of pulverized wood dust.

Over the radio, there was a deep boom, the kind he'd come to associate with explosions.

"Blast," Charnel cursed, "That things still kicking. Looks like we need to hit it again. Dee-dos, get something thicker between you and that turret! Altair, the turret is jammed. Pummel it! Backblast, when the turret starts firing again, see if you can fuck with the blast before it leaves the barrel. Split it wide open."

A trio of sharp affirmatives followed.

At the bottom of the stairs was a solid steel door. Surrounding the solid slab of polished metal, fresh concrete, white and unblemished, made getting in harder than just going around the door.

It would be simpler just to go through.

When the wave of force hit it, there was no contest, no strain to it as the metal peeled.

Stepping inside, Vinci cleared the room from left to right.

Rifles lay in neat rows on a table in the center of the room, the weapons of the same make and model used to execute the customs worker at the docks a little over a week ago. Resting in racks bolted into the walls were RPGs, ammunition resting nearby in crates. To complement the arsenal, several Soviet-made light machine guns leaned against stacked boxes of grenades.

Vinci's lips pursed. This needed to be destroyed.

It was no military armory, but a gang could fight a small turg war with these munitions, and an ugly one at that. But he needed something with a delayed fuse-

Turning, he headed for the grenades.

Over the radio, a thunderclap sounded. "Good shot blast. Tango is down. Altair, double-tap it."

"Yes sir!" a vaguely chipper voice replied, a crump-crump sounding.

With his power, Vinci tugged a plastic case down from the top of the stack and shattered the lock with a twitch of his finger, pulling out a cylindrical grenade.

Thermite. Exactly what he was looking for.

Wasting no time, four incendiaries found their way into his pouches before the fifth's pin clattered to the floor. Running for the door, he tossed the now live grenade onto a wooden box full of RPG warheads.

Thermite hissed and fizzled as it began to burn.

Once out the door, he stepped to the side just before the munitions cooked off. The ground shook as fire blasted out the door. For a second, the world went silent as his helmet cut the audio.

Over the radio, Altair grumbled "What's that rumbling sound? It almost sounds like… An engine?"

Turning right back around, he eyed the collapsed entrance, then shook his head. No point in digging. It would take hours to remove that rubble. Even if there was something that had survived the blast intact, the authorities would be on-scene before anyone could take advantage of it. A satisfied smile curved his lips.

Half a second later, a panicked shout over the comms wiped it away. The hint of distress was something familiar; the fear of someone who knew things had gone horribly wrong and were doing their best to adapt.

"Scatter!" Charnel shouted.

The transmissions came fast and furious from there, one after another.

"Fuck, this wasn't in the briefing."

"Charnel, Duck!"

"That's just not fair."

"No one said anything about armor!"

"Watch out for that turret!"

"Overlord," Charnel barked, "this is Gemini actual, we need heavy Myrmdom support now!"

In contrast to Charnel's panicked tone, Overlord's was clipped, and while fast, it was easily understandable. "Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. What is the situation? Over."

Overlord, she-" A high-pitched whine, grating on the ears like nails on a chalkboard, and loud like an explosion, drowned out Charnel's shouts. "Hit the barrel with the HEDP rounds! Hit the barrel! Move! Move! Move! Fuck! Overlord! She's rolling us with a Tinkered up T-72! We aren't equipped to deal with a main battle tank!"

The second he heard 'Tinkered up' combined with 'T-72', he was moving, and fast.

Nothing was more dangerous than a Tinker with time to prepare, and Vinci had a healthy respect for them. Most Tinkers were kept away from the frontlines due to their importance in filling gaps in vital infrastructure. The few that regularly saw combat were either the only solution to a problem that needed solving at a time and came with a complement of escorts, or they were carrying enough firepower to make a tank brigade blush and were the escort.

"Scorch, this is Overlord-"

"Overlord, this is Scorch. I am already moving to checkpoint Able. Over."

"Solid copy Scorch. The rules of engagement are being relaxed for this one. You are authorized to use force, up to, and including lethal in the defense of Gemini Squad, should lethal force be required to save their lives. How copy? Over."

"Solid copy Overlord. I am authorized to use force up to, and including lethal in the suppression of Viper at checkpoint Able. Over."

"Roger. Overlord out."

As Vinci pushed himself to the limit, all he could do was listen as space blurred around him.

"Fuck! Boss, that clanker has shields! I can't breach them. We need to- Damnit!"

That strange, high-pitched sound came over the radio again. Tinkertech. Had to be. Vinci didn't know what was making that sound, but it sounded bad. Tinkertech always was.

"Fucking cunt!" Someone howled. "Altair! Do you read?"

"Fuck- I'm fine Charnel. Bruised, but all in one piece."

"Back-Blast?"

"There's nothing for my power to grab onto sir! Whatever's causing that recoil, it has nothing to do with pressure waves!"

With a crack of displaced air, Vinci arrived on-station, perched on the top of a dilapidated building overlooking the trainyards.

The first thing to notice was, of course, the tank.

Short and squat, as most tanks were, but that was where the similarities ended.

Where reactive armor plating should've been, someone had stripped off vast sections of armor, revealing transparent power lines that pulsed blue, blinking diodes, and in one section a ball buzzing with lightning, fingers of electricity lancing out to hit nearby parts. On top of the tank where the gunner hatch and turret mount should've been was a contraption that looked like a mixture of wood and glass, a pulsing blue powerline feeding directly into it. The main gun had been replaced with a stubby protrusion small enough that even Vinci would've been able to cradle it in his arms despite his youth.

The tank and Gemini were at the edges of the trainyard, where rusted rails and corroded boxcars gave way to old warehouses and crumbling maintenance buildings.

A little to his left was a train storage shed made of cracked red bricks, rusted train tracks leading into the building through massive double doors. Thick white smoke, too pale to be from fire, belched out of shattered windows and the massive hole torn through the front of the building where the tank had burst through, as evidenced by the bricks scattered on what little hull the T-72 had remaining.

As he watched, the small barrel poking out the turret jerked back, the high-pitched whine he'd heard over the radio grating against his ears.

Next to one of Gemini's members, a white orb burst into existence. When it faded seconds later, it took everything it'd engulfed, taking the wall the squad member had been hiding behind and some of the ground along who knew where.

Vinci jabbed his hand in the direction of the tank, sending a kinetic lance howling downrange.

Energy was a part of him. Because he could feel it, he was capable of shaping it. So when the lance vanished less than three feet from the hull of the tank, just above where the engine block should be, he knew exactly what he was looking at.

"Gemini, this is Scorch-"

Halfway through informing Gemini that the tank had shielding, the turret on top of the tank spun around, barrel blurring. Eyes going wide, Vinci reached for the strands he needed to make a shield.

He was too slow.

Lasers lanced out, instant flashes which sliced through the air like bloody scythes. There one moment, gone the next, and leaving afterimages in their wake. The crimson beams burned through the air where his head had been, then carved downwards to where he would've been had he not hurled himself to the side.

Sweeping left to follow, it splashed against the blue semi-sphere which sprung into existence.

Fuck, fuck fuck. That was fast.

The laser sputtered out of existence.

Throwing anchors, Vinci twisted space, darting behind cover.

Damage assessment. Hands, check. Legs, check. Chest, check. Craning his head to look over his shoulder- Wings, -Vinci froze.

His. Feathers. His beautiful, beautiful feathers. There in his lower right wing where there had been nothing but beauty was a charred hole as large as a clenched fist. An inch in every direction from the charred hole was a mass of fused keratin where the hairlike material that made up his feathers had melted from the heat.

Son of a blood-soaked protestant whore with aids, crabs, and a broken donkey out back that she used-

It looked like someone had poured molten plastic all over his wings!

The ones he'd spent all night cleaning.

For five seconds, he stared, heedless of the world around him, a seed of fury growing, until another laser bounced off his shield.

His head snapped back to the tank.

That fucking bitch!

Every feather he had puffed up, his fingers clenching and unclenching.

So, she wanted to fight, did she? He'd give her a fucking fight.

Underneath his helmet, chapped lips peeled back into a silent, feral snarl.

All in the same instant, large chunks of the considerable power at his disposal was gathered, shaped, and then released with a howl. Air rippled in a straight line from his outstretched palm to the tank.

The power slammed into the tank's shields.

Electronics left bare by missing armor sparked, fizzled, then exploded or burst into flames as the circuitry was overwhelmed. Around the tank, concrete pulverized into a fine white power, and dirt exploded skyward as if a thousand-pound bomb had been dropped on the surrounding area. Hundreds of feet away, windows shattered as the shockwave exploded outward, and the train cars closest to the tank were lifted off their rails, and thrown tens of feet, as if kicked by a giant, before coming back down in a cataclysmic clash of collapsing metal.

Through the cloud of dust, an ejection seat punched through the cloud, a pulsing gold shield protecting its shell-shocked occupant in their crash-test chair.

"She's more trouble than she's worth," Vinci growled over the general comms. "Are you sure you want her alive?"

Charnel swallowed hard. "We're sure."

Vinci considered eliminating Squealer anyways. He loved his wings. And she'd damaged them. Then, with deliberate care, he gathered his anger and put it in the box where it belonged.

He was furious, yes, and had a right to that fury, but he was not a mad dog. Besides, death would be too quick.

Just a wing. Just some feathers. They would grow back. Eventually. And in the meantime, Winter Star would ensure she suffered by forcing Squealer to detox.

Vinci turned away. "Overlord, this is Scorch. Over."

"Scorch, this is Overlord. Send your traffic. Over."

"Overlord, the heavy armor has been neutralized. Expect Gemini to take Viper into custody shortly. Over.

"Roger that Scorch. I will alert the combat teleporters to stand by for package retrieval. Push to objective Zulu. Over."

"Wilco. Out."

Craning his neck, cold eyes peered up at the car seat drifting down towards the earth in a deceptively lazy glide.

Fucking bitch. He didn't regret what Winter Star was going to do to her anymore. Let the bastards have her.

A growl rattled his throat.

Life on Atlas had a way of being cruel. Going from absolute freedom to the restrictive lifestyle of the military would be hell for the bitch.

This was Vinci's revenge.

 

[SmokeRichards]

The Protectorate was trying to respond. Sirens from police cars and PRT armored trucks were wailing all over the city. That was to be expected of course. It would look awful if the Protectorate did nothing as he and Gemini squad cut a swathe through the city's criminal Underground, even if they were just criminals.

But there was little the forces of law and order could do.

The PRT, Protectorate, and the police were all reactive organizations. They could only move as fast as it took for a call to come in and someone to be dispatched.

Gemini squad was moving through the city in a stereotypical white van, only instead of candy, they had tear gas grenades, and for the most part, were being very quiet about their strikes. By the time the PRT was alerted to a problem on their end, it was because Overlord called it in.

Vinci was much louder than Gemini, a fact Overlord was all too happy to inform him of. People reported disturbances while he was still hitting the targets, so by the time he was leaving, a crisis unit was already on its way. However, Vinci was also much, much faster than Gemini.

Whether Vinci or Gemini was responsible, the PRT arrived to shattered doors and tear gas pouring from windows.

Vinci had yet to spend more than five minutes on a scene.

The radio hissed. "Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. We are in contact with Bloodhound. Over."

"Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. We have engaged Blood Hound, over."

With a flick of Vinci's hand, telekinetic blades carved a deep furrow into the safe he was currently working on, shearing through the hinges. Grabbing the wheel, he heaved. As the slab of steel toppled, he sidestepped, allowing the metal to crash to the concrete floor.

Pulling out one of the thermite grenades stolen from the Merchants armory, he swapped it for a brick of cash in the safe and pulled the pin.

Molten metal started sparking out, igniting the paper bills. Stepping back to properly admire his handiwork, Vinci slid the wad of cash into his pouch where the thermite grenade had rested.

It wasn't like he needed the money, but more was always better than less. Bets degenerate culture was growing on him. At least here, he got to take battle trophies. The Hussars didn't allow looting under most circumstances. If this whole 'beat the shit out people and take their stuff' was normal for heroes, well, he could see the appeal. That wad of cash wasn't much compared to what he'd just torched, but it was the principle of the thing.

Arrrgh.

"Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. You are in contact with Bloodhound. Out."

Blazing wads of benjamins was a beautiful sight.

Best of all, he was still under contract so he was getting a fraction of what he'd burned straight from Winter Stars coffers, no laundering necessary.

Shaking his head, Vinci turned around, stepping over piles of bound and groaning merchants as he made for the door. On the way out, he yanked a fire alarm, leaving a ringing apartment complex in his wake.

Clicking his tongue, he activated the radio. "Overlord, this is Scorch. Objective victor is clear. I have fifteen infantry ready for pickup. One requires medical assistance within thirty minutes. Over.

"Scorch, this is Overlord. Solid copy. Skip target Zulu. Police chatter indicates that three capes affiliated with the Empire eighty-eight are in the process of looting the building. An armed protectorate response is en route. Move on to objective Yankee, over."

"Overlord, Wilco. Out." Vinci moved on, the ringing of the alarms fading within seconds.

So, the empire was going on the offensive, huh? Good for Serenade, bad for everyone else. While he felt for the innocents getting caught in the crossfire, he welcomed the confusion. The more the Protectorate had to deal with, the less likely it was that Vinci ran into a response team that mattered.

Shame about the collateral, but war was a messy business. A small amount of CivCas' was to be expected.

And hey, if he ran into any Empire capes, well, they were impeding his mission, and unlike the Protectorate there would be no issue dealing with them then and there.


"Damn. He's a slippery bastard," Altair grunted.

"Dee-Dos, what's the status on your payload?" Charnel asked.

"Just… A few more seconds." A strained voice answered. "Priming…"

A third voice came on the line. "He's going for the door!"

"Well, cut him off, Dammit!" Charnel barked. "Dee-dos! Now!

"Grenade!"

"Scatter!"

From the radio, there was a muffled crump.

"After him!"

"Sorry sir," Dee-dos answered.

Faintly, he could hear a muffled curse, though he couldn't tell who uttered it.

"No worries Gemini, We'll cut him off on the road. Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. Bloodhound is Oscar Mike in a black armored truck. We are mounting up to pursue. Over."

"Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. Solid copy. I'll see if there's a spare Thinker asset able to track him through the city cameras but Central is busy so consider any Thinker assets unavailable unless explicitly informed otherwise. Over."

"Roger that. Out."

Reaching his next target, a residential house in a slummy part of town, though he did note the surprisingly shiny car out in front, he blasted the door open and wasted no time inviting himself inside.

The interior was filled with enough smoke to make his NBC filters work overtime.

"Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. We are in pursuit on Ninth Avenue. Attempts to disable Blood Hound's vehicle have been ineffective. The wheels appear to be armored, and we are unable to get a clear shot on Blood Hound himself at this time. Over.

Something about what Gemini Actual said gave him a faint sense of Deja Vu like he should remember something that Charnel said, but didn't. It was the Ninth Avenue bit. He should remember that.

There were three people inside the house. The first, a boy with red eyes, and a wide, dopey smile on his face. The second was an adult woman, maybe a teen depending on her age, missing her shirt, still had her bra, and was curled up on the boy's lap. While her eyes were red, she was coherent enough to turn and gape at the heavily armored Parahuman that had just breached the house.

Vinci's brows furrowed. Users. That wasn't right. Intel suggested another stockpile of drugs.

He didn't even blink as his eyes passed over her semi-nude form, coming to rest on a rough-looking man with stubble sitting wide-eyed at the table, several neat rows of plastic baggies containing a palmful of marijuana each sitting on the table.

That was a dealer.

Before anyone in the room had the chance to move, he lashed out, hitting the drug dealer and the couch the dealer was sitting on. The couch tipped back, knocking both onto the floor.

Striding forward, Vinci came to a stop looking down at the dealer. "You move," he held up a hand, pouring enough energy into it that that air above his palm shimmered, "I hurt you."

The dealer paled, but remained still, making him one of the smartest people Vinci'd kicked the shit out of all day.

Pulling the last pair of zip ties from his belt, he hogtied the unresisting dealer.

Over in the corner, the female began screaming, the shrill noise hurting his ears while not being loud enough for his helmet's filters to cut the audio. He gave her an irritated glance. Fucking civies. "Overlord, this is Scorch. What does Winter Star want done with drug users unaffiliated with the Merchants? Over."

"Scorch, this is Overlord. What do you have for me? Over."

He glanced at the high-quality clothing they had. A grim, wry smile crossed his face. At least where they were wearing clothes. "I have two non-coms. One male, estimated age seventeen, one female, estimated age eighteen sitting on a couch in front of me. Their eyes are red and the pupils are dilated. I am seeing drug paraphernalia in front of them. Should I tag and bag them? Over."

"You're certain they aren't Merchant? Over."

Vinci's gaze swept over the girls' clothes, revealing skin-tight jeans that hugged every anorexic curve while leaving nothing to the imagination. Perfect for a girlfriend showing off to a boy, less than ideal for a drug mule. As for hiding a weapon? Vinci winced at the thought. It would be painful.

The boy's cargo pants were significantly better, but both their clothes were high quality, unlike the dealer he'd just cuffed.

"Negative Overlord. But they appear to be middle-class children slumming it for a day. I have the dealer cuffed. Over."

After thirty painful seconds of listening to the girl descend further into hysterics and hyperventilation while the boy barely stirred, the radio crackled once more.

"Scorch, this is Overlord. Hi-Com says catch and release. Let them go. Over."

"Wilco. Out." Raising his arm, he pointed at the door. "Get out," he barked.

The girl didn't stop her screaming.

Power gathered, and he prepared to pick up both of the pair and boot them out of the house so he could start interrogating the dealer when something clicked.

Halloween. The park. The one right by the school. Arcadia. Blood Hounds dossier, the one that stated the man was an erratic monster prone to making stupid decisions.

Opening his mouth, he prepared to ask exactly which part of Ninth Avenue Blood Hound was on.

Before he could, Gemini Actual beat him to the punch. "Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. Be advised, Blood Hound has just rammed into a school."

Shit had officially hit the fan.

Vinci leapt to his feet, sprinting for the door, the dealer all but forgotten.

There was a brief pause over the comms as if Overlord was making sure they'd heard that correctly. Then Overlord spoke, voice grim. "Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. Priority order. Lethal force is authorized for Blood Hound. Kill him, and prevent him from harming any of the civilians. Break." The radio cut out, and then hissed again. "Scorch, this is Overlord. Priority order. You are to break off your current tasking, and push to Arcadia Highschool ASAP. Assist Gemini in neutralizing Blood Hound by any means necessary. How copy? Over."

His shoulder slammed into the door as he barged out of the house, feet pounding against pavement. Not enough. He was fast, but Arcadia was in the heart of the city and Vinci was on the edge of the suburbs on the outskirts. Bloodhound was already in the building. By the time he arrived, it would be too late to prevent a massacre.

For the first time that day, Vinci cursed the Protectorate and their slow response time.

"Overlord, this is Scorch. Solid copy on that. Requesting a combat teleporter to move me from Checkpoint yankee to Blood Hound's current position. Over."

Overlord sounded like they'd bitten into a lemon, so bitter was their voice. "Winter Star does not have any Mover assets available at this time. You will have to make your way to Gemini's current position the old-fashioned way. Overlord out."

Fuck.

Vinci threw himself into the warped space before the tunnel fully formed.

"Altair, find a good vantage point," Charnel ordered. "Dee-dos, Blast Load, With me. We're moving in."

"No go, Sir," Altair said, "civilians are squirting from the building."

Charnel cursed. "Ten feet east of the hole. The windows. We'll breach there and then make our way- Blast it all! Overlord, Blood Hound is lining Civilians against the windows. This is turning into a hostage situation."

"Scorch, this is Overlord. What is your ETA? Over."

The city blurred around him as he bounced over the tops of warehouses, cutting through the heart of the industrial district in his haste to get to the city's heart. "Overlord, this is Scorch. ETA, two minutes. Over."

The silence that followed was ugly. Both he and Overlord knew that two minutes was two minutes too long. "... Standby, I will try to peel a teleporter from a current tasking. Out."

"-circle around the building," Charnel commanded. "We'll come in through one of the classrooms and make our way to Blood Hound. Dee-Dos, I need you to be ready to nullify his powers the second we come through that door. We cannot afford another mistake."

"Sir," Altair said, "if Blood Hound is lining students up against the walls, he might be doing the same for the doors-"

"Boss!" Dee-dos exclaimed, "listen!"

Charnel cursed again. "Advisor, this is Gemini Actual. We are hearing weapons fire from within the building. Gemini's, give me options!"

"Go through the windows anyways," Back Blast offered.

"Too much shrapnel. Not an option."

Dee-Dos snarled, breathing hard. "The windows on the front of the school are nearly twenty feet high. Anyone hitting it ten feet up can punch through without hitting a student… Doors locked."

"Back Blast, radical restructuring," Charnel ordered.

Over the radio was the sound of an explosion. "It's reinforced."

"Well, hit it again dammit! Overlord, if we don't get some help here, then-"

"I'm working on it," Overlord ground out. "Scorch, this is Overlord, hold your position. Mover support incoming. ETA, five seconds. Standby… Jump over."

Bracing himself, Vinci skidded to a stop on the roof of a gas station, gravel giving way beneath his feet. "Overlord, Scorch. Jump out."

At four and a half, there was a bright flash, then a boom. The roof shook.

"Overlord," Scorch said, blinking spots out of his eyes, "Dry feet over."

"Dry feet out," Overlord replied.

As the spots cleared, Vinci saw a woman in gray and maroon armor. The plates weren't as thick as Vinci's, but they covered more, and fresh soot marks stained the chest plate. On the lower left thigh, a crater in the ceramic still glowed a cherry red. "Hurry up," A coarse female voice snarled. "Shits going down in South America, and I need to get back there now!"

Vinci didn't need to be told twice, lunging forward. The second her hand wrapped around his own, it was like someone had hit him with a war hammer, knocking the breath out of him. White was his world, his body rattled like he was in an attack heli in the process of shaking itself apart.

As his stomach leapt to his throat, his feet hit solid ground, collapsing under him.

The Mover tore free of his grasp and vanished.

Flexing thick wing muscles, he pushed himself to his feet. The landing was awkward. Before he could extend the other pinyon to balance himself out, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

Vinci recoiled, a feral chirp leaving his lips. Power sparked between his fingertips as he whirled, ready to slam a spike of energy through the hostile. Before he could attack however, an emblem of a black wolf with white specks howling at the sky, teeth wrapped around a twinkling star, stopped him in his tracks.

"Blue on blue!" The Gray Wolve shouted, holding up his hands. "Blue on blue!"

Vinci staggered backwards, wrenching his fingers away. "Altar?!" He barked.

"Affirm," Altar said, taking a careful step back once it became clear he wasn't about to get spattered over the steepled rooftop of the residential home they were standing on. Dropping onto the shingles, Altair returned to what appeared to be a scaled-down anti-material rifle he'd left on the roof in his effort to catch Vinci.

Meanwhile, Vinci shook off the last of the residual nausea because that had been a rough teleportation.

Turning, he followed Altair's barrel to the school. The school was easy to make out, a set of double doors underneath an overhang made of corrugated metal sheets held up by concrete pillars, and close enough that it was probably point blank range for a sniper rifle like the one Altair had. Next to the entrance was a series of large glass panes forming a transparent wall nearly sixty feet long and twenty high. Directly in the middle, an armored truck was wedged halfway through, glass spiderwebbed all around it.

"How fast was that vehicle going on impact," Vinci demanded, calculating the force needed to break through with minimal shrapnel as the sound of booming gunfire radiated from the school.

Down below, students were screaming, human streams pouring from the building from every visible entrance save the one he was looking at, panic on each face.

"At least sixty miles," Altair bit out. "What kind of school has bulletproof glass, let alone bulletproof glass thick enough to stop an armored vehicle like that?!"

Vinci didn't bother to answer. The cost would've been too high.

Backing up, he threw himself off the roof after a running start, pale white pinyons spreading to catch the air. From where he was, he could see the wire mesh running through the windows. With a click, he connected to Gemini's shared squad channel. "All, this is Scorch. I will be entering through the floor-to-ceiling cafeteria windows from the north. Be advised, the reinforcement to the glass is significant. The breaching will be violent."

Another burst of gunfire sounded. That had to be a three-oh-eight or something in that range.

"Better glass than lead Hussar," Charnel said. "Breach it anyways. I will take responsibility."

He resisted the urge to curse out Charnel. Damn right Gemini would. What a cluster fuck.

Powerful flaps lifted him higher, air flowing through the melted hole that fucking bitch had left in his wings. Seventy feet above the ground, he dived, picking up speed as he aimed for a panel five feet below where the glass gave way to the roof.

At the last second he twisted in midday so his feet were pointed at the window. Both pinyons were tucked against his torso as he clenched a fist and lashed out, a bolt of diffuse force racing past his feet.

When it hit the glass, the glass didn't so much shatter as it did disintegrate, leaving a jagged hole seven feet wide.

He shot through, like a bullet.

Wings flared, slowing him.

Down below, it was chaos. Students were screaming, others were crying. Some raced for the door, others curled up in the corner and sobbed in terror.

Transparent wolves made of purple energy surrounded one girl with blonde hair, a wolf at each limb as they tore at the ankles and wrists. The girl struggled, jerking her limbs as her denim jacket was ripped to shreds. Even as he watched, one wolf lost its grip and was hurled into the concrete. The concrete shattered on impact, as did the wolf, vanishing with a pop. Two more appeared to take the first's place, latching onto the offending arm with ferocious growls.

Brute he immediately classified her. Likely a new trigger.

Meanwhile, Blood Hound, a short man in armor reminiscent of the sleek suit Altair wore, but clearly separated by a few generations and some additional bulk, stood with a machine gun, an M-240, in hand. A protective sheath for the belt trailed from the machine gun to a bulky backpack on Blood Hound's back.

Blood Hound raised the gun, the barrel spitting fire. Bullets ricocheted off the blonde as she struggled to pull free.

Vinci's arm swung up, strands of power forming around his fingers.

Then something gave.

Whatever power was protecting the parahuman being mauled vanished, worn away by the ratatattat of automatic fire slamming into her torso and the snarls of wolves doing their best to tear her limb from limb. An agonized shriek filled the air as purple teeth sunk deep into the meat of her wrists and ankles. At the same time, a chunk of her torso disintegrated in an ugly spray of blood and shredded meat as high-caliber bullets punched their way through.

Vinci retaliated.

He lashed out. Energy slammed into Blood Hound. Fingers broke as the machine gun was torn from the man's grasp, cracking floor tiles as the stock shattered against the ground.

Without words, Blood Hound howled in rage. The wolves dropped the girl and turned to face him, teeth bared.

Vinci twisted his pinyons, redirecting his flight. Armored boots slammed into Blood Hound's face hard knocking the man off his feet.

Hitting the ground with a muffled oomph, Vinci pushed off the blood-stained linoleum with his wings, smearing blood all over the white as he threw himself to his feet. To be grounded was to die.

The wolf closest to him lept, jaws spread, intent on latching its razor-sharp teeth round his throat.

His fingers twitched, popping the wolf with a table rattling boom that sent off another round of screaming from the students that

Out of the corner of his eye, a small mousy girl with freckles was shoving her way through the shattered tables, eyes latched onto the blond on the ground, a circle of blood spreading from the limp girl.

Jabbing his finger in quick succession, the wolves each popped, one by one, the thunderous noise blending together into a single drawn-out sound.

Immediate threat neutralized, he whirled to face Blood Hound, who was in the process of pushing himself off the floor.

Strands of power latched onto Blood Hound's armor and lifted him into the air. With a flick of his mind, Vinci hurled the man into the reinforced, bulletproof glass fifteen feet off the floor, cracks spider webbing across the ten-foot pane. Then, he jerked Blood Hound back, slamming him into the brickwork on the other side of the room.

Several wolves formed in midair, dropping to the ground, teeth bared.

When Blood Hound hit the pane of glass for the second time, it shattered, and Vinci let go of the armor, allowing Blood Hound to vanish out the window.

Each wolf scattered, two heading for him, the other four heading for students.

He dealt with the ones heading for students first.

Students screamed as kinetic lances passed by, blowing through the wolves, then the walls behind them.

With an ease born of long experience, the remaining two were dispatched.

From outside the school, the howls of hunting wolves tore through the air. Vinci took a step towards the armored truck, intent on following through when three booms deep as one could get without using calibers suitable for artillery, echoed. In their wake, silence fell.

Well, not so much silence as continued screaming and the lack of anything which sounded like continued violence.

"Sir, this is Altair. Blood Hound's down for good."

Twisting his partner's power, Vinci sidestepped across the room, coming to a stop over the dying blood.

"-momma," she wept, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her mangled stomach. He'd seen men hold their organs in that way before, but considering the meat chunks surrounding her, there was no hope for this one.

The girl was going to die.

The mousy girl was on her knees next to her, one bloodstained hand pressed against the blonde's stomach, the other wrapped around the blonde's wrist. "-hold on, just half a minute more. Stay awake!"

Something about the both of them seemed familiar as if Vinci ought to recognize them. Underneath the helmet, Vinci's frown deepened, his bloodstained wings swaying behind him in short, jerky arcs.

Over in the corner, a door was kicked open, and the rest of Gemini Squad filed in, each dressed the same way Altair had been save the point-man, who had a white wolf inked over the helmet. The first one through the door, whom he assumed was Charnel, held a plasma rifle with glowing lines that stretched the length of the barrel. The second had their bare palms a foot from each other as if they were in the process of clapping. Ten seconds later, following fifteen feet behind was the third, an iron orb the size of a child's fist clenched in their hand.

It was the third that made him the wariest because as the third advanced, a dead spot to both his and his Linkmates power drifted closer. No matter how Vinci tried, he couldn't affect anything in it, not even to bend space. His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword before he became conscious of it. Vinci forced his fingers to uncurl, hand dropping limp to his side.

That would be Dee-dos, the power null. He didn't like power nulls, not one bit. They were tricky bastards.

Glancing down, his eyes raked over the blonde, assessing the wounds that weren't covered by her hands.

Both wrists were mangled, one had strips of flesh hanging from where sharp teeth had gouged flesh, a major injury he ignored in favor of the other wrist, which had a neat set of teeth marks but was gushing like an artery had been hit. However, before he could pull a tourniquet from his medical pouch, the bleeding slowed from a gush to a trickle, then stopped before his eyes.

Sucking in a shocked breath through his teeth, Vinci stepped away from the girl. He knew who she was now. That was the New Wave brat. Taking a closer look at the blonde on the ground, he cursed. They both were. "Curls is a Striker," he bit out on the coms, "give her space. Hamburger guts is a Brute."

This was getting out of hand.

"New trigger?" Charnel asked.

Vinci shook his head. "Negative."

Charnel pointed at the pair on the floor. "Backblast, try to offer assistance. Exercise extreme caution."

Backblast broke off from the group and headed for the injured pair.

Vinci looked around, seeing nothing but brass shells, blood, traumatized students, and debris. How the fuck had this happened? They had him! Winter Star had handpicked this squad, or so Vinci thought. And then someone had dropped the ball so hard that the ball went and shot up a school. How!?

As Backplast approached, the mousy girl started. Looking up, fury burning in her eyes, the New Wave girl's fingers curled like claws, not so different from what Vinci did in fact. While the smile was sweet, her tone was anything but. "Touch my sister," She hissed, " and I will kill you."

Immediately, Backblast froze, lifting both his hands. "I'm a medic. I can help."

The mousy girl snorted. "You can help by getting the fuck away from me! We've had enough of your 'help'."

Backblast tilted his head. "You have medical experience?"

She looked at him as if he was retarded. "I'm fucking Panacea."

"Listen to her," Vinci advised over the comms. "She's a local healer of some fame." The last thing he needed to do was add the assault of a hero to a reputation that was going downhill by the minute.

Charnel nodded. "Back off Backblast."

Backblast turned away, going to check on the other students in the room, seeking anyone who might be in dire need of medical assistance.

Vinci's shoulders sagged when he realized that other than a few students in the corner who'd received some shrapnel from his forcible entry, everyone he could see save Hamburger-gut was unharmed.

"Gemini Actual, this is Overlord. I am seeing major police movement, both local and PRT. In addition, every hero I have eyes on is breaking off their current task and is heading in your direction. Get out of there. Over."

With a sound like rubber creaking, Vinci's body glove went taunt as he clenched his fist.

Gemini Actual lowered his rifle so that the barrel pointed at the brass shell coated floor. "Overlord, this is Gemini Actual. This mission is getting a little hot. Should Gemini proceed to exfil? Over."

"Standby… New orders. Grab Blood Hound's body, scrub the truck, and proceed to the rendezvous point. Scorch will help you move. Over."

"Gemini will comply. Out." Charnel turned to the other members of the squad. "Gemini's, link up in the courtyard. Altair, set off the thermite charges in our vehicle."

A chorus of yes-sirs and affirms rang out over the comms, and everyone save him started moving.

Hesitating, he cast a glance at the whimpering form on the ground and grimaced.

He didn't feel guilty about this. It would be more accurate to say that he knew, in some small way, that this was partially his fault, and didn't care. He'd gotten his orders, and done them to the absolute best of his abilities. That was all anyone could ask of him.

But he needed to have some words with Winter Star because fuck him.

Turning away, he moved to help Gemini.

"Overlord. This is Scorch. How copy? Over."

"Scorch, this is Overlord. I read you five by five. Over."

"Overlord, after Gemini makes exfil, I expect to be in contact with my handlers within the hour. My call will be accepted, or I will visit the Arena just so I can make my complaints about breach of contract in person. Repeat my message back to me. Over." Space warped, and he hopped onto the hole he'd punched to make entry, balancing on the inch of jagged glass crunching beneath his boot.

There was a pause, and when Overlord spoke again, they sounded genuinely uncomfortable. "Scorch, your handlers are occupied, and unable to talk to you for the foreseeable future. Over."

Lifting his shoulders in a half-shrug, he hopped down onto the grass, ignoring the students who'd been smart enough to run, but stupid enough to stop once they were outside as they gaped at him. "Then Warlord can talk to you. Confirm receipt of my message. Over."

"... Confirmed. Overlord out."

Down below, Charnel scooped up Blood Hound's limp corpse from the crimson grass and slung the body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

 

[demonboss]

I am loving this story. I'm almost positive I know who Vinci's bonded is although I don't understand how he hasn't figured it out unless this is before the time that said bonded joins a team. In which case, he will just have to wait for her debut on whatever team she decides to join. I'm also curious about the current age of Vinci and how he knows about Atlas even though Atlas guards it's existence fanatically.

 

[SmokeRichards]

I am loving this story. I'm almost positive I know who Vinci's bonded is although I don't understand how he hasn't figured it out unless this is before the time that said bonded joins a team. In which case, he will just have to wait for her debut on whatever team she decides to join.

Click to shrink...

This story receives very good responses from people who love unraveling mysteries, and picking out little details, and the reason for this is because I like to scatter really important things everywhere, and even single sentences which seem like nothing but window dressing for what is really important can weave together with twenty others so that 40k words down the line, something really big happens, foreshadowed by all these small things.

If you reread what is posted, you'll will find many small clues as to why Vinci doesn't understand, and it has to do with what he's power actually is.

If you don't want to do that, but instead want the answer, the spoiler is here.

Spoiler

The long and short of it is that Vinci is not a telekinetic, he is a dynakinetic who has taken that very broad specialization, and narrowed his focus because its safer to do so. He is really good at telekinesis, because that is how he has spent years manifesting the actual power of dynakinesis so he can use it without killing himself. However, Dynakenisis is a very broad field with many applications, and as such, it is totally possible for Vinci to be using his power in a way that looks absolutely nothing similar to his bondmate. So, while Vinci is looking for telekenisis, or other, much weaker manifestations of his power he is familiar with, his bondmate could have specialized, doing something completely different, or something Vinci is familiar with, but to an extent that it is completely unrecognizable as his.

I'm also curious about the current age of Vinci and how he knows about Atlas even though Atlas guards it's existence fanatically.

Click to shrink...

ATM, Vinci is 13ish. As for Atlas, Atlas actively recruits on Bet, aiming for capes that no one will miss, and are desperate, and disappears them to Atlas, where they are never heard from again.

Atlas is very quiet about it, and are completely vague about what the cape in question is getting into until the cape is actually on Atlas, but they do it.

Warlords job, and why he is so powerful, is actually to acclimatize Bet capes to Atlas Myrmdom culture so they don't get eaten alive, as well as recruiting people from Bet. Sometimes, the factions will directly approach and recruit someone, but its rare. They prefer to work through Warlord.

 

[SmokeRichards]

Vinci seethed as his hardened laptop went through the motions to establish a secure connection.

Free from the needs of combat, he had the time to think about what had happened and the implications that came with it. And the shadows cast by the grim set of his face deepened with each new question asked and answered.

This had gone badly for him, and dumb luck was the only reason it wasn't worse.

Finally, after what seemed like forever but had only lasted for a few taps of Vinci's armored foot, the connection was established and the screen resolved into a familiar view. Vinci didn't waste any time barking out words. "Winter Star?" He demanded.

"Scorch," the male said.

"A fight in a school was not part of the plan!"

The male shrugged as if to say 'well, what can you do?' "No plan survives contact."

Which was true, but didn't change the fact they'd fucked him over. Underneath his helmet, Vinci's lips were pursed so hard it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. "You've fucked me over."

While the females voice was sympathetic, it was cool enough for Vinci to tell it was only there to placate. "You didn't have to accept the contract."

Correct. Again. "I need the terms of the nondisclosure loosened."

The refusal was instant. "No," the male said.

"You've fucked me over."

The female crossed one leg over the other. "Winter Star fails to see how. You don't exist on Bet. Fade the way ghosts do."

"I don't want to fade," Vinci forced out through gritted teeth. "I want people to know I'm out there, but Serenade has tainted my reputation beyond repair." Being connected with a Parahuman fight within a school was a bad look no matter who started it.

"Winter Star is sympathetic, but as we've already said, accepting the contract was your choice."

"Nor," the male added, "did you have to intervene."

"Should I've just let the children die?" Vinci demanded.

The male merely tilted his head. "If you believe their deaths to be a price worth paying, then yes. But the secrets of Winter Star will remain just that; secret."

"So," the word was hard, "there is no wiggle room?"

"None," the pair said in unison, voices overlapping.

Vinci's shoulders sagged. He sighed, rubbing his helmet. Fuck. An expected result, but no less unwelcome for it.

Opening his mouth, the male said "We are sorry, you have done Winter Star a great service today-"

"-but we cannot give you what you want," the female finished. "Is there anything else we can do for you today?"

Without a word, Vinci cut the link, plunging him into both darkness and silence. He needed to think.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vinci hunched over a workbench that Ventanna's new gladius rested on, humming a quiet tune as he examined the structure of the wraithbone. Finding a defect, he crystallized another strand of energy in the gap before moving on.

It was almost ready.

The blade had been balanced, the weight tweaked, edges honed, and while the structure was nothing special it was sturdy and that was what counted.

The repetitive, menial work allowed his mind to wander as he planned his next course of action. In the past three years, he'd done many things that were secret, and knew many secrets that would die with him as a consequence. But to say that Vinci couldn't talk about the past three years of his life was to misunderstand how the Game was played. Secrets were never willingly divulged, but if information needed to be conveyed implication was free game.

An awful lot could be said by saying nothing at all.

 

[SmokeRichards]

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♦ Private message from Toolbox_Tim (Administrator):

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IndigoEight-Three: I need verification. See video here.​

Toolbox_Tim (Administrator): Oh. Wow. Thats something.​

IndigoEight-Three: Is there a problem?​

Toolbox_Tim (Administrator): No, no, of course not. Its just... While we encourage capes to upload a video of them using their powers, it isn't normally something like this.​

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Aaaand Verified.​

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Read the rules, follow the rules, read the section of rules we specifically have for capes, don't break them, you'll get banned. yadda yadda yadda. No, I don't care if your a software tinker, PHO runs on the same type of software that the military uses, and we have tinkers of our own, don't hack or don't get caught, yadda yadda yadda​

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You get the picture. Out of curiosity, is there any reason you are making an account now? You clearly know what you're doing, and haven't bothered to before.​

IndigoEight-Three: Public relations.​

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♦Topic: What the hell happened at Arcadia High School?
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Brockton Bay

Evenpreviously (Original Poster) (Veteran Member)
Posted on November 6, 2009:

It is what is says on the Tin. No, seriously, I want to know.

(Showing Page 17 of 60)

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► voluminouslemur​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Look at all that blood! Does anyone know if Glory girl is going to be okay?​

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► MeanGreenLeanKillingMachine​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

New Wave has made a statement here that Glory Girl is expected to make a full recovery, but other than that, is being very tight lipped about what happened.​

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► WithUtahFromL0ve​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

If you look here, you can see that the same people who hit the merchants here, here, and here, were the same people in frame 3:34​

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Whats even more interesting is that besides the paint job, the group at 3:34 appears to be wearing exactly the same armor as this mystery cape that hurt Glory Girl. See Pic for comparison. They are clearly related somehow.​

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► Silenca​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Dont you think its a little creepy how quiet they all are? Even when the gunfire died down, except for the grey one here, none of them said a word.​

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► Not_a_Parahuman​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@Silenca​

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Look closer at how the body language shifts. See how they all tense, and the two circling the room turn around towards Panacea at 4:13? I'd bet internet access for a week that they were communicating using some kind of in built radio like the protectorate likes to use for their heroes. They're talking, you just can't see it.​

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► BoomBoom42​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@JacksInTheBox​

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Do you think this is related to whats going on in Columbia?​

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► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

11-04-2009-10:32:44-6(Y83H%\^%F%.jpg​

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► Old_bob (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

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Hah. Nope. Not touching that file with a ten foot pole. Try again with some other sucker. Fucking spammers.​

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► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Scans seem clean. Let me boot up a virtual machine, and we'll see what the piper has brought.​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Who the fuck are you?​

​

► Old_bob​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@CompWhiz1​

​

What?​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@Old_bob​

​

Some cape with a timestamped paper.​

​

► Old_bob (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@ CompWhiz1​

Now you got me curious.​

​

► Old_bob (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Huh.​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Whats this about?​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 ... 58 , 59, 60

(Showing Page 18 of 60)

​

► Big Mittens​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

Answer me!​

​

► CaptainWedge​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@Big Mittens​

​

they haven't answered pings since they dropped their file. Give it up.​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Did anyone else notice how, if that photo timestamp is correct, (Which I'm pretty sure it is), that its four hours ahead of Brockton Bay?​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

So confused.​

​

Up front; IANAT​

​

That being said,​

​

Here's a bunch of error analysises I did on the photo.​

​

(Spoiler)​

​

Level Sweep.​

​

(spoiler)​

​

Noise Analysis​

​

(spoiler)​

​

Long and short of it, this photo doesn't look like it's been edited, and it doesn't appear to be artificial either. Of course, a dedicated tech tinker bla bla bla-​

​

Yeah. Whatever. Tinkers are always a problem, but the mods here have a proven track record at outing Tinker modifications. @Tin_Mother is really good at this, and went I sent her a PM asking for her opinion on my math, she agreed that the image didn't appear to be fake.​

​

Which makes me wonder why?​

​

The footage is grainy, but there is one small time from 3:42-3:45 where they're close to the camera. The feathers can be seen with perfect clarity. Image here. The image @IndigoEight-Three posted here is of startlingly good quality. It's pretty close to being 4k. Parts of the wings are also visible, mostly peaking over the shoulders. Look at this here and here. See these holes? Our mystery Parahuman has them everywhere. I'm not sure what they are, but they are unique enough to compare to the high res image. Comparision here. All the holes I can see match perfectly.​

​

We also got a good shot of the armor plate protecting Indigo's chest. I compared that here. Also a match.​

​

Indigo is the same person who killed the shooter.​

​

So why post here? Did they want us to know their watching us? What?​

​

► Old_bob (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@CompWhiz1​

Thats easy to explain. If that is a timestamp, and with how cagey they are, it might not be, then they are using UTC-0 IE, Greenwich mean time, the preferred time for all NATO Military forces so their actions are synchronized, no matter where they are around the globe.​

​

► Noh!​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north​

​

"See these holes? Our mystery Parahuman has them everywhere. I'm not sure what they are, but they are unique enough to compare to the high res image."​

​

Those are what happens when the follicles that produce feathers get damaged beyond repair. I see it often in budgies that are stress-preening, but it can happen to just about any avian. Budgies that compulsively tear out their own feathers end up like this as the damage builds. Feather follicles can only take so much abuse before they give up.​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@Noh!​

​

Are you saying that you think they're a compulsive 'preener'?​

​

@Old_bob​

​

Another checkmark for everyone who thinks this was a military operation gone rogue.​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 ... 58 , 59, 60

(Showing Page 50 of 66)

​

► amoralizer_rex​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

Look, Im not saying that they did isn't shitty. A school got shot up, people are terrified, I mean, for fucks sake, GG almost died. But you can tell that they didn't expect it. While the rough trail @SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north assembled isn't great, it's good enough. What's more, we know exactly where they were just before MGM hit arcadia. They were here, on the other side of the city, hitting what is presumably a drug den out in the slums.​

​

If they planned this, why was Indigo so far away? Look at the video, Indigo is sprinting out of that house like it's about to explode, then space distorts. A minute and a half later, they arrive inside the cafeteria and start wrecking MGM's shit.​

​

It doesn't seem like they planned it. Instead, it looks like MGM caught them flatfooted, and they called in a heavy hitter who was doing their own thing separate from the group that was chasing MGM across town.​

​

► CaptainWedge​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@amoralizer_rex​

​

Its their fault MGM was shooting up a school in the first place.​

​

► amoralizer_rex​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@ CaptainWedge​

​

And are we going to blame heroes every time a villain does something bad trying to escape them?​

​

► CaptainWedge​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@amoralizer_rex​

​

We don't know MGM was a villain.​

​

► amoralizer_rex​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@CaptainWedge​

​

Duuuude. MGM literally shot up a school.​

​

► Wham_Bam_thankYou​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

I still say this has to be connected with the batshit insanity that is coming out of Columbia.​

​

► CaptainWedge​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@Wham_Bam_thankYou​

​

Whats the link then?"​

​

@amoralizer_rex​

​

Fine. We don't know that Indigo and their merry band of gun-toting maniacs are heros. Happy?​

​

► Noh!​

Replied on November 6, 2009:​

@SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north​

​

Sorry for the late response. Busy.​

​

No. I do not think Indigo is a compulsive preener. His feathers are beautifully maintained. I'd have to do an actual examination to tell for certain, but on a visual examination, the feathers seem healthy, well-oiled, and cared for. I mean, theres some dust and grit in there, but the boy was fighting. Once you look past all that, you can see just how attentive Indigo has been with his wings.​

​

If he were a compulsive preener, I'd expect wide swathes of bald flesh starting with the easiest to reach places first. Thats's not what I'm seeing. These bald patches are often a feather or two wide, and distributed in a chaotic manner over both pinyons.​

​

Compulsive preeners damage their follicles over time, but if it's violent enough, it only takes a single removal to damage the follicles.​

​

The coloration of the bald patches indicates that the damage is older than at least a year but less than ten.​

​

The distribution tells me that the damage happened over the entirety of the wings.​

​

I think it's a safe bet to assume that someone plucked every single feather Indigo had, and not all of them grew back.​

​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 49, 50, 51, 52, 53 ... 64 , 65, 66

(Showing Page 65 of 72)

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Noh!​

​

"He" "boy"​

​

Where are you getting this information from?​

​

► TingTang21​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Noh!​

​

"I think it's a safe bet to assume that someone plucked every single feather Indigo had, and not all of them grew back."​

​

That's horrifying. Can you imagine how painful it would be if someone ripped all your hair out? Ouch.​

​

► Noh!​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@TingTang21​

​

Feathers are nothing like hair. Hair attaches to the skin. Feathers are hooked to the bone. It's less hair being plucked and more having your fingernails torn out.​

​

@SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north​

​

Ah. Sorry.​

​

Avian plumage is very distinct, differing species by species, and sometimes even on a gender basis. The security footage from Arcadia provided some very nice silhouettes, and the picture Indigo posted gave me detailed stills of the feathers themselves. I can even see some of the down undercoat through one of the holes in his plumage.​

​

Different birds have different ways of flying, with wings that evolved to suit factors such as diet, climate, and migration habits. Heres a few common shapes. See how Indigos wings swoop back? These are wings that evolved for speed, and are often seen in predators. Indigos shape indicates his wings are that of a raptor. See this set of feathers here? I've only ever seen that particular structure on a single species of raptor, and while the coloration is off, when I talked with some more experienced colleagues in a wildlife sanctuary in Montana, they all agreed the structure was a perfect match. This species has some sexual dimorphism when it comes to wing structure as well. It's hard to see because of how fuzzy security footage is, but I took a still and traced the outline of the feathers.​

​

See how there's two arcs? If Indigo were female, then the line would be flat.​

​

I mean, I could be wrong, but, well... Look at him. Indigo is incredibly short. And there's some dimorphism in humans that's easy to see with a few lines. Here, let me show you. Image. See the way the bones are straight down? If Indigo were a girl, I'd expect a slight angle pointing inwards. Not really something you look for unless you know it's there, but easy to see once it's been pointed out. This x-ray was taken from an 11 year old girl. See the difference in the lines?​

​

I suppose he could be an extremely short man or even a woman, especially with that armor covering all the fine details, but everything I'm seeing says I'm right. The wing structure says he's male. His bone structure agrees. The plumage structure says he's a juvenile, his size agrees.​

​

► Not_a_Parahuman​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Noh!​

​

How old would you say Indigo is? Or can you not tell?​

​

► Noh!​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Not_a_Parahuman​

​

If the changes are happening at a rate that reflects Indigos actual age?​

​

9-14.​

​

► Not_a_Parahuman​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Noh!​

​

"It's less hair being plucked and more having your fingernails torn out."​

​

"9-14"​

​

"I think it's a safe bet to assume that someone plucked every single feather Indigo had, and not all of them grew back."​

​

I regret asking so much. I'm going to be sick.​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Old_bob​

​

The more I learn about Indigo, the more puzzled I get. I just can't fit all these pieces together. Four adults in a group, and then there's this lone child that's just... what? Doing his own thing? You'd think he'd at least be with the group. And it was indigo that responded at Arcadia.​

​

I don't buy it. There's no way that's a child.​

​

What kind of child kills like that?​

​

► AlicaReynolds​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

I was terrified. One second, I'm eating lunch with my friends, the next, all hell was breaking loose. I don't remember much about it, other than how scary it was, but what I do remember? It was how loud it was.​

​

There was so much noise. Guns going off. What sounded like bombs coming down the hallways. Everyone was screaming. Those dogs ripping into Victoria, snarling every second of it. Glass shattering. Bricks cracking. And it was all happening at once.​

​

Arcadia is supposed to be a Wards School. So where were the Wards? Why didn't they do anything?​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@AlicaReynolds​

​

Well, maybe they needed to keep their cover?"​

​

► AlicaReynolds​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north​

​

Heroes doing nothing when people need help don't deserve the title. Vicky at least tried to do something.​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 63, 64, 65, 66, 67 ... 70 , 71, 72

(Showing Page 76 of 77)

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@AlicaReynolds​

The wards were in the field, trying to respond to the attacks on the Merchants. Its not their fault.​

​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

I'm still in the hospital because of you. Jackass. I mean, whats the point? Are you mocking me? A little 'ha ha'? It's not funny. Why'd you even post in the first place if you weren't going to answer anyone?!​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

Its great to see that your up and about! Are you willing to answer some questions?​

​

► TingTang21​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

What was it like? Being in the middle of that?​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I'm protesting.​

​

► Not_a_Parahuman​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Holy shit, he speaks.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Protesting what?​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I'm not at liberty to discuss that.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Bullshit. If you really meant it, you'd go all the way and tell us what your protesting.​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

Post #928858​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 75, 76, 77

(Showing Page 80 of 83)

​

► Agent_Hanson (Verified PRT Agent)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

The PRT is interested in getting a statement from you. Would you be interested in coming down to our office?​

​

► Satisfied Trash Panda​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

Post #928858​

​

@Glory_Girl said to @monoclemaniac "Look, just because I disagree with the cape law doesn't mean I think everything they've done is evil."​

​

He's saying that just because he disagrees with them on one thing, it doesn't mean he disagrees with them on everything.​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Old_bob​

​

So, with this new information, we can safely say that the first group hit Mikes Pawn shop fifteen minutes after they breached a warehouse in the docks?​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

... You disagree with something someone had you do, but not completely?​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

Of course not. That would be silly.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

That doesn't make any sense! Urgh! Why are you here!​

​

► Satisfied Trash Panda​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

Is this what cape Politics are really like?​

​

► Fox_one​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Do you have any plan to apologize for the people for what happened?​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I know.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

You want us to ask questions, don't you?​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I'm not at liberty to discuss that.​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83

(Showing Page 83 of 84)

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

This is fucking bull! I don't get it, I don't understand it, but I'm not the only one this hurt. You took a cape fight to a school. My friends got hurt. People I say hi to in the halls got hurt. You don't give a damn but everyone else here does. Fuck you!​

​

When you popped up, I thought I was going to get some fucking answers. I almost died. You realize that, right? I was dying when Amy got to me. And instead, nothing. Nadda. No apology, no explanation.​

​

I started thinking you were a villain, but now I'm back to confused again, and it fucking sucks. You aren't gloating, and you aren't defending yourself. Your just there. And even if your telling the truth, it doesn't follow. If your protesting, but not telling us anything noteworthy, then all youre doing is hurting yourself. You aren't convincing anyone here, and if whoever's holding your leash really doesn't like you here, then you've just made them angry for no gain. Why? Just... fucking damnit​

​

I've never been in a fight like that. Everyone had a fucking gun. Even the master had a fucking gun. It wasn't like he needed it. Those projections could tear any normal person limb to limb.​

​

► Justawanderer​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

I thought capes didn't normally use guns. I mean, it's counter productive. Capes don't need guns.​

​

Right?​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I am not talking to you. I am talking through you. You are being used to send a message.​

​

► Agent_Hanson (Verified PRT Agent)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

The protectorate can protect you if you are being threatened. If you feel PHO is not secure enough, I've sent you a PM with a list of subnet addresses that can be used to directly contact me.​

​

Please, lets talk.​

​

► BoomBoxBrotha​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@AHumbleDruggy​

​

No one knows where squealer is, and @IndigoEight-Three isn't talking.​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Big Mittens​

​

No. Nonononononono. We are not going over the fucking morality debate again. Go reread pages 15-32, and if that doens't answer your question, then maybe, just maybe, you can shit up the thread again.​

​

We already answered the question of 'does the danger they put themselves in to help the students make the fact that they put the students in danger in the first place?', and the answer is NO.​

​

► Armsmaster (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

I understand that you have been through a traumatic expierence, but I must ask you to refrain from divulging details pertinent to an ongoing criminal investigation.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Who was the message meant for?​

​

► The_Right_Cut (Temp-banned)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

Fuck yoiu FUckyou fuck you!​

​

do you know how many of mky buddies got fucked ovber byyou bastards​

​

Were coming for you so prepare ytourself for it. Gonna kill you.Funna kill you all​

​

SOon as we can find you your dead. Dead dead dead. cut up your body and dorp iot in the bay dead.​

​

MOD EDIT: ThrowAwayaccount32156 has been merged with the main account, and posting priviliges have been restricted to Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Staff Communication ​

​

@The_Right_Cut, come talk to us. We need to have a chat. ​

​

MOD EDIT TWO: A sitewide month long ban has been issued for threats of violence directed against another user.​

​

MOD EDIT THREE: After review, the temp ban has been increased to a month and three days for sockpuppeting with the intent to circumvent site rules. ​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 81, 82, 83, 84​

​

(Showing Page 84 of 87)​

​

► Absoulte_ego​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@ThrowAwayaccount32156​

​

Ugh. Reported.​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

Anyone who can understand what I am saying.​

​

► Armsmaster (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

Before dismissing our offer out of hand, perhaps in would be prudent to hear what we have to offer, and how we can protect you.​

​

► Satisfied Trash Panda​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

This is hilarious. The wierdo is just ignoring the Protectorate. Who does that?​

​

► SpazzMatticus_the_Mad_King_from_the_north (Cape Groupie)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Satisfied Trash Panda​

​

He's ignoring everyone else too.​

​

► Glory_Girl (Verified Cape)(New Wave)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@IndigoEight-Three​

​

This is stupid.​

​

► Fully_Charged (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

Another five incidents confirmed to be merchant targets. I'm getting real sick of people saying this wasn't a precision strike, but I'll make you all a deal. If anyone can give me a single instance where the target wasn't a Merchant or affiliated with the Merchants, I'll shut up.​

​

► CompWhiz1​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Fully_Charged​

​

Arcadia.​

​

► Fully_Charged (Veteran Member)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@CompWhiz1​

​

Doesn't count. They were collateral. The target was the cape.​

​

► IndigoEight-Three (Verified Cape)​

Replied on November 7, 2009:​

@Glory_Girl​

​

It is what I am allowed.​

​

​

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87​

​

 

[SmokeRichards]

Wind whistled around a blade in the confined quarters of Vinci's bunker as Ventanna put his new gladius through the paces. Up, down, left, right, the blade was fast, a mere blur that barely reflected light.

If it ever comes to a fight, just blast him. Not worth trying to track that blade.

Seeing those smooth motions, Vinci was happy he was on friendly terms with the information broker, and not just because it made gathering actionable intelligence easier. It was easy to think of the warlords as archaic dinosaurs, but anyone who disregarded the danger they posed did so at their own risk. The warlord era had been a brutal time full of danger, and only the most dangerous survived to the present day.

Ventanna darted backwards into the shadows that clung to the corners of the kitchen and vanished. Seconds later, he dropped from the ceiling, the tip of the blade stopping an inch from the concrete floor. With a flourish, the Gladius was placed into the waiting sheathe on Ventanna's back. Ventanna turned to Vinci, a broad grin on his aged and weathered face. "Perfect balance, extraordinary craftsmanship, perhaps a tad simple but elegant in its utilitarianism. I couldn't ask for a better blade."

Vinci appreciated the restraint. That blade was sharp enough to penetrate the concrete and hard enough to do it without losing its edge. If Vinci needed a hole in his floor, he'd prefer to do it himself. Kicking a stool out from under the lip of the wire coil, Vinci pulled a sandwich bought from a nearby store out of a nearby cooler. "Come, share a bite with me."

Amusement glittered in Ventanna's eyes. "So formal. It's strange, mind you. In my time, I've seen much change, but there are patterns to be found. Patterns like how the young chafe under the traditions of their elders. And yet, you cling to those same traditions." With a huff, Ventanna grinned. "Very well, I accept."

As Ventanna sat, Vinci unlatched his faceplate and let it dangle from its reinforced air hose, leaving pale, scar-littered skin exposed. Wrapping a finger in energy, Vinci sliced the sandwich in half, offering the larger portion to Ventanna. In silence, they both took a bite, watching each other with sharp eyes, though Vinci's were concealed by the helmet. "You seem pleased," he noted.

Swallowing before he answered, Ventanna leaned as far back as he could without falling off the stool, a smirk he'd been unable to suppress curving his lips. "And why shouldn't I be? Plans fall into place, one by one, and the world takes note. Things are changing." Setting the sandwich down on the rough wooden surface, Ventanna rested his elbows on the wood. "Can you imagine living as long as I? The monotony of waking up, day by day. Politics that never change. Factions that refuse to learn. Defense grid this. Choregos chart that. Stagnation." The word dropped from Ventanna's lips like a slur, a sneer on the wrinkled face. Just as quickly as it appeared, the sneer vanished, replaced by wonder. "But now… Now things can finally change."

"Colombia." It wasn't a question.

Shortly after the attack, Vinci'd expected the assault on the Merchants to be the leading headline, at least locally. While the Merchants weren't important, the firefight inside the school was newsworthy, and New Wave had been a big deal long ago. Enough to merit extensive coverage for the state press and an article or two from regional news organizations. Instead, local coverage had been split between the Arcadia firefight and events happening in Columbia. Regionally, they'd only merited a footnote.

Ventanna blinked, the cool, blue gaze flickering in Vinci's direction. "... Yes."

That was all the confirmation Vinci needed. "Why?"

"Why what? Why Winter Star? Why Blood Hound? Why Colombia? Why You?"

"Yes." They were all valid questions, and frankly, he wanted answers to each and every one of them.

Rolling his eyes, Ventanna snatched the sandwich from the table and tore a chunk out with his teeth. "You are lucky that I am in a good mood. I suppose-" Ventanna took another bite of the sandwich, "-that I shall indulge your curiosity. Winter Star wanted you, even before I took notice and intervened. I suspect you know why. I stumbled over Bloodhound due to the whims of fate. Columbia, admittedly, has my hands and bloody fingerprints all over it. However, that was because I was contracted by an employer requiring discretion in all things. As for you?" Ventanna eyed Vinci, chewed, then swallowed. "You were in the right place at the right time, the way you always are. Ophilia. GeoStation zero three. Especially that nasty tribunal business. Your competence has been noticed. When given the opportunity, what could I do but take advantage of it?" Something deep in Ventanna's gaze turned feral. "I want to watch titans fall. And you didn't disappoint. Your work here started an avalanche; what has been done cannot be undone."

Tilting his head, Vinci thought about it, then summoned a thermos from the nearby kitchen counter with a wave of his hand. "And what, exactly, am I supposed to be responsible for?" The thermos smacked home. "The hundreds of Cadre swarming South America in what appears to be the largest joint operation between the factions in twenty years?" Vinci uncapped the thermos with more force than was necessary, an uneasy frown on his face as he stared at the rough wooden slab that served as his table. "Navarchs fighting side by side with Hussars? Svalinn cooperating with a direct-action op on Bet? The destruction of the biggest secret the world has ever known?" Vinci's chin jerked up in a sharp motion. "What have I done?" He demanded, burning daggers into Ventanna with his glare. "What did I find?!"

People were worried, especially on Bet.

The politicians mouthed all the right things and the gullible believed as they always did, but for the most part, no one was buying the lie that the situation was under control.

Everyone could see that the powers that be on Bet couldn't make heads or tails of what they were seeing.

And that made them afraid.

Unlike them, Vinci could understand what he was seeing, but that didn't make believing it any easier as he watched the impossible happen without warning.

Ventanna blinked. "You don't know, do you?" The aged warlord trailed off, his eyes full of disbelief.

The thin line of Vinci's lips became thinner. Bring the thermos to his lips, Vinci took a sip, hiding his frown.

Throwing his head back, Ventanna laughed, and laughed, and laughed until he could laugh no more.

All the while, Vinci felt like a fool who'd missed something incredibly obvious, nursing his coconut milk in silence and loathing the taste.

The laughs cut off, plunging the room into a threatening silence. The shadows around them seemed to writhe as Ventanna slammed both palms onto the table, leaning closer to Vinci. "They didn't tell you," he declared with a terrible, unholy glee dripping off each word. Once more, Ventanna laughed. "No one gave you orders. You just found it. Oh, the irony. Winter Star is certain that they owe the Stratocracy a debt of gratitude and the Stratocracy doesn't know." Licking his lips, Ventanna tilted his head. "Or perhaps they do," he murmured, tone growing darker. "Per-haps they do, and your superiors didn't care to tell you. How does that make you feel Hussar? Does that make you feel valued?"

Vinci's hand cut through the air, his tone hard. "Enough. You owe me a debt of information. Answer my questions, or leave and break your word. But don't waste my time trying to undermine my loyalty."

"How about a deal, Hussar?" Ventanna asked with velvet-coated words dripping honey and poison. "A trade, perhaps. Information for information. Tell me how that makes you feel, and I will give you what you want."

Giving into Ventanna was a bad idea and Vinci knew it. Vinci'd upheld his side of the bargain, and Ventanna needed to do the same. Vinci answered anyway, wary of offending Ventanna. "Nothing. Information is compartmentalized for a reason. Now, what did I do?"

Ventanna's grin vanished, leaving a face set in stone. "You are no fun boy. They made you a little too well."

"The information?"

Expression going blank, Ventanna leaned forward once more, sharp eyes seeming to say that playtime was over. "Blood Moon."

Taking another sip, the taste of coconut milk lingered on his tongue. The name was one he recognized. He'd even helped raid them a time or two. "What about them?"

"They no longer exist."

Sucking in a deep breath, Vinci started hacking as his drink went down the wrong tube. "Blood- moon?" He asked in between coughs. After another fit, the coughs died down, and Vinci could breathe again. "How?" he asked, voice hoarse. "They're impossible to track. Their cells are structured to prevent it!"

There was nothing amused about Ventanna's cold smirk. "Impossible is a strong word boy. And the wrong one to use. It's not impossible because they have done it."

Vinci leaned back, eyes wide underneath his helmet. "Then organized crime on Atlas is gone," he whispered.

"Not gone. Isohuman crime syndicates remain."

"The garrisons can handle those," Vinci whispered without thinking, still working through the staggering implications. It wasn't as monumental an achievement as it would've been for Bet, but it still freed up a great deal of Myrmdom resources dedicated to containing the problem. Drawing a blank, Vinci clutched his thermos with both hands like the lifeline it was. "What did I do," he whispered.

"Blood Moon operated on Bet under a different name. Luna De Sangre."

The intelligence dossier. "Blood Hound," Vinci whispered, jerking up to stare at Ventanna.

Ventanna confirmed his guess with a jerk of the head. "Blood Moon. Yes. They supplied the Merchants with drugs until Blood Moon decided a change in leadership was in order."

"And Blood Hound was once a member of Winter Star," Vinci whispered with the kind of horror reserved for everything going to shit. Blood Moon had assassinated the daughter of the Canopus. Everything felt numb. "Why the joint operation? A precision strike would've served Winter Star better, and the other factions don't have a stake in this."

"Blood Moon discovered a way around Styx's oath. Atlas-"

Vinci blanched as Ventanna continued, revealing the final nail that had sealed Blood Moons' fate.

"-faced exposure."

But… Atlas now faced exposure anyways. Already pale, Vinci's explosion turned chalky white as he realized this new fact. "This-" Vinci stumbled over the words, "it's drawing so much attention to our parts of the world. How can we remain hidden with all the resources being brought to bear?"

Ventanna's grin turned mad. "What makes you think they plan to?"

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As he wandered in the trainyards, surrounded by old, rusted boxcars and chipped concrete, spent brass casings which clattered out of the way when kicked, and shattered hypodermic needles gleaming on the ground, Vinci grappled, not with duty and want, but fear. Events on Atlas had changed history forever, but his duty to the Stratocracy wasn't in play. Not yet at least. If the Stratocracy needed him, they would've recalled him. They hadn't, so they didn't.

They. Didn't. Need. Him.

That terrified Vinci to the point his wings wouldn't stop swaying in short, frenetic arcs.

Would he be abandoned by the Stratocracy too, the same way he'd been abandoned by everyone else? The thought made him feel sick. The Stratocracy were the only people who'd ever wanted him. His father hadn't wanted him. Minstral hadn't wanted him. Illya- Vinci swallowed hard at the pain which never faded. Illya had wanted him. But she was dead, and he was all alone. Or he would be if the Hussars didn't want him just like everyone else.

And what would he do then? Vinci was a tool made to be used. What good was a tool that wasn't needed anymore?

There was a secret waiting for Vinci in the bay, something Warlord promised, but it didn't seem important to these thoughts Vinci couldn't let go of no matter how he tried.

Threading his way through another line of boxcars with flaking paint and wheels rusted to the rails, Vinci grabbed a door handle and yanked. The door didn't budge. His arms dropped limp to his side, gloves fists clenched so tight Vinci felt like his bones would break.

What had he done wrong? Why hadn't he been recalled? Vinci had done everything they'd asked, he'd been good, and-

Swiping at the air, the door tore open with a boom, revealing an interior full of empty burlap sacks.

The worst part was not knowing. If Vinci knew what he'd done wrong, then he could fix it, and never do it again. Waiting was intolerable.

Afterward, Vinci was unable to say what did it. Maybe it was that sickly feeling in his gut telling him he was missing something important. Perhaps a boot had scuffed the glass littering the ground. In the end, it wasn't important. For whatever reason, something had seemed wrong, so Vinci had turned to see what it was.

When he did, his shoulders sagged. "Woodsman." Relief dripped from each syllable, then he remembered just where he was and his hand shot up as power screamed.

Five feet in front of him stood a man with a lithe, wiry build. A lightweight hood extended from a body glove, shrouding a smooth helmet in shadows, three green lights shining where eyes should be. Gloved fingers held a rifle in a loose grip, the tip pointed at the ground and the finger clear of the trigger guard.

"Identify yourself," he demanded, harsh words providing a sharp contrast to the icy clarity of his thoughts.

"You know who I am boy," Woodsman growled, his helmet distorting his voice into the deep bass of an animal. Unlike when Dash called Vinci lad, there was nothing endearing about how Woodsman referred to Vinci.

Vinci primed his shot, the space between his curved fingers shimmering.

Sighing, Woodsman shifted so the barrel pointed even further from Vinci. "The last thing you said to me was 'Get out of my way tree-fucker.'"

Vinci winced. That hadn't been polite. Twitching his fingers, Vinci dissipated the power, averting his gaze. "You deserved it," he muttered.

"Maybe."

Turning, Vinci looked up at the stars. "Why are you here? Columbia?" The probing was unprofessional, but Vinci wanted to know.

"Hades Squad had nothing to do with Columbia. Don't ask and I won't insult you by lying."

"Am I being recalled?"

The answer he received surprised him. "Not officially. Boots wishes to see you. In person. At your convenience."

Vinci whirled on his heel. "You're joking-" he exclaimed, only to freeze. The trainyard was empty. After a few moments, Vinci growled. "Fucking strangers," he muttered, sullen.

At his convenience, huh?

Being recalled would've made Vinci feel better. This didn't. The Tier Ones were an important part of the Stratocracy, but Boots was a busy man as its leader. He'd spoken with Boots on more than one occasion, but they had been casual affairs, or in the case of some of the dinners, formal but friendly. That wasn't to say Vinci didn't like Boots. The man was friendly enough or at least had seemed that way when talking to Vinci, but the Grand Field Marshal didn't ask to see people so they could chat.

Something was going on, and Vinci didn't like it.

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[SmokeRichards]

For miles in every direction, all that could be seen were rolling hills covered in barren trees. It certainly wasn't leafy, nor was it warm, frost covering everything from the hard ground to the boulder Vinci sat on. Steam rose in a visible trial from the open MRE leaned against a small rock Vinci had picked up from the ground. It was ugly. The hills, not the MRE. Desolate, gray, and more than a little sad compared to the towering mountains Vinci was familiar with. Bumps like these weren't even worth naming where Vinci came from, yet the locals had a whole state park celebrating their existence.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, it found him in Missouri, thirteen hundred miles traveled in little under four hours, no mean feat.

Vinci couldn't take comfort in that fact however. Something felt wrong, and he couldn't figure out why beyond the gaping void in his gut. Silver eyes kept being drawn to the northeast, towards the direction of Brockton, yet that made no sense. It was just a city and not even an important one. The Bunker had been expensive but held no sentimental value. Like everything else in his life, it could be replaced, just like him. His time there hadn't been good nor bad, and if there was any word to describe it, that word was short.

There was no reason for this unease turning his bones restless, yet the further away he traveled, the more it grew.

As he unlatched his faceplate, getting ready to eat before getting underway once more, his slight frown never faded.

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The freight lift creaked into motion, taking him down into the bowels of the earth. Other than shifting to account for the change in momentum, Vinci didn't move. It was funny really. Two, three years ago, when Vinci had first been introduced to the life he'd led ever since, spaces like this had bothered him. Wings, the eyes of an eagle, his love of flight, Vinci was made for wide open spaces and aries belonging to the birds, but it was possible to get used to anything. There were times he thought it would be more fitting if he were short and stout considering how many battles he'd waged underground.

After a short wait, the elevator jerked to a stop, and Vinci opened the cage door.

The room he stepped out into was the size of a decent parking lot, a vaulted ceiling three stories above his head carved out of solid rock and reinforced with steel girders. To the left, cordoned off with lines painted on the ground, was a recess for a much, much larger elevator than the one Vinci had stepped off of, a pair of train rails leading away from the recess. Ahead was a raised dais surrounded by Tinkertech turrets with humming barrels, some pointed at the dias, the others at the elevator entrances.

Vinci turned towards the right, striding towards a nest of consoles in the corner manned by a trio of tinkers, the first wearing clunky power armor, the other in a sleek, freshly pressed lap coat thrown a metallic exoskeleton that shifted with each breath, and the last in a set of armor that wouldn't be out of place in a futuristic sci-fi flick about a samurai, all three arguing over a set of blueprints.

"No! No! No! Your plan makes absolutely no sense. Where are the phase harmonics?" The sleek one demanded.

"Well," The clunky one growled, "If you'd just read over the damn blueprints again, you'd see it didn't have one."

"But why?" Labcoat cried in an agonized tone, "The resonance cascade? What about the resonance cascade?"

"Well, if you looked here," the clunky one jabbed a finger at the blueprint, "this phase shifter, here, is doing all the heavy lifting."

There was dead silence for a moment, the only sound being the quiet buzz of the turrets in the background, then the sleek one cried "How!?"

The clunky raised his hand, "Well, you see, it works like this…" he trailed off, then lowered his hand. "I… Don't actually know how it works." The Clunky one shrugged his shoulders. "It just works," He said with all of the fervor of a cultist that had just seen his god.

"I'll tell you what this is," lab coat snapped. "It's bullshit. Fucking bullshit."

"Hey! That's uncalled for! I don't call your-" Something must have caught the Clunky one's eye because they looked up. "Visitor."

The three tinkers turned to face him, the samurai taking point.

"You'll have to wait," Labcoat said to the right of Samurai. "No activities are planned for another three hours."

The Samurai crossed his arms. "That's the Winged Hussar. He's expected. I authorize you to open the portal."

"Oh." Lab Coat straightened, running his fingers through balding hair. "I'll just, uh, start her up then." Walking over to a console set into the wall he started pressing buttons.

Vinci nodded at the samurai. "Axiote."

Axiote inclined his head, deep enough to be respectful, shallow enough that it wasn't subservient. "Hussar."

"I see the old facility is still hidden."

"There are an awful lot of mineshafts in this area. Plenty of places for someone to get lost."

Vinci couldn't fault that. Three could keep a secret if two were dead and all that. The workers of the mine he was underneath were well paid, obscenely so, but that was the bribe. They kept the money and all the perks that came with it as long as their mouths remained shut. Otherwise, the families kept the life insurance money and were given the same ultimatum. It worked well, and the fact that only a select few knew what was actually going on in the mines helped. Of those who knew, all were Atlas natives and had sworn the same oaths to Styx that Vinci had.

Of course, considering the recent events, Vinci couldn't help but reassess. Licking his lips, he opened his mouth. "And… considering recent events?"

Axiote tilted his head to look down at Vinci, the harsh visage of the mask disapproving. "You speak of Columbia."

Vinci nodded.

For a long moment, Axiote was silent, then he shook his head. "I don't expect it to be a problem. We own all the workers from our side of the portal, and if foul play occurred with US citizens, they'd need to prove it first."

"They'd know," Vinci pointed out.

"Which means nothing."

In the corner, Lab-coat muttered a curse, then flipped open a protective cover, revealing a big red button that said 'Warning: Radiation hazard. Approved personnel only', and pressed it. The dias crackled as Vinci felt space ripple like a stone being cast into a still pond. Amid the hum of electricity, a thin white line appeared as reality cracked, revealing the inside of another fortified bunker on the other side.

Vinci turned, pausing as Axiote called out from behind him.

"Before you go, I was told to inform you that the Grand Field Marshal of the Hussar Stratocracy is in Verge engaged with diplomatic talks with The Tyrant. You can find him in the diplomatic quarters."

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The thick, iron door clanged shut behind him, leaving Vinci in the heart of Verge.

The noise was overwhelming.

Marching men walked past, armored boots clicking on the cobblestone. A yelp of pain. The realtor of the crowd as they walked about. Music played as someone strummed a guitar. The low growl of a motor vehicle somewhere off in the distance. Children laughed as they darted through the crowd.

"You think you can shove me-"

"Fresh bread! Three notes for a loaf!"

"Did you hear about what's happening in the eastern fells? I heard that the Pentad is getting ready to make another push."

"Left, to the Left, to the left, Left right left. Johnson! Walk in time!"

"Sarah!"

"Boy, I saw you coming three marks past. Word of advice, you see anyone with a band like this, leave them be. They might not be Spartoi, but they'll still put a knife through your hand before-"

Colorful buildings with steep roofs were everywhere, the crowds parting around the rare electric or hydrogen-powered vehicle that ventured this deep into the city. Verge was quite possibly the most beautiful city on Atlas. Even Vinci, with his Hussar pride and deep loyalty to the nation that had taken him in when there was nowhere else to go had to admit that. The people were clean, well dressed, and Vinci caught sight of a child willing to point at him and giggle, unafraid of what the armor he wore represented. Coins clinked as money was exchanged at nearby street stalls, and despite the chill in the air, all the shops saw a steady stream of business flowing through their doors.

Turning, Vinci allowed the flow of the crowd to sweep him along the walls of the sheer cliff the city was pressed against, heading for massive stairs carved out of the rock many years ago.

Above, so far up Vinci had to crane his neck to see it, the barrels of massive guns poked over the edges of battlements.

That was where he was headed.

The heart of the Vanguard, and the home of the warlord who changed everything; Svalinn The Tyrant.

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Vinci sat down on the luxurious red padded chair. It was the nicest thing he'd ever sat in, and he didn't belong in it even before he factored his wings into the equation. Wings and high-backed chairs didn't mix.

Across from him, Boots leaned forward to tap a cylindrical device on a coffee table between them. The second he did, all noise in the building, from the low hum of the air conditioner to the whistle of wind on the windows vanished.

Boots was by no means an inspiring man. The hint of pudge on his sides combined with his unshaven face was enough to disqualify himself for most elections on Bet, but the Cadre of the Stratocracy didn't care about looks. The founder of the nation, Emil Furmanski, had chosen Boots as his successor, and that had been that, albeit with a minor amount of bloodshed and death along the way. But despite the hallmarks of a warfighter who'd been desk-bound a few years too long, the brown gleam of his eyes was as sharp as any blade Vinci'd ever made.

"Thank you for coming." Boots' voice was suitably grave as he leaned back in an ornate chair of his own.

Giving the room one final glance, Vinci turned back to Boots. "Are we secure?"

Boots nodded. "We are."

"Ventanna believes that Winter Star is under the impression that they owe you a debt."

A single graying eyebrow arched. "And why would they not?" Boots reprimanded. "You are ours."

"I was retired." Reaching up, Vinci took off his helmet, revealing pursed lips.

"Everyone knew that was nothing more than a polite fiction."

After a moment, Vinci nodded, accepting the answer even if it didn't make him happy. "We are in private and your time is valuable. Should we dispense with the pleasantries, sir?"

Crossing his legs, Boots settled deeper into the chair. "To business then. What are your opinions on the Protectorate?"

Vinci blinked, taken aback. The Protectorate? It took him a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "I suppose I don't like them. But that's more of a personal opinion, sir," Vinci slowly said, eyeing boots.

Boots waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Enough with the sir. My name will suffice. And your professional opinion?"

"I don't really have one. Not enough information."

"You interacted with them before joining our ranks."

"I interacted with a single hero. And he was corrupt. That's not enough for me to make a professional judgment that could influence strategic or theatre-level decisions."

"I am telling you to make that judgment," Boots ordered.

Biting his lip, Vinci scrutinized the carpet, trying to come up with something coherent. "I don't know enough about the Protectorate or how they interact with the major power blocks on Bet to make an informed decision, but they don't seem as disciplined as the Hussar, or most Cadre in general. They feel more like a band of Auxiliaries stiffened by careful placement of Cadre."

"Do you believe this weakens them?"

Turning his attention to Boots, Vinci arched his eyebrows. "How could it not? You can't stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of bolts."

"It spreads their force around."

"And allows their underworld to chip away at their best and brightest piecemeal. We are at war, but when I walk in our cities, I don't see the decay they have. Luxuries are rationed, but everyone who needs one and is willing to work has adequate food and a roof over their heads."

Boots laced his fingers together. "We consume more drugs than they do."

"And they are all carefully regulated by the state. Our citizens are not being poisoned by dirty chemicals, and if recreational use turns into addiction they are quickly treated."

"Some would consider that as an inconceivable violation of personal liberty."

Vinci snorted, letting Boots know what he thought of that idea. "You mean the Bet-born," Vinci sneered. "But it's their cities that are falling apart. Not ours."

"You say Bet-born like you aren't one."

Icewater doused Vinci's contempt, leaving him feeling cold. "There is nothing left for me there but pain and old memories," he said, quiet. "Maybe I'm still technically a citizen, but I know where my loyalty lies."

Boots smiled, eyes sharp and the curve of his lips grim. "Good. You'll need that."

"Si-" Cutting himself off, Vinci forced himself to use Boots name, but it felt wrong to address a superior so casually. "Boots. What's going on?"

"You've heard of Columbia?"

"A little. Ventanna talked about it."

"Then know this; the status quo is broken. It's not coming back. The Pentad is scrambling to find a solution to the problems we find ourselves confronted by. Svalinn has asked for a meeting with you, and I believe you ought to hear what he has to say. Make a good impression, sergeant. You represent the Stratocracy the way you always have. Dismissed."

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[SmokeRichards]

Armored boots clacked on polished marble floors as he strode forward, heading for the large double doors directly ahead of him. As he approached, the guardsmen on either side grabbed a handle and swung the doors open.

Pausing a moment after entering, Vinci gave the room a once over as the doors boomed shut behind him. Then he strode forward once more, passing dimly lit paintings and stone columns holding up the roof. In the corners of the rooms were shadows hiding Vanguard specialists, Vinci's eyes keen enough to make out their figures with ease. Those were ignored.

Svalinn didn't need guards the same way Boots or the Navarch didn't need guards, but for some reason, their advisors always insisted they were necessary, even when they weren't.

Ahead of him, on a raised section of the floor, was a solid throne made entirely of stone, the back of the chair higher than Vinci was when he stood straight. Sitting on it, chin resting on a fist and elbow resting on the chiseled arms rest was the man Vinci had come to see.

Sneakers, blue jeans and an imported Canary T-shirt were not the clothes he expected a ruler to have. To any Bet cape, and most Myrmdoms as well, the lack of a mask was unnerving in itself, the casual breaking of an important social taboo. But that was something that no one would ever breathe a word about to the man peering down at him from his throne.

Being able to see the way Svalinn's eyes gleamed should've made Vinci feel better. Most in his position would've only seen a hint of the face, the rest of The Tyrant's body concealed by shadows.

Instead, sweat beaded Vinci's brow.

This was a powerful man, both on and off the battlefield. Seeing Svalinn take to the field once had been enough to answer every question Vinci had ever had about the man, and then some.

Svalinn, Princeps of Vanguard, was a living legend whose legend failed to do him justice.

Standing on the raised section directly in front of Svalinn without fear or anger was a woman Vinci had never seen before. Wearing a shape suit, smooth gray locks spilling out from under a fedora, Vinci sucked in a quiet breath through clenched teeth as he watched a hand cut through the air in a sharp motion, certain that he was about to see somebody die.

Instead of the instant death he knew was coming, Svalinn nodded as if she were an equal.

Who was this woman that she could act like this in front of Svalinn and live?

Standing next to the doors, Vinci's wings bristled, moving in short, jerky motions. The hair on the back of his neck prickled; this conversation felt dangerous to watch as if he shouldn't be there. But instead of leaving, Vinci stood, hands clasped in front of himself like he was a schoolchild waiting for the adults to conclude their business.

Finally, Svalinn gave the woman a nod, and she turned, heading towards him.

As she approached, Vinci stepped to the side, giving her a wide berth. While he didn't know who she was, Vinci was no fool.

The woman in the fedora didn't spare a single glance for him as she passed, the doors swinging open.

Vinci swallowed hard, lifting his chin as he turned his attention to Svalinn. His turn.

The doors boomed shut behind him.

The walk to the throne felt like an eternity as he approached, the only sound in the room was the click-click-click of his boots on stone.

His right hand twitched, the fingers wanting to curl before Vinci restrained himself. It wasn't that he was intimidated. He wasn't! But it was hard to look at Svalinn, with his white hair and piercing eyes that stared through him, and not feel the weight of ages bearing down on him. Svalinn was a first generation. Fifty years of experience as a Parahuman. Triggered shortly after the fall of Sentinel, as the ADG burned their way through the territory that would eventually become Vanguard while warlords rampaged and raped their way through the ashes.

Five years, it was whispered. Five years waging a one-man war against literal armies.

And Svalinn had won.

Or so they said. But Vinci had seen the man fight twice. He believed.

If there was a single reason Atlas wasn't still in a dark age where Iso-humans were cattle and Parahumans did as they wanted, where they wanted, it was the man sitting in front of him.

So, no. He was not intimidated. But it would be a lie to say he wasn't a little nervous.

For the length of Vinci's approach, Svalinn was still, the only sign he was alive the slow, measured rise and fall of the chest.

Stopping directly in front of the throne, Vinci straightened his spine but refused to bow, something that was against every one of the limited etiquette classes Vinci'd endured.

It wasn't much, but Vinci bowed to no one. Never again would he be on his knees. This was his truth.

A low rumble came from Svalinn, and it took Vinci longer than it should've to realize the man was laughing. "At ease," came the barked command.

It was instinctual. Upon hearing that sharp tone which gave orders and demanded instant obedience, Vinci spread his feet shoulder-width apart and clasped his hands behind his back. Seconds later, heat rushed to his cheeks as he flushed.

The silence was oppressive as Svalinn examined him from head to toe.

Then, finally, Svalinn offered a slight, near imperceptible nod. An aged, mature voice with a little gravel in it rang out in the chamber. "The amount of attention you have managed to gather is impressive, considering the short amount of time taken to garner it. Right now, I could make a sizable book with nothing but the names of the various agencies, organizations, groups, and independent thinkers trying to unravel your secrets as we speak."

Underneath Vinci's helmet, lips pursed together. "You think I should disappear?" Out of all the leaders on Atlas, Svalinn was most concerned with secrecy, but it didn't make sense. If anything, it would've been Boots who should've given the order. Svalinn was the enforcer, Vinci served Boots, not Svalinn.

Svalinn shook his head. "I am not displeased by the recent turn of events." A chuckle rang out. "The opposite, in fact." Glancing to the side, Svalinn gestured at the floor in front of his throne. "Bring a seat for our guest. A stool. I doubt a chair would be comfortable with those wings."

Vinci did his best not to start as a feminine figure clad in ceremonial armor appeared out of thin air to the left of Svalinn's throne. Walking through a door to the right, she returned with a plush, padded stool, and set it down in front of him.

"Leave us."

Three more figures appeared out of midair, two on the right of the throne, another on the left.

As the last one filed through the door on the right, followed by the more obvious guards in the corners, Vinci wished they would come back. At least then, it hadn't felt like he was the only one trapped in a cage with a tiger.

Svalinn leaned against his armrest and gestured towards the stool. "Be seated."

Vinci gingerly sat.

"For a boy who has seen fewer winters than I have digits, you have a talent for finding trouble that few have, and fewer still survive."

Vinci rubbed his left bracer, feeling the scar underneath twinge. "I don't look for it."

"And I never suggested that you did. Yet, your name still graces my ears when I least expect it. Tell me, how much do you know between the fall of Sentinel and the founding of the Vanguard?"

"Very little," He admitted, tucking his wings tighter behind his back.

"I am not surprised. It was a time of great upheaval. Of change. It is not the first time Atlas has irreversibly changed. It changed when Sentinel first set foot on the planet, with their madness, and machines. It changed when they died. It changed when I founded Vanguard. It changed when Patchland was eradicated, root and branch. And it will change again in the future. Did you know my advisors counseled against the devastation levied on Blood Moon for their transgressions?"

"I'm sure they had their reasons." The words were suitably polite and crafted to mean nothing.

"They did." The corner of Svalinn's mouth twitched. "They feared it would attract too much attention. That Atlas would be at risk of discovery."

Vinci hesitated. Perhaps it wasn't his place, but the advisors had a point. "If everyone is looking for us, then they will find us." It was inevitable. Even the deepest burrows could be dug up if enough people had shovels and were willing to dig.

Svlalinn nodded. "Indeed."

"Then why didn't you listen to them?"

Svalinn leaned back in his chair. "Because they live in the now, and it is my job to look towards the future. Atlas cannot be kept secret, not forever. Sooner or later, Styx will die. Already, the man is old. My advisors worry about being found. I worry about how it will happen. Tell me, did Boots inform you why you are here?"

"Boots was vague. He said you'd fill in the blanks."

Svalinn stood up and gestured for Vinci to do the same.

Vinci did so.

"Come. Walk with me." Svalinn said.

Vinci kept pace with Svalinns long, loping strides as the man headed for the doors.

"Disclosure for the Prometheus project has always been a matter of when not if. Under my watch, Atlas has become strong. Three years ago, we achieved a momentous milestone that few know about; for the first time since the fall of Sentinel, we are capable of independence from the supply chains of Bet. If it became necessary, we could destroy the portal and survive with only minor repercussions. Choregos Charter advocated for it. But why should we? The things we import most from Bet isn't industrial equipment. It's parahumans. Ideas. Technological designs. Entertainment. These are all things we are unable to produce ourselves due to our low population and infrastructure prioritizing essentials, and little else. Thus, as of late, my focus has shifted from concealment to the possibility of a controlled disclosure, one favorable to Vanguard."

"And the Hussars." Svalinn might be in it for the people under his protection, but Vinci had a different, but similar set of priorities.

Svalinn nodded his head. "For all the peoples of Atlas. Trade, full trade, not just minuscule amounts of technology we smuggle in, would benefit us all immensely. Bet would gain access to the significant amounts of natural resources we have to offer, and we would be able to barter for goods shipped directly from their industrial centers, to say nothing of the experience our Myrmdoms have to offer or the raw numbers Bet could provide."

Ahead of them, the doors opened as they approached, and they entered a hallway filled with windows looking out on the courtyard below, one filled to the brim with people rushing to and fro, moving between the various administration buildings Vanguard required to govern over nearly ten million people.

"Several problems had to be overcome. The first was danger. All politics are a projection of force. If one wishes to keep what they have, others must know, beyond the barest shadow of doubt, that what they desire is something that cannot be taken by force. A message needed to be sent.

Vinci's stride faltered for a split second, head snapping around to look at Svalinn. "Blood Moon."

Svalinn continued staring straight ahead, but he did nod. "Indeed, the murder of the Canopus daughter-" Vinci stiffened, and Svalinn snorted, tossing his head. "Do not be surprised. Winter Star believes that they are clever, yet they forget the Canopus is a relatively new player to a very old game. I have ears everywhere. I knew his wife was pregnant mere days after the Canopus did. The daughter was a useful excuse, and only that; an excuse. Even as we speak, a great many intelligence agencies scramble like maddened dogs, seeking the organization that decapitated a crime syndicate with a military power that rivaled the army of a small country. Every day they find nothing. And every day, they jump at the shadows a little more."

"Too scary, and it won't matter how dangerous you seem," Even cornered rats fought back. There were threats that were too dangerous to mess with, and past that threats that were too dangerous to leave alive to grow.

"Which is where the second part of the equation must come in. Bet has seen our clenched fist. Now, it must be introduced to an open hand."

It was an easy-to-follow train of logic. What Svalinn was speaking of sounded a lot like diplomacy, and the only diplomacy he did involved a fist. "It sounds like you need a hero." Which begged the question; why was Vinci here?

"Atlas doesn't produce many heroes."

"What about Vanguard?" He waved a hand at the bustle of people down below. "You and your soldiers have fought for your own longer than I've been alive. That's heroic."

"Heroism," Svalinn nodded, "But not something done by heroes." Svalinn pointed at a line of marching men in identical uniforms. "Look at them. I know for a fact that mixed into those ranks are Parahumans. Myrmdoms that have shed blood for Verge without the honor of being her Cadre. There is something to be admired about that, but they are not heroes. They are soldiers."

He glanced up at Svalinn, who towered over him. "I'm a soldier too."

"You are also a child. One ripe for rebranding. A hero is an ideal. Through word and deed, they inspire people to do better. To find the path that leads them to the best person they could possibly be, and then inspires them to be brave, and take that first step. Soldiers are the bulwarks that protect the citizenry. They do what must be done, no matter what that is, and they do it quietly, professionally, and without complaint. Soldiers do not make good heroes."

A part of him resented how all his experience had just been swept aside, in favor of pointing out his age, one of the least important things about him if he had any say in the matter, and he did. Vinci lifted his shoulders up in a half-shrug. "Why tell me?" he asked, a rough edge to his tone. "I'm no different." If anything, he was worse. The people down there were regulars. Vinci was Cadre. Unlike them, he shed blood and hydraulic fluid on a regular basis.

"You are being told because while examples of the finest Atlas has to offer were seeded throughout North America and Europe years ago, something is still lacking. Atlas has examples of Independents. Heroes, affiliated, or otherwise. But we have no Ward."

No.

It was an instinctive rejection, one so deep, that by the time he realized what was happening, his lips were already moving. "Look elsewhere," Vinci snapped.

The word echoed in the horrified silence as Vinci froze, unsure if he needed to fight or run.

Desperate, he searched for a justification, the first one he found spilling from his lips in a torrent of words. "I'm too public. Too bloody. When the truth comes out, it won't look good."

Svalinn arched an imperious eyebrow. "Stand down. I'm not going to jeopardize relations that existed since before you were born just to reprimand a literal child." It was only after Vinci relaxed that Svalinn continued. "Facts can be spun any way we desire should it be necessary. It will not. Your past is a boon. You are not here to appeal to the people of Bet, though that is a goal you should pursue with all the zeal you show in your other assignments, no, you are here for our people. The Myrmdom clades represent the largest community of immigrants on Atlas, yet we only number in the hundreds. Despite their experiences in cryo, the land of your birth is alien to the people we both protect. They do not know Bet, and they fear it the way Bet will fear us. You," Svalinn said, turning to point a finger at Vinci's chest, "are a symbol. A famous one. You will lead the way as you always have."

Something in Vinci's gut coiled. He didn't like the sound of that, not one bit. It wasn't a threat, but he felt threatened, and threats were something he loathed even if there was nothing to be done about this one.

Svalinn looked at Vinci, taking in tense muscles and quivering wings. "The Protectorate knows," he said into the silence.

The world seemed to freeze as all the unease crystallized into fear. "Knows what?" Vinci whispered into the silence, refusing to believe.

"They know you were betrayed by a hero."

Vinci went rigid, like brittle glass.

"They know you were tortured."

Fists clenched and feathers puffed up, like the hair on an angry cat.

"And they know the Nine had you for a time."

Vinci took a single step back, reeling from the unexpected, forceful reveal of everything he'd left behind. Things he would've been happy to never hear about again. In no way was he prepared for the flurry of conflicting emotions Svalinn's declarations dragged to the surface like an erupting volcano.

Prominent among them was hurt. After his sister, he'd been so certain that he knew pain and what it was to hurt. Her loss had left a gaping hole in his heart that would never heal right. In hindsight, that had been equal parts foolishness and arrogance. Life had seen fit to correct that arrogance. What had happened that fateful day in Chicago, what Minstral had done to him hurt deeply. Not the same way his sister had hurt, but no less shattering for it.

Even as an echo of that day, what he felt now was enough to stagger.

There was bitterness too, sour on his tongue. The rancid taste of a young boy promised the stars, and offered a boot grinding his head into the much instead.,

Betrayal, because he'd trusted Minstral, maybe even loved him.

Anger. Shatters wrongs that would never be put right crying out. A sense of justice that had been irreparably damaged.

Loss. For more than he could put into words, but most of all for the last of his childish innocence.

Shame. Over all the weakness he had hidden, and a secret that another now knew.

All of this, it mixed together, roiled into a rancid, stomach-churning mixture, one that shocked him with its intensity. It scared him.

And fear turned to anger, anger into aggression.

His voice went as cold and hard as arctic ice as he clutched at the tattered threads of self-control, and twined them together in a mask. "Why tell me?"

Svalinn leaned forward. "Because if they know, it is certain others will soon find out. That information will spread. You are a talking, walking, breathing scandal that calls into question the PRT's effectiveness in its oversight of the Protectorate, a living monument to their error. One day, sooner, rather than later, someone will leak it. When the press finds out, you will become a spectacle. The PRT's enemies will use you as a political club to beat the PRT with."

"You know what happened. And you still want me to join the Wards," Vinci hissed, furious.

"Yes."

The careful mask of ice and control, hastily crafted in his shock, cracked at that simple statement, allowing the maelstrom of emotions within to peak out in all of their hideous glory. It started slow. A simple question laced with all of his bitterness. "Why should I care?" Lips peeled back underneath his helmet, a wordless snarl. "They betrayed me. And you want me to join them?"

It was absurd, the idea that such a thing was even reasonable.

He laughed, a sound like broken glass, jagged, and full of pain, and verging on hysteric, not because it was funny, but because it felt like something he should do. When things seemed silly, people laughed, right? Well, he didn't think this was very funny.

His voice dropped, the puzzled and confused tone that a dog, if a dog could speak, would have if someone had kicked it for no reason. "They hurt me," He whispered. Turning to look up at Svalinn, he wanted to know, badly. "Why would you ever ask this of me? Why would Boots ever ask this of me?" He just didn't understand. "Why would I ever agree to this?"

What possible reason could there be?

Some reason? No reason at all?

The emotions within clawed at him, taunted, whispered, demanding action.

He didn't know how he was supposed to feel because there was so much about this that hurt, and he didn't want to be here. He wanted to be moving, fighting, killing, all because he was afraid, and angry, and sad, and he was beginning to breathe too much, and he didn't like that either, and-

All those feelings were gathered into a ball and buried, just like Aphrodite had taught him. A padlock was placed on a chest and the chest sunk into the ground. Each time a new flicker of anger or shock appeared, those were buried as well.

"Bet is a dying world."

For such a short, simple statement, it was enough to jerk Vinci out of his own thoughts. Still, Svalinn continued speaking, unabated.

"A city, dead, every three months. It is unsustainable. Everyone knows it, though they cower and hide, refusing to see the truth in front of their eyes. The reality is nightmarish. You hate the PRT, I sympathize with this. But is your rage at the injustice done to you so severe that you would doom humanity for petty vengeance?"

Rage. Rage wasn't the word he would've picked. He didn't hate the PRT, he hated what had been done to him. He was afraid of the PRT and wanted to be left alone. That part of him was the same one that wanted to turn on his heel and leave. He didn't have to listen to this. But that wasn't right, now was it? Because he'd sworn an oath to put the people he served above his personal wants and needs. So, even though it hurt, even though he was afraid, both the hurt and the fear were set aside so Vinci could force words through gritted teeth, hating every damned second of it. "You have my attention."

Svalinn nodded, and turned away, looking out the window. "It is worse than I had ever imagined," he murmured, the sound like a shout in the dead silence of the ornate hallway. "Long-term forecasts indicate that within forty years, there will be no civilization. In another two hundred, the last human on Bet will die.

"That… Sounds like the thing Project Prometheus was designed to prevent."

"It is. This is exactly why the ADG was created. This is why the portal was made." Svalinn shook his head. "I fear it will not be enough." Svalinn's fingers grazed the surface of the window. "Endbringers. A fitting name for a harbinger of the apocalypse. It has been nearly twenty years since the first appeared, and yet we are no closer to beating them, or even finding out where they came from than we were twenty years ago. And with every battle humanity bleeds a little more. Tell me, what happens if, when the last human on Bet falls to their relentless onslaught, they come here?"

"Not possible."

"Oh?" Svalinn seemed grimly amused as he raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you so certain."

"Blow the portal, they will have no way through."

Svalinns chuckle was bitter. "Sometimes, I forget that, for all your experience, you, and those like you are young enough to not have been present for the scouring." At Vinci's look, Svalinn shook his head. "I will ask you a different question. How did the Endbringers arrive on Bet in the first place? The white bitch came from the dark side of the moon. Leviathan appeared from the ocean, hailing from strange currents where no man dares swim. Behemoth came from deep below. Do you truly believe that was their original resting place? Why show themselves now? There has been all of human history for them to wreak havoc, and yet it is only now, the second we get weapons capable of beginning to fight them that they appear."

"Monstrously powerful parahumans." Some hate escaped. He grabbed that and slammed it back into its box. This was important. He needed to pay attention.

"They could be," Svalinn admitted, "But I do not believe that, and neither should you. There is nothing human about those things." Svalinn shook his head. "I do not believe in coincidences." There was a moment of silence before Svalinn spoke again. "I may be the tyrant of the Verge, but I do care for my people. I fear one day, it will be Leviathan that appears in our oceans, or the Xiz in our space, perhaps Behemoth that sets out seismic sensors shaking, or some other factor, one carefully concealed. Maybe even something different. Something new… We are not Bet. Of the capes we have, at least half were poached from troubled areas of Bet. One attack. Two. Maybe three. We do not have the cities to lose them as Bet does. Even a single hard blow in the right place would cripple our infrastructure for years. We centralized to better defend against the ADG, but an Endbringer would turn that strength into the worst kind of weakness."

"And… If you're right... If the Endbringers move on to Atlas? What will you do?"

Svalinn clasped his hands behind his back, looking through the window, down at the courtyard. "Buy time. I am far from the only one concerned with the collapse of civilization. I and others hope that with enough time, someone will trigger with the power to destroy these abominations once and for all."

"That's it?" He resisted the urge to wrap himself in his wings. Something must've gone wrong with his armor's climate control systems because he felt cold. He wasn't supposed to feel cold, and he didn't like it. He grabbed that feeling and slammed it in a box too. "That's the plan?" Hope?"

"It is the best I have. Throw the torch of human civilization to the next generation, and hope that it stays lit."

"And if it doesn't? What then?"

Svalinn turned his head and looked down at Vinci. "Then I dearly hope that I am wrong, and you are right. These are the fears of an old man. But they are not fears I have been able to let go of. I am the one who stands watch over Verge and her people. It is my job to look towards the future, and give warning for threats yet to come."

"And how does my experience with the Slaughterhouse Nine tie into all of this?" There was shock and rage there. Into the box with the others.

"Fate has placed you at a fulcrum. A shatter point. When the truth comes out, and it will, the truth always does, for a brief moment, all eyes shall be on you. The cudgel of public opinion is a mighty thing in the right hands, and you shall be its wielder."

"I could destroy the PRT." Spite. Into the box.

"No." Svalinn shook his head. "Not destroy. But the damage would be grievous. It would take years for them to recover, indeed, if they could recover at all."

"And you want me to… What?" In the privacy of his own thoughts, scenarios leapt to the forethought of his mind, even without the nudging from the fear, which was slammed back into its box as soon as it appeared. Join his betrayers. Lick the boot. Kneel. Instead, he said something different. What he hoped they were asking, instead of that other, hateful idea. "Be quiet?"

Svalinn hummed, fingers tapping on the window seal. "I want you to strengthen their position, so that they may better fight against the Endbringers. And when the time comes, I want you to strengthen ours. Show our people that cooperation is possible. That grudges both minor and great can be set aside for the common good."

"No." There was nothing he wanted less. "I won't. Not unless you force me, hurt me. And even then, I might say no." It was supposed to be strong, a declaration of intent, instead, when it reached his ears, it sounded like the panicked denial of a child. His fists clenched into a tight ball, so tight, it felt like his fingers might break. He hated- The hate went into the box, so did the panic.

"Pain." Svalinn uttered the word like a curse. "Pain is the tool of clumsy manipulators."

"You use it." Svalinn had to. This was the Tyrant of the Verge. Everyone knew who he was; a man not to be crossed.

"No." Svalinn shook his head. "Such petty tyranny is how revolts start. I am powerful, but I am still but one man. I would be overthrown. You are not unique powerwise, but cases such as yours are rare. Had the scandal remained buried, I would have chosen someone else to be the Ward. An unwilling tool is of limited use in making all of Atlas look good, and there are those who beg to serve."

He crossed his arms, hugged them to his chest more like. Once, he'd dreamed of being a hero. Wanted it more than anything in the world. Back then, he'd dreamed of reaching for the stars and having the stars reach right back and grab him, lifting him to greatness. It had been an empty, childish dream, something to distract from the hole in his chest the loss of his sister had left.

But that had been long ago. Before the Nine.

"I'm no hero."

"In this world we are cursed to live in, few are."

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[SmokeRichards]

As Vinci walked through the streets of Verge, the hustle and bustle no longer reminded him of Emilton, and the feeling of home which came with it. Instead, shadows loomed and whispers lingered at the edge of his hearing. Every civilian that smiled at him turned into figures with deranged eyes and mocking leers.

They saw all his scars. Both the obvious and the hidden.

Why was he so weak?

Vinci didn't know.

He wanted to lash out and turn each face he saw into bloodied mush spattered over fifty feet. That urge would never be surrendered to. Once, one day long ago, Vinci had learned that people were fragile. They broke too easy, like wet paper. And since that day, Vinci had never been able to forget.

Dealing death was his trade, but he carried enough guilt that would never fade as is.

These citizens, who laughed and leered, and looked at him with masks that spoke of trust were just that; citizens. Perhaps not his to protect, but they looked to Myrmdoms for protection and guidance.

Vinci would never make them feel the way others had made him feel just because he was afraid.

He owed them too much.

So he stumbled through the street, blinking hard in a futile effort to stop the frustrated tears that brimmed in his eyes as he made his way to the diplomatic quarters.

It seemed like such a simple thing for Svalinn or Boots to ask, but they hadn't been there. They hadn't felt the terror or lived the fear as Vinci drowned in horrible, heart-wrenching betrayal. He could still feel them. Those cold manacles, wrapping around his wrists, blood trickling from underneath where skin had rubbed raw. The collar around his neck. That warm, soft, almost loving finger lifting his chin as a monster looked at him with pity. And then broke him with the truth.

Everyone thought he was strong. The people who stepped out of his way as he walked down the street thought he was strong. Major Lewis and Colonel Sokolik placed burdens on his shoulders because they believed he could handle it.

He was strong.

So why was it that an old memory could steal everything that made him feel powerful, leaving a scared, terrified child in its wake?

Why was he so weak?

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Vinci slumped down into the seat in front of Boots, feeling numb, tired, and sore.

Muddy brown eyes, like the churned-up dirt on his breastplate, glanced up from the report, latching onto Vinci's shattered breastplate. "Should I be concerned about the imminent arrival of a representative for our furious host informing me that he wishes to speak at my earliest convenience?"

Vinci shook his head. "I needed to blow off some steam. One of the Specialists was kind enough to point me to their training rounds."

"Are they all still alive?" Boots returned his attention to his papers.

"She, actually," Vinci muttered, feeling a little bitter. "And yes."

Pausing, Boots arched an eyebrow. "You did win, correct?"

"Yeah. But I'm gonna have bruises."

"My sympathies."

It would never cease to amaze Vinci how certain people could say one thing and convey that they meant the exact opposite. Case in point, Boots' bored tone. Glaring at the floor, Vinci muttered, "Better a controlled release than an explosion."

Setting the papers down, Boots gave Vinci his undivided attention. "And is that a concern?" Boots asked, the bored bureaucrat gone and the leader of the Stratocracy's military in its place.

Vinci's posture straightened out of habit. "I'm stressed but green, nowhere near lashing out."

After a long, hard stare, Boots gave a curt nod and turned back to his papers. "See that does not change, soldier."

"Yes sir," Vinci whispered softly.

"How did your conversation with Svalinn go," Boots finally asked after a long silence.

"Do you know what he asked?"

"I do."

"And you agree with him?"

"Agree? Agree is a strong word." Picking up a pen, Boots signed the paper in front of him without a flourish. "Agree implies I support what is going on. I do not. I do, however, recognize its necessity. You are and were a peculiar case but once you joined your past became irrelevant as far as the Service is concerned. Or, at least, that is how reality should be. Unfortunately, sentiment is a luxury the Stratocracy can ill afford."

"You want me in the Wards." Vinci felt vulnerable as he said those quiet words. "You know what they did to me."

Sighing, Boots stood, walking over to the cabinet in the corner and pulling out a crystal bottle full of a rich brown liquid along with two glasses. Returning, he popped the cork and poured a generous amount into both cups. One was offered to Vinci, who took it with a mumbled 'thanks'. "Once, many years ago, I swore an oath to safeguard the people entrusted to me as Emil lay in my lap dying. You swore a similar one. It was, I think, a heavy oath no one your age should be asked to bear. But you did, shouldering the responsibility and horror of the choices Cadreship forced upon you with the dignity, honor, and grace worthy of someone decades your senior." Sitting back down, Boots held his glass out. "Now, more than ever, we need you Vinci Astera. We need you to do something that no one has ever done before."

Taking off his helmet, Vinci tapped his glass against Boots with the chime of crystal, then took a gulp. The fiery liquid burned as it went down, but tonight Vinci relished the sensation, using it to ground himself in a world that no longer made any sense, even as his Bondmate drifted into the oblivion of sleep. "I don't want this."

"I know." And to his credit, Boots sounded like he regretted that. "Asking you to be a child is perhaps the hardest thing we've ever asked of you. The task that lies ahead, the choice I have decided is right for this nation, is not a simple one. There will be resistance. To the people of Bet, we will appear as barbarians. Our ways are savage, our people are dangerous, and we are not to be trusted. To Atlas, Bet-born looks like monsters. Everyone grew up hearing tales of Sentinel. They know it was the failure of Bet Tinkers that damned us all to this living hell."

Vinci interjected. "But it's also Myrmdoms that protect them now."

Boots raised his glass before taking a measured sip. "A valid point. Most handle this contradiction by ignoring it. Myrmdoms like you are one of the 'good ones'. An exception to a terrible rule. And who could begrudge them considering the suffering Bet brought to an uninhabited planet? The Viroites do not care that Sentinel had the best of intentions. They only care what was wrought."

"You say that like you aren't one," Vinci said, echoing what Svalinn had said hours earlier.

"A Viroite?" Boots asked, waiting. When Vinci nodded his head, Boots shook his own. "Once, but not anymore. I cannot be a Viroite no more than I can be a Bet-born. While our people came from Ancile, many of my most important soldiers are of Bet. To favor one side over the other, or to even appear to do so would be to fracture the unity that has allowed the Stratocracy to survive the death of Emil. I am an icon, and icons cannot be humans. We are something more."

"And you want me to be one." Resting the glass in his lap, Vinci held the clear cup with white fingers. Any tighter, and the crystal would shatter.

"You already are one."

This was too much. Bringing the glass to his lips, Vinci drank until every last drop of brandy was gone.

Boots picked up the bottle, refilling Vinci's cup as a fire in Vinci's belly spread a warm glow that softened the hard edges of the day. "Perhaps it is not a position you are ready for."

"You've been grooming me for it," Vinci muttered. "Plastered my face over everything, even if you didn't make me attend most of the parades."

"We've made no secret that we see great potential in you." With a clink, Boots set the bottle down on the coffee table, leaning back into his chair so he could nurse his brandy. "You are young and powerful, and while the odds of you reaching your majority are poor, you've already survived the six-month period which skews the statistics. What will kill you now is chance and stupidity, not lack of experience."

"I'm no good with people."

"We know. But we would've forced you to learn despite that. You will never lead the Stratocracy. Even if true charisma could be taught, your powers are too useful to put you behind a desk. We need you in the field. But in time, you could make a powerful strike group commander."

And those were charismatic, or at least not total klutzes when it came to people like Vinci. "Then why not send one of them to Bet." Vinci stared down at the glass of alcohol in his lap, a miserable grimace on his face. "I am not good enough to do what you need to."

"I cannot spare any of them at this time."

"But you can spare me." Afterwards, Vinci took another sip to hide his wince at how bitter he sounded.

"Spare?" Boots gave a dry huff, a wry curve to his lips. "No. I can't spare you. But I couldn't spare you when you decided to cash in all your vacation days to go start a diplomatic incident on Bet either. The Stratocracy can spare nothing. But when need be, we will move men and equipment around to find that precious slack in spite of our dire circumstances. Filling the hole you will leave on Icarus Squad will not be easy, but we will survive. The Stratocracy needs you on Bet more."

"Why does it have to be me?" Vinci lowered the half-full glass from his lips, wishing his metabolism was cooler. Right now he wanted to be drunk, and even if he chugged the entire bottle on the table, it wouldn't do more than give him a buzz.

"Because you are a symbol of the next generation and the hope they bring with them. It's what our citizens see when they look at you."

Vinci held the glass that much tighter. "They're wrong," he whispered. "I'm just a tool, a killer. Nothing hopeful about that." He'd kill until someone killed him. Where was the future in that?

"Maybe. That doesn't change the fact that they believe in you. You go into burning cities and pull breathing bodies out. Families crying as they are reunited is a powerful image. Perhaps you are not the hero they deserve, but our citizens trust you will fight for them with everything they have. If you couldn't save them, then it was because they couldn't be saved, nothing more."

"I didn't ask for this."

"You didn't have to. Actions speak louder than your words, something that more than a few of my advisors need to learn. Yours spoke on your behalf."

"Helped along by the propaganda department." Vinci's voice was hoarse.

"I won't deny it." Boots shook his head. "We have strayed. Whether you like it or not, you are a symbol, and I do not have time to train another one, nor would they have the impact you do. Propaganda can only go so far, it was your actions that made their work so effective. Every person you pulled out of the burning rubble is an advocate on your behalf. You've been scrupulous to avoid throwing your weight behind any groups that have formed within the Cadre itself, but your support among the Iso-humans is substantial. If you throw your weight behind our efforts to reunite with Bet, it will speak volumes even without a single word passing your lips."

Lifting up a single hand, Vinci looked at it and imagined he could see the blood dripping off it. "You don't want me. When the truth comes out, Bet will be repulsed by what I am. They will think it monstrous. I can support this scheme of yours from here."

Boots pinned Vinci with a piercing gaze. "If an alliance is to last, then Bet must acknowledge that there are uncomfortable truths of Atlas that they must live with, and we must do the same. There will be others better with words to win the hearts and sway the minds on Bet. You are not there for them. We need you there for us."

"Do the Cadre agree with this course of action?"

"I am the leader of the Hussars." Fire flashed in Boots' eyes while his voice cracked like a whip. Closing his eyes, Boots took a deep breath. When he opened them again, they were cool and hard. "The Cadre," he said, enunciating each word with perfect clarity, "will fall in line. Any Tier One that mistakes my mercy for weakness will learn that it is neither."

"And does that apply to me as well?"

The quiet question hung in the air.

Shoulders sagging, Boots ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. "No, soldier. You have a choice. I need you willing, otherwise, this whole affair will fall flat on its face. Better that I fill this gap with someone no one recognizes and build them into a middling symbol than have a fulcrum like you displaying your resentment with every action you take."

The silence stretched out. For a minute, then five, then ten, Vinci nursed his glass of alcohol as the sharp, painful lines of the world fuzzed at the edges. When his glass ran out, Boots refilled it.

Vinci knew he was being courted. It was well within Boots' right to order Vinci to do this, and it was Vinci's duty to follow that order once given. That he hadn't done that and was instead forced to waste time better spent elsewhere asking Vinci instead meant that an order wasn't an option.

"I could say no," Vinci mused, playing with the thought.

"You could," Boots said. "Will you?"

Vinci wanted to. He really did. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, the voice of someone who was afraid to be heard. The voice of someone who felt small. "I never wanted this."

From the look in Boots' eyes, the compassion and understanding, the man understood that Vinci wasn't just talking about what he was being asked to do. "Neither did I."

 

[SmokeRichards]

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Armored boots splashed as Vinci walked along the shoreline of the beach, just inside that divide where the lapping waves met the sea. His feathers swayed in the night breeze, pale white pinyons seeming to glow underneath the light of the moon. The night was peaceful, but not for Vinci, and it was hard to explain why. No one would understand.

Well… That wasn't quite true, but the number of people that would was so small that they might as well not exist.

The problem was the fact he felt for two. That wasn't where he lost most listeners. He lost people when he tried to explain that feeling for two wasn't simple.

It was like the path he walked down on the beach at the divide where the sea met the earth. It ebbed and flowed, the divide shifting as emotions lapped at each other. Often, that divide was distinct, and it was easy for Vinci to tell what was his and what was theirs. Others, it blended together, and it wasn't possible to tell anything other than there were places where they shared and places that they didn't.

He could tell strangers as best he could what living the way he did was like, and they would nod their heads and say they understood. But he could see in their eyes that they didn't, because their eyes were always missing the deep sympathy that would've told them they did.

Nowadays, Vinci preferred to say 'it's complicated' rather than explain why it was complicated. It worked better.

Feeling for two was complicated because he could be doing something he liked and he'd be sad. There would be no reason for it, and in the end, he'd chalk it up as 'Bondmate'. Later, when the lines started to define once more, they'd feel sad, and he'd be happier.

And sometimes, like right now, there would be two separate emotions, but what his partner felt didn't mesh with what he felt, two different feelings grating as they met like a splinter wiggling underneath his skin. It never caused physical pain, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless.

Times like these, he didn't bother trying to sleep. It wasn't possible without drugs, and Vinci was terrified of sleep aids.

So here he was, walking on a quiet beach far enough outside the city that he wouldn't be disturbed as his partner, whoever they were, flashed through a dizzying array of emotions in the time it took him to blink. If emotions were scenery, Vinci would've been sick. As was, he was doing his best to center himself in who he was and what he felt instead of getting sucked into the wake of their emotions as the whirlpool did its best to drag him under.

So when the low purring growl of a motorcycle made itself audible over the lapping of water at his feet and the crash of the waves nearby, Vinci's eyebrow arched.

The entire point of coming out here had been relative peace in a place he wouldn't be disturbed.

Glancing over, he watched as a sleek two-wheeler with reinforced wheels trampled over the grass as it made its way from the nearby access road and onto the beach. Riding it was a hero he recognized from the local lineup; a slender finger wearing a star-spangled bandanna over their mouth, and the ugliest and most impractical excuse for camouflaged fatigues he'd ever seen. The red, white, and blue pattern highlighted its wearing silhouette instead of blurring it, a terrible sin in Vinci's opinion, not that anyone cared.

Fifty-fifty odds Miss Militia was here to attempt to take him into custody.

A soft sigh echoed inside his helmet as he considered whether to flee or stand and fight.

He'd win if it came to a fight, but what was the point? The Protectorate wasn't his enemy. At the same time, running only delayed the inevitable.

With that thought, Vinci did a quick sweep of the area, scanning for hidden threats, snipers, or changes in the landscape that might indicate the presence of a stranger. Finding none, his face softened underneath the helmet.

Miss Militia had come alone.

It was a good sign in the same way a strike team was a bad one.

Squaring his shoulders, Vinci turned to face her as he prepared to establish the tone he and the Protectorate would take with each other going forward.

The motorcycle came to a stop, a polished boot engaging the kickstand as Miss Militia threw her leg over the seat.

Vinci waited for her to come to him in ankle-deep seawater.

Miss Militia stopped just shy of the lapping waves. "Hello," she called, the corner of her eye creasing slightly. It was an expression designed to put others at ease, but the large green barrel poking over her shoulder from the rifle slung across her back ruined the effort.

"Miss Militia." Vinci inclined her head in greeting.

"It seems you know who I am, but I can't say the same," Miss Militia said in a light tone.

Hadn't they- No, they hadn't. Assault hadn't asked Vinci's name before their meeting had ended, had he? "Call me Scorch."

"You're a hard person to meet, Scorch."

"By choice. If I wanted to meet with the PRT, I would've arranged something with Armsmaster. Why are you here?" While he was confident in his abilities to take anything the world could throw at him, that confidence did not cross the line into hubris. Skilled or not, an entire Protectorate team was the kind of force that even Vinci didn't dare to take lightly. Best for him to be gone before her backup arrived. And it would be coming, even if Vinci couldn't figure out why she'd decided to approach him alone.

"You're trespassing, and the owner called the police."

Vinci blinked once, taken aback by the absurdity of the situation. "You came here to tell me… that I'm on somebody's lawn and they want me off?" A giggle escaped his lips. That was insane.

"They seemed more worried about why a cape was pacing on their lonely stretch of the beach, rather than the fact that you didn't ask them permission." Miss Militia raised an eyebrow.

It wasn't like it was some big conspiracy. Vinci rolled his eyes. "The beach is quiet, and the city is loud."

"It gets a little much sometimes, doesn't it?" Miss Militia agreed. "After New York, it didn't surprise me how chaotic a city the size of Brockton can be at night, but for someone used to staying under the radar, I can see why it would be stressful."

Vinci jerked his head at the twinkling band of lights that covered the horizon to the right. "I imagine the city could use you more than this lonely beach could."

"Perhaps." Miss Militia cocked her head. "But the Protectorate believes it is vital we touch base."

The sniper rifle on her back morphed into a pistol on her hip, the handle closer to Miss Militia's hand. Shifting, Miss Militia crossed her arms. "The Protectorate is worried about you. We watch over Brockton Bay and try to bring order to a town that seems intent on tearing itself to shreds on a daily basis. We aren't the best, but we keep the city from devolving into a warzone. Warzones like the one you turned certain neighborhoods into."

Behind his back, Vinci's wings flicked.

The sharp motion drew Miss Militia's eyes. Her tone turned sad. "It doesn't seem like we do enough, does it? For those we can't get to in time or those we fail. They must hate us."

The sudden shift in topic caught Vinci off guard. Did she know about Chicago? Or was it just a statement about the Bay that hit too close to home? He decided to answer as if it were a statement, drawing upon his years in the Tier Ones. "You can't save everyone."

Miss Militia looked into his red lenses. "That doesn't help those we fail, does it?"

"No," Vinci finally said, eyes not leaving Miss Militia for even a moment, words slow and deliberate. "It does not."

Sharp eyes snapped back to Vinci. "Taking down the Merchants was a good deed. But the Protectorate is worried about how you did it. I've seen it before. Vigilantes whose hearts are in the right place, but dance a little too close to the line. Sooner or later, they cross it, then it doesn't matter what they meant to do, we have to bring them in anyways."

That pricked his pride, the assumption that they could make him do anything. "If you have something to say, say it," he challenged.

"You killed a man."

"A man shooting up a school."

"Because you made him desperate, and couldn't handle what happened next." Miss Militia's voice wasn't necessarily unfriendly, but it was firm. A sheriff laying down the law, and expecting it to be obeyed, not a worker in the same field having a friendly chat and forming connections.

"No civilians died."

"And is that all you care about? That no one died? What about the children traumatized by what happened? The vacuum left in the Merchant's wake, and the potential gang war that could tear this city apart as the Empire and the ABB fight over the scraps? You and the team you were working with burned down buildings. That could've spread to other houses. Did you stop to think about that? Did you even care to try? To me, it looks like a bunch of out-of-control Parahumans ran rampant throughout our city without a single thought given to collateral."

"The strikes were precise."

"And the consequences were ignored. A girl who was trying to defend her classmates went to the hospital. She didn't deserve that. None of the students did."

"What do you want me to say?" Biting his lip, Vinci turned away and started walking down the beach even though he hated leaving his back exposed. Moments later, sand crunched as Miss Militia walked by his side. "Mistakes were made," Vinci admitted. "They won't be made again, but that's not a comfort to those who got hurt, is it?"

The bitter echo of her previous words hung in the air between them.

"Taking a band of drug dealers off the streets is a heroic deed," Miss Militia said. "But if your actions cause more harm than the gang you fought, then you are part of the problem. It would force us to act against you."

And there it was. This wasn't an introduction, it was an ultimatum.

Bones popped as Vinci cracked his neck, working his jaw. When he next spoke, the words were hard, carried by an ugly undertone. "Is that it? You're here to take me in?"

Once more, he surveyed the beach, looking for changes. Footprints where there were no people, shimmers of air, patches of sand that didn't look right, anything.

The pistol on her hip morphed into an assault rifle.

That was all he needed to see.

The power at his command roared as it was processed into its final, unstable form.

She would move for her gun.

His fingers would aim down. The blast would fling sand in her eyes. While she was disoriented, another, much more diffuse wave of force would slam into her ankles, sending her tumbling onto the beach.

The dust thrown by his attack would conceal him from the PRT. They would be unable to target him with lethals without the risk of collateral.

Reposition.

The PRT was prepared. He couldn't see where they were, but they were out there. They had to be.

Use his partner's powers, hop three hundred feet down the beach. Weave a shield to protect against sniper fire.

Assess the forces arrayed against him, if visible.

The beach was favorable to him, but if the PRT was confident enough to start things, it was best to think of that advantage as already turned against him.

Reposition.

The city would provide collateral that would keep things down to a manageable level by both sides. Ditch the armor if necessary and blend in with the civilians if he could. If he couldn't, make one last effort to retreat.

If retreat was untenable, switch to hunter-killer rules of engagement.

Die hard.

Miss Militia watched him with wary eyes, but her complete lack of movement was conspicuous in its newfound absence. Each careful word was deliberately said. "I'll be blunt Scorch. The PRT is extremely displeased that your fighting spilled into a school. The fact a man died looks bad. It doesn't matter that you didn't pull the trigger, you are an accessory to what happened. If we asked you to come in, would you?"

"No." He would fight with everything he had to prevent that.

Anchors for his partner's power were cast out, giving him movement.

Carefully, Miss Militia moved her hand farther away from the handle of her assault rifle, even as it flickered through several types of grenade launchers in quick succession before settling on an anti-material rifle. "The PRT is willing to accept that accidents happen, but you're on thin ice. If you push us, we will have no choice but to issue an arrest warrant."

One hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword out of habit more than any actual aggression as he pondered Miss Militia's obvious reluctance to be seen as hostile.

There is something here I'm not seeing.

"You came alone." It wasn't a question, but a statement.

Miss Militia nodded.

If she came alone, then she was either suicidal or… "You are not here to fight."

Again, very slowly, as if she was afraid of making a sudden movement, Miss Militia nodded.

If she was truly alone, then only an absolute fool would do something that could be construed as hostile. And moving up to higher calibers was an act of hostility.

Hmm.

Not all powers were easily controlled. "Your powers are unconscious, and either do, or can respond when you are feeling threatened," Vinci stated, watching her carefully. From the way certain muscles tensed, he knew he'd hit something.

Fuck.

The lethality of Cadre-level operations on Atlas made him too quick to jump to the worst kind of conclusions. The Protectorate was a police force first and foremost, and police preferred de-escalation. Shaking his head, Vinci forced himself to relax. If Miss Militia wasn't here to start something, then he'd be damned if he gave the Protectorate a reason to bring down the hammer. In a lighter tone of voice, he said, "On what charges?"

The hero visibly relaxed.

"Negligence, reckless endangerment, accessory to murder-"

He cut her off, "The most you could get me on is Manslaughter."

Miss Militia lifted a single, cool eyebrow. "It will get you off the streets, and that's what the PRT cares about."

A hard chuckle escaped his lips. Those were the heroes he knew. Ever so practical. She sounded like Minstral and Vinci hated that.

Something in Miss Militia's tone hardened. It was still friendly, but in the way ice was friendly before you slipped on it and broke your arm. "You think this is a laughing matter?"

"Do you?" he replied in an ugly tone born of old hurts and buried bitterness.

"Not at all."

"Lovely. Are we done here?"

There was silence for a few moments, Miss Militia's fingers tapped out a rhythm on her thigh. "You were spotted leaving the city. After several days, we assumed you weren't coming back."

The power at his command was beginning to get a little unruly. Enough had been drawn that it could destabilize itself as the power resonated, something that would only get worse the longer it was held without being used. Separating a few strands, he bled them off, letting the raw power return to the well it came from. The rest he held tighter. "Must've been happy to see me go."

"If I'm being honest, reactions at the rig were… mixed."

Vinci's eyebrows arched. That was unusual. By now he'd made his peace with being unwanted in situations like this. It was what happened when an outsider showed up and made a mess in someone else's town. She had to be lying. It was the only explanation, yet Vinci couldn't see the angle. Why lie if there was no gain? "After the trouble I've caused you, you should all be happy if I'm not around to make more."

Miss Militia hesitated.

Vinci lost his patience. She was wasting his time. "Spit it out."

"Since Assault met you on Halloween, we were thinking about introducing you to the Wards-"

Vinci flinched. Once, he'd wanted to be a Ward. But that was long ago. Now the thought just hurt. "We're done here." Grabbing one of the anchors, he yanked. Space bent.

"No! Wait!" Miss Militia held a palm towards his retreating back, taking a step forward. But it was too late. He was already gone.

As Vinci crossed the countryside, heading for the city, the whirlwind of emotion coming from his Bondmate stilled before crystallizing into an inferno of fury.

A quiet huff broke the deep breaths echoing inside his helm. At least they'd figured out what they wanted to feel. Maybe he'd be able to finally get some sleep now.

"No! Wait-" was all he heard before he stepped through.

Seconds later, a spike of fury rippled through the bond, enough to make him misstep. Recovering, he bent space again and was gone.

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Boots crunched on the fresh snow as he passed identical gravestone after identical gravestone.

They were simple things, little more than a slab of flat stone placed into the ground with names engraved into them, and there were thousands of them.

This was a place that belonged to the dead.

Most people avoided cemeteries. They were quiet, grim places that reminded all of their mortality. Just as they had been born, they too would die. People didn't like death. It was something unknown, something scary.

These little gravestones comforted him.

If there was an afterlife, then maybe the graveyard was full of people he couldn't see.

Not all would welcome him here in their resting place. They would see his age and his armor, snort, and cast an irritated gaze before moving on. But the smart, the attentive, they would circle him. Examine each weapon, each gouge in the plating with keen eyes. Maybe those eyes would narrow at his age, or the mouths would press together in thin, angry lines. But soon enough, they would soften, a firm hand grazing his shoulder as they offered a small smile.

The cemetery comforted him because he was among friends.

Maybe they were separated by time, creed, and death, but he was certain that if the dead could speak, they would see the similarities between him and them.

Stopping in front of one powder-covered stone set flat into the hard earth broken by aged tree roots, he knelt, armored hands wiping away snow to reveal the worn wording underneath.

UNKNOWN US SOLDIER​

These were people who understood duty.

Duty wasn't something done with a smile on the face. It was something borne. Endured. Carried. Sometimes until the very end.

Standing, he continued his meandering path through the cemetery once more, occasionally stopping to brush an armored hand against a gravestone, or wipe away snow that concealed ranks and names, or on occasion, a simple memorial to the person who rested underneath, nameless was the grave.

Why did he willingly bear the weight of duty?

There were the obvious reasons. Survival, of course.

Survival had brought him to Atlas.

He'd needed food, the Hussars needed a piece of meat to feed into the meat grinder. It had been as good an offer as any, and his options were slim at the time.

But food alone wasn't enough to keep him doing what he did.

He went into hell in all of its many forms. Shattered wreckage of ruined towns, children sobbing as they hunched over parents staring at the sky with glassy eyes. Cramped tunnels deep below as something howled a challenge in the distance. Blasting a door down, shield in place as high-velocity rounds bounced off. Helping emaciated little girls out of their cages, listening to them sob as they realized their nightmare was over while he knew his had just begun because he had to go in deeper to root out the source of the horror.

It was a hard job, and no one did it unless they deeply, truly believed in what they were doing.

He hadn't always. Once, the Hussars had just been a job.

Somehow, it had turned into something more.

For Vinci, the Hussars were the future. A place where Parahuman and Isohuman could interact in peace as people. Maybe not equals, not always, but still people. He saw young children with powers who had a spark of innocence in their eyes that he lacked, and places for men with masks to take them off and learn to be human again.

Those were the places Vinci fought to defend and grow.

Places where men like Vinci didn't belong. Hard men. Savage men. Vicious men. Men who were less human and more animal with only the thinnest veneer of civilization.

They were vital. It took savagery to tame savagery. People like Vinci were necessary to tame a frontier and beat back the darkness that wanted them all dead.

But, each year, the territory of the Hussars expanded. The population grew. The control of the ADG shrunk just a little bit as new resources were torn from Anciles' mechanical grasp.

And Atlas needed people like him that much less.

The world Vinci fought for was a place where he didn't exist.

A place where men like him weren't necessary.

Stopping in front of a statue, he tilted his head back. A marine standing tall, rifle in one hand, helmet atop their head, fingers just above the eyebrow as the soldier gave a rigid, proud salute.

Duty.

A scoff left his mouth. It seemed disrespectful in this hallowed place, but that didn't make the emotion any less real.

Ask for volunteers for a suicide mission and Vinci would be among the first to step forward. What was one more compared to the many he'd completed? Death wasn't the end to be feared, but the reward for those who'd fought the good fight and were ready to rest.

But tell him that he needed to act his age, and he balked.

It was stupid, and he knew it. That didn't make his fear any lesser.

From the tips of his toes to the depths of his marrow, Vinci wished that Boots hadn't asked this of him.

There were parallels to be sure. Their methods were different, their reasoning at odds, but both he and the Wards protected people. Maybe there was a place for him there where he could fulfill the promise made to his sister as she lay dying in his arms.

But all that opportunity seemed worthless in comparison to their differences. To be a Ward was to surround himself with people who could never understand and care for him for who he was. Everything he was proud of, from his independence to the armor he wore, was a flaw in their eyes. Their values were different, and the gap was wide enough it seemed insurmountable.

That was what Boots was asking of him. To shove himself into a role too small for Vinci, one where he would always be the outsider, always be unable to succeed because Bet didn't make children meant to fight in a Great War, and didn't need them in the first place.

It was a cruel thing to ask of anyone.

But…

Turning in a slow circle, Vinci looked around the graveyard with its thousands of markers and thousands more hidden by the fog.

How many of these men had been drafted? How many had never truly wanted to fight the fights that couldn't be ignored? Torn from what they had loved, their plans for the future in tatters, they had gone over the seas into the far-off distant lands drenched in mud and blood. And then they hadn't come back.

It had been a cruel thing to ask of them.

But duty had little to do with what was wanted, or even what was right. Duty was about what had to be done.

It was about asking very cruel things of people who deserved better.

For half an hour there was silence, a lone figure wandering among the dead learning names where there were names to learn, and drawing comfort that they couldn't find from the living.

Then Vinci made his choice.

If there was an afterlife, Vinci liked to imagine that there were men around the graveyard, men with ragged holes in their flak jackets or blood weeping from wounds between the eyes. He liked to think that as one, they turned to him and offered a grim, knowing smile with no comfort in it, only understanding.

If there was an afterlife, then the men who would lurk here were men who understood duty and hard choices. They were men who would understand him.

 

[Nielsjuh]

Amazing, absolutely love the chapter.

 

[Adam Redmayne]

Well i binged this and it's fucking awesome, the imagery of bone looking winged hussar armor is amazing and i love the sense of duty and soldier quality of Vinci, looking forward to the PRT continuing to disrespect him and treat him like a child and the inevitable fallout.

 

[SmokeRichards]

Amazing, absolutely love the chapter.

Click to shrink...

It is quite the vivid one, isn't it? The imagery is just so damn strong here.

Well i binged this and it's fucking awesome, the imagery of bone looking winged hussar armor is amazing and i love the sense of duty and soldier quality of Vinci, looking forward to the PRT continuing to disrespect him and treat him like a child and the inevitable fallout.

Click to shrink...

The armor is such an interesting thing. Its such a strong message. Cape costumes always are. They are reflections of the cape that wears them, or at least the projection of what they want to be shown.

And the message Vinci gives... Its an odd one. There are flakes of paint on that are, smatterings of green fleks, but it is only a remant. Most of the paint was chipped off long ago. Hard, angular lines. Armor plating covering all the vitals, and most of the non-vitals as well. The straps and pouches are simple leather, no symbols or engravings.

Vinci's combination of soldierly qualities, mixed with the child inside has always been such an interesting mix.

 

[SmokeRichards]

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Snow drifted down through the night air in its flurries, its gentle beauty hiding a bitter cold that was deadly.

And he loved it.

As much as he could claim to be anything, Vinci was a creature of the wind. To fly was a part of him, and loved for the joy it brought. Updrafts, downdrafts, shear, and air currents were tools he used with glee, but due to the nature of air such tools were normally hidden, forcing him to rely on instinct to ride the flowing currents.

Currents were what made snow something truly special, far more magical than fog or rain.
The crystalline structure was mesmerizing to his keen eyesight, but even normal people could appreciate the natural symmetry if they held it in the palm of their hand. Children argued about the best type of snow. Was it powdery and dry for skiing? Wet and stick for snowballs and snowmen?

They were all wrong. Wet, dry, big, small, none of that mattered.

The prettiest snow was the kind that still fell. Held aloft by the air, it revealed a world normally unseen, one of eddies, and currents. Snow swirled as rising air met downdraft, the thin line a chaotic war of flakes tossed about by the shear. Gusts caused the world to jerk sideways before the precipitation found a new equilibrium. Massive, wet flakes fell until they were mere inches from the ground before hesitating, residual heat rising, holding them aloft for a mere split second more before touching the concrete, and melting.

Chaos. Violence. Beauty.

The ocean was a good place to think, especially at night, and the snow added beauty to peace.

Lapping waves created a gentle ambiance that lent itself to cool, rational thought, more than the dead silence of deep caves did anyways, and with snow like this, it would be a crime to stay indoors.

He had always loved the water.

Some of his happiest memories were of swimming in cold, murky rivers fed by snow melt, sister aghast as she beheld his mud-caked clothes.

Powers had taken water away from him. If he tried to swim as he once had, he would drown. But he could still enjoy the sight of it, even if his gaze was filled with longing.

Days after meeting with Miss Militia, fate found him walking along the debris-littered gravel beaches of the boat graveyard, rusted hulls obscured by the snow, like faded echoes of some illusionary dream world.

It wasn't a place where he wished to be disturbed.

That was why, when the low purr of a motorcycle broke the natural muffling effect of the snow, Vinci's fist clenched.

The beaches were nice places, and he wished he had more time to appreciate them. But if people, and by people he meant the Protectorate, kept interrupting him while he meandered, then it was time to flee to the nearby mountains.

But if people, and the Protectorate in particular, kept interrupting him while he meandered, then it was time to flee to the nearby mountains. Anyone that interrupted him while he paced the tops of bald, windswept mountains inaccessible to all but birds and fliers deserved the chance to say at least a few words.

It wasn't Miss Militia this time, metallic boots of midnight blue and highlights of silver vanishing up to the ankles in snow as the man dismounted.

"Scorch. We need to talk." Armsmaster said.

He looked up at the Tinker who towered over him, and tilted his head, thinking about the thread he'd interacted with on PHO. "I've already told you I'm not interested in giving a statement."

"I'm not here for a statement."

Hmmn. Turning to face the ocean, at least what little he could see, he enjoyed the way the snow flowed around the rusting hulks in the waves, and the currents such movements implied. "How did you find me?"

The night was cold, and everyone with sense was inside and sleeping. No concerned citizens lived in the graveyard to call the PRT and inform the heroes of his location, and the few people with reason to travel through the graveyard had no business being here this late at night.

"The boat graveyards are one of the most surveilled places in Brockton Bay due to the sheer amount of scrap an aspiring tinker could pull out of the wreckage."

"You think the gangs know my location?"

Armsmaster snorted. "They use lookouts. If any posted here believe in the 'cause' enough to stand watch on a night like this, I will be surprised. You're safe from them."

"And what do you use?" It was said in an offhand manner, but Vinci was interested in the answer. Had Miss Militia perhaps placed a bug on him while he wasn't looking?

"I prefer something more sophisticated."

Glancing at a crater below the waterline, the edges a glassy black, he stepped around. "People test their powers here."

Armsmaster's breath steamed as he replied. "Sometimes. If they're new."

A sensor grid then. Or maybe plain old cameras. Thermals were well within the PRT's budget. "And you watch and get data."

"Along with an opportunity to invite the Parahuman into the Protectorate, or Wards."

"Clever." He praised, glancing to the side.

It was subtle. A person with normal eyes would never be able to see it. But there was the barest flicker of movement as the corner of Armsmasters lip lifted upwards. "Of course."

Yeah. When he got back to the bunker he was going to look for a tracker of some kind. Setting the thought aside, Vinci decided it was time to get to business. "What do you need to talk about?"

"Not me. Scintilla. She wishes to meet."

He paused, then turned to face Armsmaster. "The Ward?" he asked, recalling the underage lineup for the ENE.

"Yes."

"I thought the Wards had to go to school."

"They do."

Lifting his head so that the lenses were pointed skyward, city lights reflected off the clouds, giving the night a pleasing glow. Then, he looked back at Armsmaster and tilted his head. "It's rather late for a school night."

Armsmaster was impassive as he replied. "The PRT is able to grant special dispensation for exceptional circumstances. You are not an easy Parahuman to meet."

Vinci shifted, uncomfortable. Miss Militia had said that as well, almost word for word. "Have you ever considered that's because I don't want to talk?"

"I believe the subject of discussion will be of mutual interest."

"Enough to disturb me when I'm trying to think?"

Armsmaster inclined his head. "Enough to disturb you when you are trying to think."

After a gesture at the lapping waves, he clasped his hands behind his back. "And if I were to fly away, right this second?"

"Then there is little I could do to stop you short of unlawful imprisonment."

Underneath the helmet, an eyebrow quirked. "Unlawful?"

"No warrants for your arrest have been signed at this time."

"I'm surprised. The PRT isn't a forgiving organization." They might put on a face for the public, but they weren't weak.

The corner of Armsmasters mouth tightened, just a hint. "Justice is blind, but the arm of the law is not. The PRT does what it believes is in the public's interest."

And there was the corruption he remembered. "I don't feel like chatting, Armsmaster." He offered a polite nod and turned to leave.

The seeds of a grimace grew into a displeased frown. "I ask that you stay."

"No." Placing anchors, he prepared to bend space.

For the first time since the conversations started, Armsmaster raised his voice, not by much, but the sheer certainty and command within was enough to catch Vinci's attention. "I believe, firmly, that this is something of critical interest to you. Wait half an hour, and if I am mistaken, you will leave with my personal apologies, and a promise to not bother you again unless I receive a warrant for your arrest."

Underneath his helmet, his eyes narrowed. Svalinn. Chicago. It had to be. His voice hardened, becoming rough like sandpaper. "What, exactly, do you need to tell me?"

Armsmaster seemed to stiffen as if surprised by the sudden hostility in Vinci's tone. Hesitating for a second, "I promised to let someone else do the talking," Armsmaster finally said.

Turning to fully face Armsmaster, his hands dropped to his sides, fingers loose and free. "You will tell me." It wasn't a question.

A midnight blue gauntlet drifted closer to a short battle axe clipped to Armsmasters side. "I will not."

No, that wasn't a battle axe. Halberd with a collapsible haft. Better reach. In an instant, Vinci cleared his mind of the worry he had over the idea of joining the Wards, and in its place was left a startling clarity and the whisper of power in his ears.

From the Bond, a note soured into something akin to fear; worry, maybe.

"If you're making a move, hero, then you best be sure you're ready for it." It was a promise and a threat rolled into one, hinting at the precipice they found themselves on.

Armsmaster spread his legs to give himself a firmer stance. "If there is a fight tonight, it won't be us who starts it."

"Are you so sure?"

"I am the head of the Protectorate ENE. If there are orders for this to turn into a fight, I am not the one who gave them."

Each word was carefully chosen and carefully spoken. "The Ward. Who is coming with her."

"Miss Militia."

"And only her?"

"Two heroes present is the least we are willing to accept on hand for this meeting. Any more, and it was feared that you would take it as an act of aggression."

"You feared right."

There was a tense silence for a moment. Armsmaster was the one who broke it. "Are you going to fight me?"

"No." He finally decided, turning away, but keeping an ear out for any sudden movements. "You have my complete, and undivided attention. I will wait."

In the back of his mind, the emotion his Bondmate felt shifted from worry to relief.

Vinci paid it no mind, instead looking out to sea as he waited with stony eyes. Unknown to Armsmaster, the beach was being worked into a battlefield favorable to him, more anchors being placed by the second. Last time he'd left and now the Protectorate was bothering him again.

So be it.

It was their move.

Behind him, boots crunched on gravel with a deliberate loudness that hadn't been there before. When Armsmaster came to a stop by Vinci's side, a healthy distance was between them. "We are breaking the rules to allow Scintilla to see you."

A wary sidelong glance was sent Armsmaster's way. "Should I care? It's your Ward."

"And we will get in trouble for breaking those rules. But there are rules, and they are meant to protect minors."

A wing shivered as he flexed it, antsy. Waiting wasn't something he liked, not when he felt he should be doing. And right now, he definitely felt he should be doing, explosively, and all over the place. "Your point?"

Armsmaster stared at Vinci, wearing that same impassive look, one hand coming to rest on his utility belt. "The PRT is not perfect. Neither is the Protectorate. There are those who believe themselves above the rules. Wards were abused before and that is why rules exist now. But there are also rules that govern the interaction with minors regardless if they are Wards or not. If a minor found themselves in an untenable position where they had no choice but to break the law because of the actions of a hero, I found it doubtful that the minor would be found at fault."

He went completely still. Inch by inch, he turned his head to face Armsmaster. "If you have something to say, then maybe you should say it." His voice was soft. Gentle. Almost kind. But only the most sheltered would mistake his tone for anything other than what it was.

Armsmaster met his gaze, the corner of his lip edging upwards. "I already have."

Any doubt, or perhaps it was better to call it hope, that Svalinn had been wrong was gone. He'd suspected with Miss Militia, her comments had been a little too on the nose, but Armsmaster wasn't bothering with subtlety.

He waited, the connection in the back his mind growing more snarled by the second, becoming something he couldn't ignore.

What was going on? It wasn't normal for there to be this kind of turmoil.

Five minutes later, Miss Militia pulled up on a motorcycle of her own, Scintilla hugging her back.

The girl was already hopping off before the motorcycle came to a complete stop, sliding as she landed in the thick snow. For a moment, she teetered and it seemed as if she would lose her balance and fall face first into the white slush, then she regained her balance.

Almost immediately, Vinci was struck by just how… familiar she felt. Like he was supposed to know her. It didn't make sense. The closest he'd ever been to Brockton was Chicago, and that was what, a thousand miles away? Besides, he would've remembered meeting someone like her.

Vinci turned to face her fully, wings swaying in sharp, jerky motions.

Golden hair peaked out of a red helm, eyes concealed by a thick, reflective visor, the thick piece of plastic akin to something worn by skiers. Dangling round her neck was a white respirator, not currently in use, but well maintained, able to be raised to cover her mouth in an instant. Smatterings of armor covered her vitals, protecting the chest, abdomen, and parts of her neck, in a way that blended in, and complemented the rest of the outfit, as armor tended to do. Clear effort had been made into making her appear cute, and friendly, instead of fierce, with a simple, well-made dress covering parts of her neck, all of her shoulders, and flowing down in a skirt that ended just above the knees. The fabric itself glittered, reflecting the distant lights of the city. Every step the girl took made it seem as if she was shimmering in a way that reminded him of licking flames, campfires, and infernos that consumed entire towns. Worn underneath the skirt were pants, made of a coarse weave that preserved modesty, and offered some protection.

Out of everything, what stood out were the boots. Where, with other parts of the costume, care had been taken to integrate the armor, no such effort had been made with the boots. Instead, they were nearly a solid piece of armor that, on surface examination, looked at least as durable as his own, and extended up to the knee, where they ended in pads.

What was going on? Why did she feel so… urgh. He didn't even have words for what she felt like. Scintilla felt like she belonged, not as if she were part of the scenery, but more like she was the air he breathed; every present, vital, and expected.

Why did he feel this way? The lineup hadn't indicated she had any Master powers.

In the back of his mind, his partner's emotions stilled, leaving gray, barren uncertainty in its wake.

Vinci couldn't take his eyes off her. She was important, and not being able to tell why scared him. They'd met before, they had to have. But where god dammit?!

"Scorch?" She asked, that feeling in the back of his mind bleeding into uncertainty.

Swallowing hard, Vinci pushed what he felt aside to be dealt with later. Right now he needed a clear head.

Miss Militia popped the kickstand, and rifled through a side container in the motorcycle, pulling out a flashlight and offering it handle first to Scintilla.

Scintilla took it with a muttered thanks, turning it on and pointing the beam at him "You," She whispered.

Squinting from the beam's glare, Vinci averted his eyes until Scintilla took the hint. And it was Scintilla. He'd just heard the name, but it felt like he could never forget it.

The beam swept away from him, allowing Vinci to see her clearly once more.

Scintilla seemed easy to read. A single glance revealed the hopeful curve of her lips, the nervous way she shifted every few seconds, excited fingers tapping against the flashlight- and those were just the ones Vinci could see.

Vinci's heart pounded in his chest.

"Who are you?" he whispered, so quiet no one heard him. Vinci felt exposed to the world, vulnerable in a way he'd promised he never would be again. In spite of that, he crossed his arms, doing his best to look down at the girl despite being roughly the same size. It wasn't easy, but he managed. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Vinci got to work. "You wanted to talk?" He spread his arms, "Well, here I am."

In an instant, that tugging in the back of his head shifted, a flurry of emotions changing so quick he could barely recognize them before shock dominated.

A choked laugh echoed through the night, Scintilla taking half a step forward, the fall of her foot brimming with uncertainty. "Of course I want to talk." Her tone bled a hint of hurt that, no matter how he tried, Vinci couldn't ignore. "Don't you?"

Vinci felt sick. Scintilla felt hurt and that felt wrong. Why did he even care about her? His unease gave birth to gruffness. The unease gave birth to gruffness. "I don't know you. Get to the point, or I'm leaving." And he wanted to leave. The sooner, the better.

It came so fast, a brilliant white of pure rage as Scintilla balled her hands, jaw stiff. "You… You…"

With a jerk that nearly staggered him, one of the many anchors scattered along the beach was torn from him. Space popped, and before he could react Scintintilla was face to face with him less than a foot away, finger jabbed at his chest. "Fuck you!" She shouted, "I've been waiting for weeks!"

Vinci went still as the grave feeling the blood drain from his face.

No one took those anchors from him. No one. It wasn't possible.

Scintilla placed a glove directly over his breastplate and pushed. Vinci staggered backwards, looking at her with wide eyes. "It's like your a fucking ghost! There for two seconds, then no one sees you for three days!"

Female. Adolescent. Blaster. Mover. Shaker. He'd researched Scintilla wondering if she was his. In the end, he'd decided she wasn't. The manipulation of space was close, exact even. But it'd been years since he'd manipulated flames, not since he'd earned his name and a scar that covered the entirety of his right arm to be exact, and his flames looked nothing like hers. Scintilla's powers were too controlled to be his.

Or so he'd thought.

"You rampaging jackass! If you didn't want to see me, then why the fuck are you even here!?" She snarled, spittle flying from her mouth to coat his armor.

She took an anchor from him.

A little part of Vinci whimpered.

When she leaned forward, he took half a step back.

Vinci did not want to be here. He felt scared, demoralized, and exposed.

"This is the first time I have seen you in my fucking life!" Both her hands were clenched into tight balls. "And the first words out of your mouth aren't hello, or how are you, or sorry for being such a jerk." She laughed, a bitter thing that he flinched at. "It's 'get to the point, or I'm leaving'," She hissed.

He took another half step back, and she followed, invading even more of his space than before.

"Do you have any idea of what I've been through because of you? Do you?! Two years! I've dealt with the massive heap of bullshit you sent my way."

Right now, he couldn't think of anything more terrifying than what was standing in front of him. It was like death walked the earth in shitty armor and okay boots.

"And instead of finding me like a normal, rational person, I have to hunt you down!" She snapped a finger in front of his helmet. "Say something! Don't you dare fucking ignore me!"

Vinci turned and ran, wings disturbing snow as they flapped, and carried him into the air.