Welcome to the Family (Sidekick Quest)

You haven't even had the chance to report in before Augur is speaking to you. "There's a CIA helicopter landing on the roof as we speak," she says.

You blink, taking a moment to process. The Cavalry Intelligence Arm is just that – the intelligence wing of the Cavalry, the Free World's premiere meta-human control agency. Sixty years ago they had been a ragtag group masked heroes, struggling for survival under the boot of post-Day 0 American fascism. Then they had restored democracy, and in the years since they had become the very law they had been founded to fight. Now they directed meta-heroes both at home and abroad.

The original Blackbird had been an instrumental part of building the modern Cavalry, perhaps more instrumental than any hero other than Minuteman. But he had never fully trusted the organization, and relations between it and the Family have always been strained. For the CIA to be here… "are we in trouble?"

"Not this time," Augur says, sighing. "It's the other one. They need us. Plumage, specifically."

"And we're giving her to them? And me too, I guess."

"It's an important job," Augur says. "Which is why I need Plumage on the roof ten minutes ago."

"So where is she?" You press your palm to your locker, but Augur overrides the system. "No costumes," she says, "and Plumage is in the hangar. I need you to get her for me."

You stare up at the closest camera. "You can't just talk to her?"

"She's working," Augur says, and your can practically hear the eyeroll, "and no matter how many times I tell her not to, she turns her ears off when she does. Besides, I have my hands full with the Cavalry."

You spread your arms out. "Guess I'll grab her, then."

Augur doesn't say anything, but by the time you reach the high speed elevator that connects the aerie to the rest of the skyscraper, it's open and waiting for you. You watch as the floor counter ticks down, down, down, speeding past even the lobby, basement, and sub-basement until you reach the subterranean hangar.

Truth be told, it isn't much of a hangar anymore. The Family owns numerous aircraft – fixed wing, rotary, even an ornithopter or two – but those are stored in specialized airfields or on the roof of the building. The hangar was designed to house Blackbird I's many vehicles back when he still had to worry about hiding from the police, and now it mostly houses ground transportation, which can reach the surface streets via extensive tunnels. When the elevator opens, you're greeted to dozens of cars and motorcycles in various colors. They're squeezed in tight, and have been for as long as you can remember – the hangar was never meant to hold so many vehicles at once, but after the massacre nobody seemed to have the heart to move them out.

Plumage – Madeline – is set up near one of the tunnel entrances, surrounded by wires, tools, and spare parts. She's bent over the motorcyle that was given to her when she arrived, white and low to the ground, all sinuous curves and polish. It's a luxury vehicle, but you've seen it in the field and in terms of sheer horsepower it far outstrips your own, more utilitarian bike.

"Madeline." You raise you voice enough that she ought to be able to hear it, but she doesn't so much as turn her head. She's taking apart the clutch with a wrench, wiring a bulky piece of machinery directly to the inner workings of the bike. You're not sure what she's working at – you're enough of a mechanic to keep your rides in working order, but this is beyond your training. "Madeline," you say again, stepping closer.

She must've caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, because she looks over with a start – and upon seeing seeing you not half a dozen steps from her, makes a startled noise somewhere between a gasp and an "eep" and tumbles backwards over the bike, head over heels.

You're...not sure what to make of that. You take a step forward, offering out your hand, but before you can help her to her feet she's back on them of her own accord. "I didn't see you there!" She says, a flush tinting her ears and nose with a deep red. "Was I – I mean – were you standing there long?" She reaches up to where her hair rests in a messy knot above her head and plucks it this way and that, until dark hair tumbles past her shoulders.


"I just got here," you tell her, "but Augur's been trying to reach you. We have a job."

"We?" Even with a face smudged liberally with oil, wearing a sweat stained undershirt and jeans half ragged from wear, she manages to somehow look, elegant, glamorous. You know she had been a socialite in Europe before joining the Family, with nearly as much money as you and far more time for fashion and parties. Maybe that's how she does it – manages to look like the television version of real life without seeming to try. "You mean us together? You and me."

You raise your eyebrows at her. "...Is that an issue?"

"What? No, of course not." She raises both hands in protest.

"I know you've done joint missions before."

"I just thought that you, did your own thing. Since you've been around the longest, and are, you know, you." She crosses her arms, shrugs, uncrosses her arms.

You stop the exasperation from showing on your face, but impatience creeps in in its place. "The CIA is here right now. They've asked for you specifically."

Madeline blinks, mouth slightly parted. "Am I in trouble?"

It is Augur's voice that answers. "Both of you, on the roof, right now," she says. "There's work to be done."

It's all you need to hear. Without so much as a backward glance you jog back to the elevator, running through your mental exercises. Ordering your mind for the job. Madeline is close behind you. "I'm not dressed," she says when the doors of the elevator slide shut.

"No costumes for this one," Augur says. She sounds distracted – you can hear rapid typing between her words.

"Not really what I meant…" Madeline says, looking down at her clothes. "I can't meet the CIA like this, can I?"

"Your first mistake," you murmur, quietly enough the Augur won't be able to hear, "is treating the CIA like they're someone worth impressing."

Madeline gives you a sidelong glance. "It's the Cavalry."

"Which entitles them to show up and ask for our help," you say. "Nothing else."

"Jesus." Madeline runs her fingers through her hair, working out knots with quick, forceful tugs. "How can you be so nonchalant about this?"

"You'll figure it out," you say, "if you last."

The elevator dings and slides open, a gust of New York City air rushing in to greet you. The top of the building in which the aerie is housed is large enough to house three separate helipads, but currently only one is in use – its occupant a Cavalry jumpjet, identifiable only by Augur's words as it bears no logo. A newer model, you note, probably designed within the last few years based on its fin construction, the turbine engines fixed in each wing are running at enough power to sweep an unsuspecting person off their feet.

Two men in dark suits stand before you – or more accurately, one man and a bipedal tiger, each wearing a pistol slung across their waists. You take a step forward, where the main raises a hand in greeting. "Madeline Al-Fasir, I'm hopin," he says, a thick New York accent dripping from every word. "You can call me Mistah One, and my associate over there is Mistah Two."

"That…is a tiger," Madeline says, looking around as if requesting confirmation that she's not insane.


You can hardly blame her for losing her cool, no matter how much you want to. It's a low percentage of meta-humans that exhibit any physical mutation at all, and when they do the effect is rarely so pronounced. You were born and raised around metas, and are as used to it as someone can be – but the sight of a tiger in a three piece suit still gives you pause.

"He is, isn't he?" Mr. One says, glancing back at Mr. Two. "I'm warnin ya ma'am, he's a real savage beast. More jungle cat than man. He'd probably rip ya apart if I weren't here to keep an eye on him."

You glance past Mr. One to get a better look at Mr. Two. The tiger is leaning up against the jumpjet, seemingly oblivious to the winds the turbines create. His ears twitch at Mr. One's words, and he looks up from the book he's reading – a copy of Meditations, almost comically small in his oversized hands – to give a brief shake of his head.

Mr. One follows your gaze and sighs. "Just once I wish he'd roll with me on that one," he says. "You ready, Ms. Al-Fasir?"

"I suppose," she says.

"And who's this?" Mr. One asks, gesturing to you. "Your boyfriend?"

[] "Fiance, actually."
[] "Babysitter."
[] "Partner."
[] Say nothing. Get on the jet.