Crimson Shards on a Vacant Throne

[Partisanenpasta]

Monday, 06. December 2010

"You sure you're okay?" I forced myself to ask. It felt like the right thing to do, the polite thing, even though he was the one who'd been rude first, clinging to me and dripping snot like a toddler while half the school passed by and stared.

I'd had to take him to the Nurse's office to get us out of the way and hopefully to pass him off to an actual authority figure who was paid to deal with this shit.

I hadn't known his dad was a cop. I hadn't known that it was him who got brutalized by a crazy serial killer just a few houses down from where I slept, and since Greg hadn't managed to get anything but hiccuping sobs out of his mouth, it was the nurse who had taken me aside and explained what was going on.

Seriously, why was he even in school?

I knew what it was like to lose a parent. How it could break you in a way you never really came back from. But I wasn't Greg's… well, anything. We'd been two outcasts at Winslow, only connected by a lack of connection to anyone else, and now Winslow and everything it stood for was gone. Behind me.

I felt bad for Greg, I really did, but it didn't mean I had to play the role of 'mom' for him.

Honestly, I wanted to care more about this sniffing idiot. It was the right thing to do, I knew that, but I just…couldn't find it in me. Not now, and after everything I'd gone through this morning. Having to deal with Greascan and how my day had spiraled from there…I was emotionally spent. All my fucks were currently busy elsewhere.

The nurse had left us a bit ago to call his Mom, and now I was stuck with him, shooting him signal after signal that I just wanted to leave. Obviously, Greg was either too dense or too selfish, and so here I was, trying to keep the frustration from my face.

Not that that mattered either, given how he kept ogling my abs while not even bothering to pretend to look me in the face or literally everywhere else. I was sure he was trying to be cool about it, but no matter how much effort he was putting in, Greg was about as subtle as a bull in a communist china shop. At least he'd moved on to my abs, which was arguably better than staring at my tits.

Maybe that thought was hypocritical of me, given that I had chosen the tight shirt on purpose, but at this point, I either wanted just to close my jacket or straight up sock it out of him. But I didn't, and instead, I'd even found myself flexing a little at the attention, unconsciously, before I noticed what I was doing and got even more annoyed with myself. Honestly, I just wasn't used to having something I could be so proud of.

I knew from first-hand experience that ogling wasn't exactly appropriate or natural grieving behavior, and even though Greg was far from what I'd call normal, he still should have known better. Maybe he didn't even notice what he was doing, or he did it on purpose to desperately try and distract himself from his dad's situation? Something to cling to mentally, so he wouldn't break down again.

I didn't know and didn't care, and when my annoyance finally took over, I snapped my fingers in his face. Oi, eyes are up here. Idiot.

"Uh-uh, y-yes. I–" Greg stammered. "Uhm, sorry Taylor, what did you say?"

I groaned, both mentally and physically, and shot him a thundering glare. "You sure you're okay?" I repeated.

I noticed that my hand was clenched around the handle of my electrolarynx hard enough for the plastic to groan, which wasn't hard but I still forced myself to relax my grip before I accidentally pulped the expensive device.

I really hated having to repeat myself.

"Yeah, thanks," Greg murmured sheepishly. He still refused to meet my gaze. "They say the next 24 hours will be critical…whether he –"

His voice hitched, and I found myself reaching out and awkwardly patting his shoulder. With my fist, because I was still holding my electrolarynx.

It didn't matter if it was Greg, boys, or girls, but I found it increasingly frustrating to deal with people. I knew who I was, and I knew what I wanted. But sometimes…sometimes there were things in me that didn't make sense.

A part of me loved the attention, the stares, ogles, touches, and flirts as much as I hated them, and I didn't know how to deal with that. I wanted to show my body, I wanted to be confident, unashamed, proud even, and sometimes I even wanted to go further. A lot further…and without giving a flying fuck about other people, until something in my mind clicked, and I suddenly realized what I was thinking about.

It went against everything I thought I was, and I wasn't sure why. Was I just that repressed, was it just a phase of puberty and self-discovery…or was there something messing with my mind?

I knew that I was touch-starved, and it was something that needed to be dealt with very soon because every single urge battling within me managed to agree that living like this wasn't right for me. Fuck, I barely even cared about romance at this point, and it was just so… Fucking. Confusing.

"Good luck," I found myself saying. "I gotta go."

"Bye," Greg smiled at me, sitting on the medical couch like a heap of misery. He kinda looked a bit like molten pudding, I thought. All flabby and weak, but I didn't want to think stuff like that, so I turned around without saying goodbye.

"You know," Greg said behind me, barely audible to the point that I was convinced that he was talking to himself more than me. "It doesn't feel like they say it will in the anime."

I turned around at the door. "What?"

"Oh, sorry," Greg looked up, and for the first time, he met my gaze. He smiled, but his blue eyes were still swimming. Subdued and detached. "You know, in the stories, it's always like this. Something bad happens, but it only makes the hero stronger. I don't feel stronger."

I shrugged, unsure how to respond. Stories aren't reality, I wanted to say, but I didn't.

I was halfway through the door when Greg called after me again. "Taylor!"

A surge of annoyance tore through my veins, but I forced myself to turn around and smile at him. What the fuck do you want? I didn't say. Can't you just leave me alone?

"Look," Greg murmured. "People don't believe me. They mock me, you know. But I know it. Something is going on in this city. Something bad. Be careful, please."

"Will do," I grunted, and unwilling to idle further, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and closed the door to the infirmary behind me with a kick of my foot.

---

Ironically, for as much as I despised the Docks, they were the prime location for every aspiring Cape and Tinker, given that it was full of abandoned buildings and trash that could be salvaged. So, It was only natural that I had set up shop here too.

Given that I didn't see much point in establishing myself when I was about to move into an entirely new city, my workshop consisted of a tiny warehouse barely large enough to fit my Sentinel. It was all I needed.

It was a humble building near the water, an old chop shop or something like that, consisting of a small office area where I'd set up my stuff and an assembling hall that was a bit larger than a double garage. There were three entrances to the building, five if you counted the roof hatch and the escape tunnel that led down into a storm drain: there was a docking port for a truck at the back of the building that connected to the main hall, a small side entrance that led into a cramped alley between the buildings, and a larger main entrance with two massive steel doors.

Like the windows, I had sealed that one up from the inside with steel bars and sheets of metal before melting the locks and welding the two door panels shut. Then, I had piled a bit of trash and debris in front of them to add to the illusion that the building was nothing but an abandoned wreck.

I carefully looked around with my power-sight, before ducking into the alley next to my workshop. No one around. The area was devoid of life, which suited me well. I entered my workshop, wrenching the rusted side door open with my super-strength, before closing and barricading it behind me.

It was dark and freezing cold inside. The building was off the grid, without electricity or plumbing, and I didn't dare to change that. An abandoned building in the middle of nowhere suddenly consuming large amounts of utilities? It would only raise attention, and I didn't need that.

But I didn't need light to navigate the dark office area. Not much, at least. My eyes and senses were sharper, I had a constant spatial awareness around me, and the sand cushioning the floor below my feet acted like a sonar that guided me safely through the darkness.

Something in the gloom clicked and when I turned my head, I came face to face with a triangle of burning red eyes. I recoiled, startled, but the eyes didn't move, and the realization hit a moment later.

Stabby is fine, I thought in relief. So at least my security system is still intact.

"Good boy," I buzzed through my face mask.

Stabby naturally didn't respond. Wasn't he adorable?

I continued toward where I knew the rear of the office area was, walking up to the wall and fumbling around in the darkness until my fingers caught smooth glass and cold metal. I followed the surface until I found the switch I was searching for.

Clack.

A subtle hum filled the room, barely audible and nearly drowned out by hissing and clanking sounds, followed by a high-pitched wine. Light flickered, and then the room was suddenly bathed in dim but soft light as the old light bulbs I had rigged up came to life.

I squinted at the sudden change, but it only affected me for a split second before my body shrugged it off. Then, I spent a moment inspecting the portable steam reactor for damage, but to my satisfaction, everything was running as smoothly as ever.

I stepped back, and after triggering an old light switch, I approached the small internal window leading from the office area into the main work hall. A way for the suits to oversee the workers, I assumed.

I stared at the piles of tools and scrap piled everywhere around the massive, tarp-covered object in the center, illuminated by light bulbs from the ceiling and two old spotlights I had managed to salvage and repair.

Battered metal shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes of electronic trash, more tools, and more scrap metal. There were massive industrial barrels in a corner, filled with sand and glimmering glass shards.

Then my eyes fell into the corner of the room where I had set up the unwieldy converter and my vaporizer, and I winced. The shelf I used to store my vials wasn't even a third filled, and the piles of tin and copper on the ground were neatly organized but more akin to pathetic molehills.

I had water, I had electricity, and I had gathered enough resources over the past months… but the special parts I needed to get my stuff to work? I didn't have enough. There weren't enough parts to finish both my Sentinel and the rest of my gear, and even if I focused just on the Sentinel, there was no way in hell I'd manage to finish it in time.

Fuck. Rage welled up with me, and with a furious growl, I smashed my fist through the tiny window. I hadn't even started, and my plans were already falling apart around me.

No, there was no time to waste. I took a deep breath, pulling the shattered window into place again, and melting it back together. "Stabby, stove," I hissed, before making a beeline towards my workbench.

My notebook and the crappy laptop I'd bought from a thrift store were hidden behind a set of innocent bricks in the wall, and I retrieved them before I dumped the contents of my backpack on the table.

I hadn't wanted to trek all the way home again after dealing with my Arcadia business, so I had simply smuggled my tinker-tech tail with me, hidden beneath my work clothes and school supplies.

Risky perhaps, but fuck if I cared right now.

I waited a bit for the room to get warmer before I stripped down to my underwear, neatly folding my "civilian" clothes before putting them away. By the time I was done, the skin and flesh around my shoulder and rear had parted enough to reveal the docking ports for my cybernetics.

I grabbed the base of my tail and plugged it in. The nerves in my body tingled as I triggered the hidden switches to lock it in and connect it to the nerves of my spine, like a wave of itchiness traveling all through my body…

…and then it was a part of myself again, and my tail unfolded behind me, fishing for my arm prosthesis while I started rummaging through my drawers for my tinker outfit. Sand rose from the ground, forming fingers and tendrils to help me as I changed.

My costume was as barebones as you'd think for someone who was trying to avoid attention; sturdy boots, cargo pants with lots of handy pockets, and a snug tank top upgraded with a warm jacket because anything else would be suicide for a normal human at this temperature.

I didn't bother with the jacket.

I reconnected my arm, working the crude pincer I had installed instead of a set of fingers, before bringing the tip of my tail to my face. I disconnected the stinger module and switched it for another pincer. Smaller and more fragile, but the more limbs I had, the better I could work.

During the bus ride here, Dad had called me again, only a few hours after he and Carol had left for Boston. He'd been worried and guilt-ridden about leaving me alone and told me that I needed to stay with one of his Dockworker friends he trusted until they came back.

I had pushed back – I didn't need nor want anyone to look after me – but he'd refused to listen. Fuck, he had pleaded with me, during a fucking car ride. Even though he wasn't driving himself, that had been like a punch to the gut. So, I'd relented.

It was annoying, and a setback for my plans, but I'd manage. I still had a good few hours before I was supposed to show up there, and I'd squeeze as much out of this time as I could.

But what to do, I mused as I began flicking through my notebook, looking at sketches and clumsy handwriting. Something crawled over my foot, but I ignored it the same as I ignored the scuttling, clicking, and other noises my adorably dumb assistant made as he attended to the stove.

I needed gear. Weapons. Something to keep Dad and our house safe, and because I had only focussed on my Sentinel, I had literally nothing but what I was wearing right now. I needed to get it operable before Christmas because if I didn't, two months of my life and two thousand bucks would have gone right down the drain.

But Dad was more important, no question. Maybe our relationship wasn't the best, but I loved him – didn't have anyone else left, and I'd fucking burn the world down if anything happened to him.

Something next to me clicked, tearing me from my thoughts, and when I turned to look, Stabby stared back at me, sitting on a pile of biology books I'd rented from the library. The way he sat there, little golden head tilted, wearing his tiny pink bunny backpack…

Without thinking, I picked him up, hugging him against my chest as my tail wrapped itself around us in a soothing embrace. He shifted and squirmed a little, occasionally exhaling tiny plumes of steam that brushed warmly against my skin before they condensed in the still-cold air. He didn't resist, but it wasn't his place to resist.

Then again, he wasn't really sentient either. A clumsy adorable idiot with –

…blood on his stinger?

With a frown, I sat Stabby down, inspecting him before simply picking him up again, prodding and turning him in my hands to inspect every nook and cranny of his little body. But apart from a little dirt and blood on his stinger and pincers, he looked fine. The golden bronze armor panels were intact, as were the colorful glass patterns I had decorated them with.

Rats perhaps? Feasible enough.

A soft smile spread on my face as I regarded my little companion. I placed him back on the table. Then, I started polishing Stabby with a clean rag, carefully rubbing away dirt, dust, and blood, until I was satisfied.

Wasn't he diligent and adorable? I'd need to update his stealth, targeting, and ambush routines, but he was small enough to keep an eye on Dad during the night. It would be a start, at least.

Just have to make sure he doesn't murder the mailman, I thought with a smile, but that was something I'd deal with later. First, I had to get gear, but now that I thought about it, maybe I could build more security bots too. Idly, I flicked to an empty page, grabbed a pencil, and started sketching.

My tinker-powers had some oddities. I knew that, and I had thought about it a lot in the past. It was pretty flexible – I could build almost anything as long as it hit two criteria; It needed to be steam-powered in some way, and all the special parts needed to be created from bronze, from the simple gears and tubes to the more complex machinery I could make.

Naturally, high-tech sci-fi bullshit was out of the question, but I could rig surprisingly versatile and sturdy steampunk bullshit together; primitive bots, weapons, utilities, and power armor.

Yet, for the lack of a better word, it felt sluggish. I liked tinkering, and I could lose myself in it for hours, but sometimes it felt hard to come up with designs or inspiration. It was something I had to actively think about, which didn't match with what I heard about Tinkers.

It was almost like I had no natural drive for it beyond my own personal curiosity and interest, which honestly was kinda nice because I liked being able to look at a toaster without wanting to take it apart immediately.

With a hum, I set the pencil away and looked at the crude sketches and scribbles before me. It was a spider bot, about the size of a medium-sized dog, sporting four legs and a heavily armored lower body. There were no tails, claws, or even a dedicated head. Instead, it was outfitted with a steam-powered quad bolt thrower tower, based on the design of a handgun I'd whipped up a while ago.

Honestly, it did look a bit primitive, but I was confident that I'd be able to chunk out a good few of these with what I had available. It would have to do for now.

I contemplated for a moment, before titling the design Defence Bot V1.

Maybe I should build some personal gear first, I thought. This was going to be a long day.

 

[Ruby Boule]

Taking trophies already. That's how it starts. And it seems the voices are starting to become actually audible, though she still hasn't realized it.

And Oni Lee's actions are... interesting. Perhaps he's already aware of what/who she is.

Good stuff! Looking forward to more.

 

[Crayz9000]

I'm a little confused, are the physical projections of past Butchers something added for this story? I definitely don't recall those in the source material, or the Butchers having the ability to independently act outside of the confines of their host's mind.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

I'm a little confused, are the physical projections of past Butchers something added for this story? I definitely don't recall those in the source material, or the Butchers having the ability to independently act outside of the confines of their host's mind.

Click to shrink...

Hi! The physical projections are not based on canon but are the unique twist I am giving to my story. Then again, Tay doesn't always see what's actually there and the lines blur. When she "sees" a Butcher, is it because of her powers, or because of a schizophrenic psychosis? Sometimes hard to tell...which is intentional.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

"Well, well, well," a voice exclaimed behind me. Thick, and with a garish accent I barely understood as English. They sounded gleeful, but not in a nice way. If I were any other person, it'd have made my skin crawl. "A little trash-collector, in our territory."

"Get out of there, little rat," a girl purred, immediately followed by something blunt hitting my shoulder.

I resisted the urge to lash out immediately, and with a stifled sigh, I slowly extracted myself from the E-waste container I'd all but dived into headfirst. I turned to see who was harassing me. ABB scum. Two guys, and a girl who couldn't be much older than I was, all dressed in red and green. The girl wielded a baseball bat, which I assumed she'd used to poke me in the shoulder. Shit, I'd hoped they'd ignore me, and stick to their beer bottles. Guess I'd been too noisy.

Over the past two days, I'd been tinkering whenever I could, but I could only do so much until my bronze ran out, and thus I had to go scavenging again. The family I was stuck with till Dad came back was nice enough I guess, if a little patronizing. Geoff and Martha knew me – the old me – and I knew them reasonably enough. But they also clearly didn't know how to handle me so they largely left me alone, which suited me well.

I had to stay at their home during most of the day, but they didn't stop me from 'exercising', and sneaking out at night was pathetically easy.

"We don't want your kind–" The third guy fell silent mid-sentence when I drew myself up to my full height and turned around to face the fuckers who polluted my personal space.

The ABB ruled the east end of Brockton Bay, including large parts of the destitute docks which put them uncomfortably near my workshop. Next to the Empire, they were one of the most prominent gangs in the city, infamous for both their leader and the vile shit they pulled; Slavery, prostitution, and drugs.

They had never bothered me before, mostly because I usually kept away from their territory when I scavenged. Yet, the possibility of Lung – or his flunky Oni Lee -- knocking at my door had crossed my mind before.

For a brief moment, I considered running away. I didn't want to stir up trouble, I just wanted to get by until we could get out of this shithole of a city, but that desire quickly drowned in the whirlpool of emotions swirling through me. No, running away was not an option.

My hand darted forward, closing around the girl's wrist as I stared down at them.

I dismissed the two guys after a brief examination. They seemed to be older than me, with shaggy hair, and an attitude that immediately identified them as wannabes and morons. One of them pulled a knife out of his pocket as I scanned him, but the one with the awful slouch just glared at me as his eyes darted between me and the girl. A boyfriend perhaps?

Goons. They weren't worth my attention. One of them slurred something at me.

The girl was petite, with purple eyeliner and a ring through her nose. I felt her trying to pull away as I met her gaze. Futile. There was something in her eyes I didn't like, something that reminded me of what festered in myself. I stepped forward and into the light of the street lantern, pushing her with me.

"Let me go. Do you know–" The girl paused as she saw the mask covering the lower part of my face. "Shit, cape. Sugita!" she shouted.

Shaggy hair pulled a handgun from his pocket. "Step back," he said in a surprisingly calm tone. "Let her go, or I'll put you down."

"No," I said. When I met his gaze, there was nothing but ice in his eyes. Unlike his friends. He'd probably killed before, be willing to do it again. Not that it'd help him. "Leave."

My danger sense bristled, and I shrugged backward, allowing the girl's clumsy bat strike to miss my face by a mere fraction of an inch and glance off my shoulder. I lashed out an instant later, moving forward to close the distance between me and the one with the gun, sliding my pincer-hand out of my pocket to secure it around Sugita's throat, lifting him off the ground, whirling around, and slamming him against the dumpster behind me.

Something cracked audibly, like a dry stick snapped in half, followed by a howling scream as the girl buckled in my grip. I only had a split second to realize that I'd simply pulled her with me without any regard – and had most likely broken her wrist when I'd twisted – before the sweet scent of her fear and pain slammed into me in a rush of energy and endorphins.

I instinctually squeezed again, eliciting another howling scream from her, before my mind caught up with what I was doing and I let go of her. She fell as if she was a doll whose strings had been cut, her baseball bat clattering on the ground. She curled in on herself like a dying pillbug. A faint noise drifted into my ears over the grunting and struggling of her companions, and it took me a second to identify it as choked sobs.

I felt a faint stab of guilt, but my danger sense tickled again, and the twinge got consumed as I rode on the high that enveloped me. Her pain – and that of her friend when I lifted him up again, headbutted him, and punted him into the ground – fueled me in more ways than just on an emotional level; I could feel my bones grow harder, my muscles swelling and pulsing. It made me stronger, faster, and tougher.

I wanted more.

A knife approached my face, and I didn't bother dodging it, using the opening as it glanced off my cheek and sliced through the fabric of my hood to bury my fist in the surprised slouch-boyfriend's gut. He wobbled a few steps backward before crumpling to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

He didn't look like he was getting up again, and neither did his friend I'd punted into the ground. I still kicked the handgun away from Sugita – just to be sure – as I stepped over him to approach Slouchy. Now, I could almost taste their pain on my tongue, and there was an unmistakable acrid trace of urine and vomit in the air.

He was still on the ground, a pathetic, panting heap, and the sight rode me high into a feeling of power.

More.

He managed to glance up at me as I stepped squarely on his shin. I couldn't keep the grin from my face as I met his gaze, and gently pressed down with my foot, slowly increasing the pressure until something snapped below me. A new wave of his pain hit me, even sweeter.

Something began rising in my subconsciousness, a whispering that encouraged me …urged me to go further. He deserved to suffer, no doubt. He was a criminal, a slaver, and he had bothered me. It was fine to blow off some steam. It felt so good, how could it be wrong?

"He deserves it," my mind whispered. "Just think about how many people he hurt."

Something else snapped below my feet, and this time a pained wheeze reached my ears.

"Geez, she is high as fuck. First time she's gone that far," one of them chuckled. Slouchy?

"Yeah, she's really enjoying herself," the girl on the ground said. "It's about time, yeah?"

"Mmm, but shouldn't we do something?"

"Nah," Sugita growled. "Just let her be for now. My power is pretty potent. It'll get better with time, but the first rush is always the hardest. Fuck, reminds me of my own first time."

Thank you. With a smile, I closed my hand around a slender finger, looking Slouchy in the eyes before I abruptly twisted it. He buckled below me, and I only now realized that I was straddling him.

"Good girl," the girl whispered into my ear. Someone else spoke, but I ignored them. I felt so powerful. Light-headed, and-

Am I not strong? I thought to myself, flexing my arms on impulse. I could feel something straining against my biceps until the pressure suddenly gave away. Heh, nice. Did I just fuck up my jacket?

"Wow, hot," the girl spoke. "Do we have to worry about her discovering the pain blast?"

Pain blast? I frowned. Did I have more powers than I'd realized? A hand caressed my face, and I slapped it away. I looked inward, into the well of my power, for the lack of a better word. Something nudged back at my prodding. Something new. Yet when I tried to reach for it, it backed up. Almost as if someone pulled it away from me, keeping it barely out of reach.

Weird, I thought. I found something else, akin to a leash, but when I pulled at it, it resisted. Like a tug of war. Someone spoke, but I didn't listen. They kept speaking, and finally, I forced myself to focus.

"Please. Please. Please," someone said – sobbed and choked so I could barely understand their words. I realized that it was the guy I was still straddling. "S-sorry. S-sorry. I..I s-sorry."

I rose to my feet, frowning. What was I doing? I tried to get my head back into the present, but I felt so good, strong, and happy. My mind was cloudy, my thoughts were heavy. No, wait, I was doing…?

A sharp stab of pain jabbed into my skull, and for the briefest moment, the fog of my mind cleared. I looked around, blinking, and my eyes fell on a rusty barrel. It was filled with water.

I shuffled toward it, and before I could make up my jumbled mind, I dunked my head into the water.

It was cold. Holy motherfucking hells cold.

I didn't squeak like a little girl. Definitely not, and if anyone said differently, they'd be a vile liar. But it helped, and when I pulled my head from the barrel, my mind was clear again.

I wiped the water from my eyes before I looked back at the scene. What had happened?

I winced. Oh shit.

My handcart still stood where I'd left it, as did the modified metal detector, but the dumpster was now decorated with a big human-sized dent. Three people lay on the ground, crumpled and curled in on themselves. The stench of urine and vomit assaulted my nostrils. One of them wasn't moving, but the other two were trembling and sobbing. An idle impulse had me switch to my blood-sight, but none of them seemed to have internal injuries.

Shit. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck. I slammed my fist into the wall. It helped a little, so I did it again – over and over and over until the filthy concrete was reduced to powder and my tension low enough for me to dare and step back.

I took taking a deep breath. My thoughts swirled, guilt and panic intertwining, but I forced myself to concentrate. No Taylor, stop and think. There's no time for panic. Don't get angry. Oh shit, shit shit, what do I do now?

My eyes darted around, looking for something – anything that could help me resolve this. I needed to do something about them, couldn't just leave them here. I had gone too far. They had deserved some roughing up, sure, no doubt, but I hadn't just scared them off or beaten them up. I had brutalized them. Even ignoring whether it was the right thing to do, this was the kind of shit that got a price put on your head.

I couldn't…fuck! Not now!

My eyes fell on Slouchy's knife. A dark thought rose in me. Vile, disgusting, inhuman, but I…I…I had no choice, did I?

My eyes burned – stung, and something in me twisted while something else started celebrating as I picked up the bent blade.

I approached Sugita, flipping him over. He was out cold but at least he was alive. I gave him a brief touch-down. Nothing seemed broken either, from what I could tell, which was a miracle given how I had used him. He'd been the one with the gun, with the cold eyes. He was the dangerous one.

He'd have to do.

Bile rose in my throat as I brought the knife to his face, pulling away the shaggy hair over his eyes so I could carve the swastika into his forehead.

"This won't be necessary," a voice spoke in broken, heavily accented English. I was startled, but by the time they finished speaking, I had already backflipped from where I'd crouched down, backward into the alley while my tail unfurled from below my jacket.

It coiled out like a whip behind me as I instinctually assumed a combat stance and a twinge of my song caused the razor-sharp obsidian blades running along its entire length to unfurl.

I froze.

"I am not here to fight you. Why did you attack them?" The parahuman asked. I recognized him immediately. A leering demon mask, crimson with two green stripes down either side. A simple black bodysuit, with belt and bandoliers bristling with knives and grenades. Oni Lee.

Lung's right-hand man, and a murderous sociopath if one were to believe the internet. He could teleport, duplicating himself as he did, along with everything he carried with him. He was a skilled and deadly opponent, an immortal suicide bomber that was almost impossible to counter.

"Why did you attack them?" Oni Lee repeated. His voice carried even from behind the mask, but it was flat, emotionless.

"I defended myself," I replied. "I told them to leave, they made the first move."

Oni Lee nodded, barely noticeable. Could I take him on? Maybe. He was dangerous, but if I created a storm of glass, and stayed in there, I could be safe from direct attacks. I didn't know how his powers worked, but I knew that he couldn't fly, and I was convinced that he wouldn't be able to teleport into a meat grinder of glass without actually killing himself for good. But if I did that, then I'd blow my cover.

My Tinker-self couldn't defeat him, not as I was now, without any gear or preparation. By the standards of a normal Tinker, I'd been caught flatfooted. Shit.

What do I do now?

Honestly, I wanted to fight him. More out of a desire to test my mettle against one of the biggest threats in the city than of a desire to see him brought to justice, but I was self-aware enough to realize the repercussions of lunging at him.

"I understand," Oni Lee pulled something from his pocket, and casually flicked it at me. I easily caught it with my hand. A burner phone? "Proceed with them as you please. The ABB apologizes on their behalf."

I stared down at the phone in my hand. "Why?"

"To contact us if you are in dire need."

"Why?" I asked again, too aghast to care that I was pretty much repeating myself.

"So we can come and help," Lee stated as a matter of fact. He might as well have been talking about the weather. Fucking creepy.

"Why do you care?"

Lee paused to look at me, and for the first time, I had the impression that he really looked at me, cocking his head as he visibly thought about what to say next.

"Balance," he finally said, gesturing with his hand, and I could only gape, stupefied, as the Oni Lee in front of me suddenly fell apart into a cloud of ash, leaving me alone with the three brutalized gangers. The situation was surreal. Did he just let me go? Why would he not fight me? As thankful as I was for that, a part of me couldn't help but feel rejected – insulted – that he didn't seem to consider me a threat, and hadn't taken me seriously.

The thought that he disrespected me – treated me as someone unworthy – had me seething, but it only was a brief spike of anger that I quickly managed to wrestle down and rationalize apart. No…that didn't make any sense. It was silly. Immature.

I sighed as I looked around, but Lee was nowhere to be seen. Even when I switched to my blood-sight, the only things I could spot were the three goons and some rats in the dark. To think that someone had once again managed to get the drop on me was unsettling.

I needed to get out of here.

I quickly zip-tied the three gangers together. One of them had two broken legs, so they wouldn't get far even if I left them alone. A darker part of my mind whispered at me to simply get rid of them – kill them and string their corpses up on a streetlight – but I didn't. Instead, after gathering my things and scooping up the gun and the baseball bat, I called the police with my new burner phone, before dropping it into my dimensional bullshit storage where it would be untraceable until I retrieved it again.

I was about to leave when a glint of light in the corner of my eye caught my attention. A delicate heart-shaped necklace, sitting around the neck of the girl and reflecting the light of the streetlight above. It must have been tucked away beneath her shirt, and fallen out when I'd thrown her around.

It was in my hand, the chain snapped before I knew what I was doing. Well, I thought as I pocketed it, before reaching out to grab the handle of my loaded handcart. Police sirens sounded in the distance, closing in. It could make for a decent memento, but enough stalling. Time to get the fuck out of here.

---

Many thanks to @Fwee for proofreading this for me.​

 

[Invested Demon]

-- Quarrel --
commissioned by Partisanenpasta
​

 

[OCEC0101]

--Mayhem--
Requested by @Partisanenpasta, made by me.
​

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

If there was one thing that could be said about the house I grew up in, it was that the insulation was crap. Not horrible, mind you, but the kind of thing you noticed. Especially in winter. The insulation of my workshop, though well. I wasn't sure if there even was any in the first place, but two days of nearly non-stop forging and Tinkering around the clock had turned my lair into a fucking miniature Saharan desert, neatly contained by four walls.

By this point, I had not only dared to open the skylight but had unapologetically discarded most of my clothes except for the pants I was wearing and my blacksmith apron. Yet, rivers of sweat were running down my bare back as I brought the hammer down and down and down again onto the delicate slab of glowing hot Tinker bronze on the anvil in front of me.

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts thundered from the speaker of my phone, but it didn't drown out the thundering strikes echoing in my ear. Couldn't dare to rest. Couldn't dare to stop.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Even with my increased natural resistance and the barrier I'd erected between myself and the forge so I couldn't see the glowing fire, the heat now emanating from my steam forge was uncomfortable, and every so often a wave of hot air caressed my back.

That actually didn't bother me too much, and neither did the sweat. Sweat was the athletes' perfume, after all.

In a way, it even pushed me onward, invigorated me, and made me feel alive in a deeply satisfying manner. The sight of my rippling, sweat-glistening arm was nothing short of euphoric, and a big part of me couldn't help but feel sorrow that I'd never again feel the sweet soreness after working myself to the brink of collapse.

Not too long ago it had been something I'd dreaded, as much as I'd dreaded the infamous phrase "gym class." I'd never been a fit girl. Now though, and in retrospect? It was just one of the many little things my powers had taken from me. Taken along with my ability to feel pain.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Finally, I dropped the hammer, using the pause to wipe the lenses of my protective goggles before I adjusted my pincer's grip, and lifted the piece of metal to inspect it. It looked good, and after a few minor adjustments with a smaller hammer from my apron, I carried it over to my work table and dropped it onto a tray of sand to cool off.

Stabby and his new partner skittered around in the back but I paid little attention to my mechanical minions. I stretched, lifting my arms – both my metal and the flesh one – over my head and pulled them with a delightful crack of my joints before I regarded the things laid out in front of me.

My gaze only lingered a moment on the array of components, before immediately flickering to the thing on the table for what must be the hundredth time in the last hour. The stupid little enigma of a Nokia brick, holding six contacts; L1, L2, and, L3, as well as O1, O2, and O3, never more than an arm's reach away from me at all times.

I caught myself quickly, looking away as I fished for a fresh towel and dried myself off, but it was too late. Every glance brought me back to the alley, to the girl's sobs and my own arousal as I broke her bones one by one. No doubt, she'd deserved getting taken down a peg – even getting beat down – but what I had done to her had been excessive. Like what a fucking monster like Hookwolf did to people.

I ground my teeth, but I restrained myself from lashing out against something. I wanted to cry in frustration, with the full knowledge that it was fucking weak of me, but I just couldn't help it.

I stood there, mere weeks away from getting my rosy future with Dad, and it had gone so smoothly until now. I'd tinkered away for months, enjoyed my last weeks in the Bay, and within two fucking days, everything around me had derailed.

And now… now…

I'd crafted three defense bots, a bunch of grenades, two guns, and even a beautiful glaive for Kal in the span of two fucking days, sneaking away whenever I could, tweaking and fucking up my own biology so I could prolong my time without sleeping even though it made me jittery and twitchy as fuck…

…and it wasn't enough. I needed to finish my Sentinel. I needed resources. I… fuck. I'd never make it like this. I needed to focus on my tinkering, and here I was now, with Lee and Lung on my fucking speed dial, and fuck did I know why. Why me, of all people? I wasn't even Asian, goddammit. I wanted to be a hero, and here I was practically associating with the fucking ABB.

I slammed the soaked towel against the wall and forced myself to focus back on the task at hand. I was sick of it – of worrying about shit I couldn't control. Did it help me? Could I even help it? Of fucking course not.

Just two more weeks Taylor, I told myself. You can do it.

To my surprise, it helped.

The confiscated aluminum baseball bat from the ABB girl I'd massacred dealt with just two hours ago now sat before me, stripped off its red and green paint job and split in half like one of the sand casts I used for forging, revealing its hollowed out interior.

A baseball bat was a classy and versatile weapon, non-lethal and simple enough, and so I'd decided to upgrade it instead of turning it into scrap metal. And with the last piece done and now cooling off next to me, it was time to assemble it.

My mechanical hand was powerful with the tradeoff that it struggled with fine control, but the delicate pincer on my tail was well suited for precise manipulation. With my three limbs working in accord, assembling the three main components for my new weapon was easy.

The whole construction was almost trivial, consisting only of three components: a power cell, connecting cables, and the taser head. I carefully grabbed the slender cylinder housing both the intricate steam dynamo and the steam cell I'd recycled from one of my shock grenades, slotting it into the lower handle of the bat. Using my reshaping power, I narrowed the aluminum cylinder for a good fit. Next, a series of bolts anchored it into place, protruding a little out of the original casing. The body transitioned into the custom pommel I'd crafted for my new weapon, a masterpiece made from black glass and golden bronze.

The connector came next, a series of simple tubes and cables for steam and electricity, carefully cushioned with loose sand and wrapped in a cable housing spooled from fine bronze threads. They were surprisingly flexible, albeit a nightmare to make, but they'd protect the fragile shit inside.

Truly a must-have, given that the overlaying purpose of this construction was to smash in heads like a barbarian. I found myself humming along to the music as I slotted it in and took a screwdriver to the delicate bronze screws I'd cast just for this. They'd follow along in the center of the body of the bat, connecting the lower parts with the war-head.

The tip of the bat was the main damage dealer. While the weapon would usually be just a Taser beat stick, designed to fry people with hopefully nonlethal amounts of electricity, the fiddly things I'd stuck into the central cylinder allowed me to use the discharge vents for the steam as an impromptu backup weapon that would allow me to heat the bat up by wrapping it in clouds of superheated steam, or straight-up douse my surroundings like a flamethrower when I was in a pinch.

Since the sides were the part of my weapon that would bear the brunt of most impacts, I'd made sure to add additional armor plating as well as a layer of pressurized steam sandwiched in between the two layers of metal – like one of those impervious Prince Rupert drop things. A total of twelve pockets of pressurized steam were arranged tightly around the head in two rows.

Tubes providing the compressors with steam were hooked up to the connector and securely bolted into the original aluminum case. Fiddling the taser prongs to where I wanted them turned out a bit of a challenge since I couldn't just melt them into place without potentially fucking up the conductivity, but, eventually, I was holding a finished product.

Well, mostly finished, I thought. The new interior components aligned perfectly with the hull, but there were still large gaps where I hadn't been able to cram in more gear without throwing off the weight. I put some last finishing touches on everything – checked screws, bolts, and contacts – before I reached out with my song, and called.

Sand rose from the bucket next to me, crunching together as I filled it into every empty space, squeezing and compressing it as much as possible. I held it in place there as I resealed the bat, melting the aluminum together seamlessly as if it was never split apart in the first place before I released the hold of my song.

I hummed another melody and the bat rose from the table, hovering and rotating slowly in midair in front of my face. I'd still have to coat the outside in another layer or two of bronze and add some decorations, the shock prods, and other knickknacks, but now I had another serviceable weapon.

I couldn't help a bit of smugness as I watched it hover in front of me. Initially, the idea of wasting my precious Tinker bronze on such a… well, primitive weapon had seemed like a waste of resources, but I needed something durable that I could fight with, and honestly, when I looked at it now, I couldn't help but feel proud of my newest creation.

In my mind, I could already see how it would look when it was done. Golden bronze shimmering like a nova under the light of the lightbulbs above me. A smooth handle wrapped in red or black leather, cuddling into my grip. Intricate lines of midnight glass – maybe even obsidian if I managed to get my hands on more of that – covering the surface, reflecting the cycle of lightning when I punted it over and over and over again into Emma fucking Barnes's face before I shoved it into–

I coughed, my wince at the train of thought giving way to a smile. Yet, the mental slip-up didn't impact my mood, and when I regarded the actual interplay of black, shimmering gold, and sallow aluminum before my eyes, I could, for the briefest moment, swear that the bat smiled back at me.

"Oh my god, it is just a fucking bat, keep your shit together girl," The bat cackled silently at me, but I rebuked him. Not just a baseball bat, but a beat stick for the gods, I thought smugly. Now I just had to give it a quick polish, and I could go and use my new toy to break something while pretending it was Emma's face.

---

The experience of moving from my den to the outside world was like stepping from an oven into a freezer. A wall of cold air slammed into me as I hovered out of the skylight and onto the flat roof of my abode. In other words, it was almost heaven, and after brushing the fresh snow off the old lounger I'd carried up here ages ago, I allowed myself to lie down and relax.

I knew I shouldn't… but just a little, fleeting moment of peace wouldn't hurt, right?

I kept my eyes open to gaze up at the stars and for a while, I did just that.

I loved the peace, the relative quietness compared to the thrum of my workshop or the never-sleeping city. To just sit there, and gaze up into the endless sky.

Cold snowflakes drifted past my vision, prickling where they landed on my face. The dark sky was overcast with clouds, but I could occasionally spot the moon peeking through the tears in the dark curtain. A cold, pale entity smiling down at me with its silvery light. Warming my face even though there was no warmth to be found.

There were no stars this deep in the city, but the glass around me rose at my command, catching what bits of light there were and forming a shimmering galaxy above my head.

Beautiful. Mesmerizing.

I wanted to strip off my worries, put on some light music, and just dance in the moonlight, at the center of my own galaxy and entranced in the weave of glass I'd cast. I would have if there was a clear sky and a full moon, and fuck the cold…but I didn't. Instead, I just closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to drift.

I didn't want to think about Greasecan – didn't want to think about shit like assassins or serial killers, or how I'd even manage to cart my fucking Sentinel and all my shit to Boston without Dad or anyone noticing. I wanted to think about normal stuff. Stuff I could worry about.

How would my life continue?

What would I do?

What would happen if Dad lost the lawsuit?

What future did I even have?

I was about to move to an entirely new city – thank fucking god – but what would await me there? Of course, I'd read the brochures about Boston, about the new "luxurious apartment" (hah!) Dad had managed to organize in such a short amount of time. I'd even googled up images of the lovely 26-story concrete block with fortunate placement right next to the famous Jamaica Pond itself.

I'd read up what sparse info I could find on the topic of the city's major capes. Boston was at least twice as big as Brockton Bay, and just looking at their Protectorate lineup was baffling. All the official heroes, plus Sacred Heart, Yago-Kay, Dark Society, Accord…

So many names, so many capes, so many gangs. How would I even fit in there? Would I and Dad settle in Boston, or would we just end up on the street? Another missed shot, taken amongst so many others. Fuck, it reminded me of school, of how it'd 'worked out' when I'd gone back for the first time.

Would I snap? What would people see in me when I walked through the door with all my glorious two hundred pounds of disfigured, scarred muscle and anger issues? Would people even try to get to know me, or would they just see a violent thug?

I wanted to say 'fuck people'. No one would ever look down on me again, step all over me, or talk shit into my face without paying the consequences. No one would disrespect me ever again, and I'd rather die than go back to the way things had been.

But – and as much as I hated to admit it – it wouldn't matter much if people avoided me because I was a victim or because I was a predator. I'd be alone either way.

I guess I wanted to be left alone…but I didn't want to be alone. I really didn't.

I lifted my hands – first the flesh one and then the crude metal cybernetic – skywards, sighing. I was damaged, so fucking damaged, and there was no point in denying that…but every scar made me tougher, didn't it?

Emma's face flashed before my eyes, and her soft voice dripped into my ear. "You are weak, Taylor. A pathetic little mouse and I don't need you anymore. Why don't you just die?"

No. I looked to my left, finding the brick person I'd assembled for my target practice a while ago, and without getting up from my lounge, I yanked my new bat into my fingers and smashed it right to left over my body and into the statue's face.

I rolled onto my feet, triumphantly grinning down at Emma's shattered face. Weak? You call me weak, little bitch. I'll eat you alive, you pathetic sheep.

I kicked into the pile of rubble, and then, without looking, I hurled my weapon at a series of old cans aligned on the ledge of the roof, mowing them down, and before the bat could drop down and out of my sight, I'd already yanked it back toward me.

I grabbed it without looking, swirling around in the same movement, and bringing it down on an invisible target. Ha!

I cleared the roof from anything suspicious before climbing back into my now slightly cooler dwelling, immediately throwing off my scarf, jacket, shirt, and everything else unneeded so I could avoid having to take a second shower before I left for home.

I carried my bat towards my weapon safe, a heavy chest made from pure, inches-thick scrap steel and without any visible lock or opening. It was something I'd designed myself, and without my telekinesis, it was unopenable.

There was no sound – no clack of locks and bolts as I sang it open, using my super strength to lift up the insanely heavy lid so I could place my bat in there with everything else–

And then a phone rang into the silence, and my head whipped around, eyes darting towards the lump of evil plastic on my desk, and–

I managed to pull my pincer away before it got mangled, followed by my mind catching up on the fact that I'd accidentally let go of the safe door, and again followed by another realization that shattered the lump of ice suddenly stuck in my throat.

Oh, no, wait. Just my personal phone. Holy fuck did that just scare me, I thought. The weight that dropped off my shoulders was almost physical, but who could blame me?

A flick of my finger deactivated the voice changer in my mask, and a silent hum yanked the sleek smartphone into my hand. I brought it to my ear. "Da–" The word got stuck in my throat when realization hit me. No, no, no. It's like fucking three AM. This can't be Dad.

I would have cleared my throat if I still needed to do that. Who the fuck was calling me at this hour on my private phone? Did Martha notice me sneaking out? Shit, shit, shit.

I shot a glance at the display. Then another one. Big C? Who the fuck was Big C?

"Yes?" I rasped.

"Hello. Hello!" A voice exclaimed excitedly. A bit like a kid getting their candy, which was weird because it was clearly an adult speaking. "I'm connected to Songbird, right? The independent hero?"

I dropped the phone, flicked the switch of my voice changer back on, and caught it again within the split of a second. Only then did I allow myself to freeze like a deer in headlights as my thoughts began stumbling upon each other like a panicked mob mass pile-up.

I vaguely recognized the voice but w-what the fuck? I glanced at the display again, just to make sure. The letters spelling out 'Big C' still smiled out at me, leaving me none the wiser.

"Hello?" The voice asked again, audibly less cheery. Images of Greg flashed before my eyes, giving me the exact sick, beaten-puppy vibes I had no fucking use for right now, goddammit.

Who the fuck is Big C, I wanted to scream into the phone. Why did he have my private number that less than a handful of people knew, and why was he calling Songbird on my personal phone?

How do you have my number? Who the fuck are you, and why are you calling me at fucking three AM? I took a breath and uttered a single "yes" into my phone. Songbird; It had been the name I'd come up on the fly during my meeting with Carson.

Then, after a pause, I offered a careful "Who are you, and how can I help you?"

In times like these, I was truly thankful that my mask, voice modulator, and still-mutilated larynx allowed me to bypass most of the awkward "uhms" and "ehms", and the truly unprofessional nervous stuttering that would have undoubtedly poured from my lips.

"Great, great, I come bearing news regarding our mutual friend," the voice exclaimed. The cheer was back in full force now. "I am Carson, Michael Carson, at your service! You gave me your number, remember? A few days ago, the …encounter, you know?"

Oh. Oh, yes, fuck, I did remember that shit. I also very much remembered that I had not given this guy my fucking number. Had he just added himself to my contacts when I'd lent him my phone to call for a cab or whatever?

"Yes," I responded, used to my mouth working more or less on its own when my temper got like this."So?"

"Well, I bring some very exciting news!" Carson said. "Your friend, the Cee Fifty-Three made it through. Barely, but he'll live. I know that you Capes are tight about your secret identities and the like, so I brought him to a discrete doctor I'd heard about. You'll have to negotiate pay with him directly, though I can forward you the contact details and address. Say… were you aware that your friend is being searched for by the police?"

I balked at his curious voice. Are you mocking me? It took me a moment to identify the phrase he'd used. C53: Monster Capes. Inhuman-looking people with powers, randomly appearing all over the world with no memories, and no recollection of their past One of those 'messy' outcomes of getting powers, though a bit different from mine.

I considered simply hanging up and blocking his number.

Sure, Carson had helped me deal with Greasecan – civil courage or whatever bullshit you'd want to call it – but I hadn't expected to ever meet him again, let alone having to deal with that lowlife pest…who wasn't even my fucking friend, goddammit. I knew nothing about this fucker ...either of them!

And here he was, calling me at three in the fucking morning and d-demanding payment from me to help a supervillain? Why are you bothering me with this, I wanted to say. What do you even want from me?

It made me speechless, and frankly, the urge to wash my hands of Greasecan and let him rot and die in whatever hole he'd ended up in was very enticing. A simple 'he isn't my friend, we were fighting, and you can turn him in to the authorities' would be enough. Yet, as I started to say just that, I found myself hesitating.

I ground my teeth in frustration. I shouldn't get involved with the shit the Bay threw at me, not so close to my departure… but I knew that Greasecan knew something. I needed to know what the fuck was going on – if just to be prepared when someone targeted me.

I knew about the great game – cops and robbers – and I knew that it wasn't played by a sniper round into the head. It meant that whoever was behind the attack back in that alley didn't play by the Unwritten Rules. If they came after me, I doubted that it would only be in costume.

That was unacceptable, and Greasecan… he'd said something moments before he bled out beneath me, hadn't he? Trenchcoat-woman, he'd said. I was by no means an expert on the local cape scene but I was pretty sure that I'd never heard about a woman in a trenchcoat before, and none of the local capes I knew of hit anywhere close to that description either.

If she was even a Cape.

"Thank you," I said.

"It's of course not my business, but you don't sound particularly enthusiastic about your friend…"

I almost growled into the phone. He isn't my friend.

He could die for all I cared, truly, and even if I shouldn't think like that, fuck it. Still, I'd need to talk to him, at least once. If that meant that I'd have to pretend to be his friend just once? So be it.

"It's three a.m.," I said. "Sorry. It's a bit late, and I am tired."

"Oh, no problem!" Carson exclaimed. He chuckled. "I always thought you capes were night owls… well, anyway! With that out of the way, would you be interested in a highly profitable job?"

I blinked.

"A job? What job?" I asked. "How much?"

"Oh, well, how about 3 thousand dollars for a single evening of your services? I am in need of a bodyguard for an entirely legal occasion, I truly swear."

Why do you need a bodyguard then? I thought with a mentally raised eyebrow. Honestly, that caught me pretty off-guard. Was this… a trap? I didn't trust this guy… fuck no, but three-fucking thousand dollars for a single night? That sounded like a dream – it was more than Kal had made in her entire career as an artist.

I could do so much with that money, I thought, but who even was this guy? Some kind of businessman, if I remembered correctly. With armed bodyguards. A gangster maybe? One of the old mobsters still clinging to relevance after the rise of Parahumans had overthrown organized crime?

"One moment," I spoke into the phone, before putting the speaker on mute. Then, I started clicking through the radial menus of my smartphone, opened the web browser, and did my best impression of Sherlock Holmes.

I googled him.

To my surprise, only a few types later I found myself on a barebone website and was indeed greeted by the smiling face of Michael Carson, and the truly informative phrase 'My business is your business' followed by an email address and a telephone number that matched those in my phone.

There was nothing else on the website.

At first glance, he seemed to be legit, in the way the stereotypical smarmy loanshark-type CEO villain from crappy television drama did. He didn't seem to be a cape, at least.

Then an idea hit me. If he was a businessman, then maybe…?

"Business is a pretty broad field," I spoke into the speaker after unmuting myself again. "What do you actually do?"

"Oh, many things," Carson answered cheerily. "I organize, buy, and sell things, facilitate connections-"

"I need bronze. Is that something…"

"Uhm, pardon…bronze?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's an… oddly specific request.," Carson answered. "If you forgive my curiosity, why bronze?"

"Stuff," I elaborated.

"Oh," Carson answered. Based on the awkward pause following my statement, he'd obviously waited for me to elaborate. Sucks to be him, I guess. "Well, yes…ok then. If you excuse me for a moment..."

I could hear whispers and hushing through the phone, but it was too silent for me to understand. But only a moment later, Carson's voice returned to full strength.

"…well Miss Songbird, I think I can help you out, and the service will even be free as a show of our blossoming friendship! But, the cost of materials will be subtracted from the original payment, of course."

Fuck yes! I thought. My mood had done a one-eighty turn. Not that I trusted any of this – or this guy – further than I could spit, but I was due some good luck, and this looked like it.

"How much can you get me?" I asked.

"Uhm, for two of the three thousand dollars… how about a metric ton? Well, more or less."

I did not squawk, and I certainly did not drop my phone either.

"Let's meet up," I said. "Now."

I still had around two hours before I needed to be back in bed like the good teenage girl I pretended to be, and it would be enough to check this guy out. Or, a darker part of my mind whispered, to get rid of a potential threat.

---

New chaptah is out. Thanks to Fwee and creativeProcrastinator for beta-ing this for me. I am always happy about feedback and comments!​

 

[Ruby Boule]

Sure, it was still a fancy metal, costing roughly five hundred bucks for a hundred pounds,

Click to shrink...

And that why you should be suspicious when someone offers you over 2000 pounds for roughly 2000 bucks.

This is an insult to art."

Carson winced a little. "Well, please trust me when I say that I am very happy to get rid of them

Click to shrink...

Ha! And that would explain it. Selling even at a loss to offload useless goods.

An excellent chapter! Great character interactions. Looking forward to seeing how she handles this!

 

[Partisanenpasta]

And that why you should be suspicious when someone offers you over 2000 pounds for roughly 2000 bucks.


Ha! And that would explain it. Selling even at a loss to offload useless goods.

An excellent chapter! Great character interactions. Looking forward to seeing how she handles this!

Click to shrink...

Thank you very much! The lack of comments and traffic on this story thread can be a bit disheartening at time, so I am always looking forward to your comments! Question it though, should I have Taylor keep one of those statues as a souvenir or should she burn them all?

 

[Ruby Boule]

Thank you very much! The lack of comments and traffic on this story thread can be a bit disheartening at time, so I am always looking forward to your comments! Question it though, should I have Taylor keep one of those statues as a souvenir or should she burn them all?

Click to shrink...

I'll pass around a link in a few Worm-friendly Discord servers. See if I can't grassroots some interest.

As for the statues... I'd say Taylor would probably want them all melted for scrap, but a little voice in her head would probably push to keep some sort of memento (maybe keychain sized or warped enough to be not quite so blatant or even just a stylized etching somewhere discreet on the finished product that she keeps "repeatedly getting distracted away from erasing"). Voices-in-your-head are often known for collecting trophies.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

I'll pass around a link in a few Worm-friendly Discord servers. See if I can't grassroots some interest.

As for the statues... I'd say Taylor would probably want them all melted for scrap, but a little voice in her head would probably push to keep some sort of memento (maybe keychain sized or warped enough to be not quite so blatant or even just a stylized etching somewhere discreet on the finished product that she keeps "repeatedly getting distracted away from erasing"). Voices-in-your-head are often known for collecting trophies.

Click to shrink...

Heh, thank you very much. I do actually have it crossposted on the Space of Battles, and it goes a little better there, but there are still rather few comments and stuff overall.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Greetings People!

I wanted to thank you all for your attention, comments, and likes for my story. We reached 400 watchers on the Space of Battles thread, and a sweet hundred here on the Sufficient of Velocities thread! Given how big of a passion project of mine this story is, it does make me very happy! I, uh, also bring some good and bad news. First of all, the new chapter (The first part of a duo of connected interludes) is done and ready to deploy, although it still needs to be beta-ed.

On the other hand, I also noticed a rather severe fuck-up of mine that needs to be addressed before I continue working on the story. My current plan is that I do that, then I'll finish the second interlude, and then I'll go back to my prologue and give that a proper revamp before I start working on the second half of the arc.

As for where and what I fucked up...

Well, Tay's modus operandi as the dashing hippie artist Kaleidoscope is sitting on a blanket and trying to shill her art. She hides the true extent of her powers, and how they actually work, and she doesn't wear tight-fitting clothes either. Basically, she poses as a Cape who can do matter reshaping. And then she goes all Shatterbird during her first fight, uses the same cape name, and gets more or less immediately recognized as the artist despite being a flying disco ball that doesn't even closely resemble how she is known to the public at this point in the story.

My solution for this is to have her create a new identity on the fly during the chase, called Songbird (because I am terribly uninspired with names and totally didn't steal that from Cyberpunk 2077), and I'll have to do edits to all the already published chapters to incorporate this.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

I hovered in the sky, carried by my shattered wings as I stared down at the three crimson outlines shining through the roof of the warehouse below me. There was a single skylight, but I kept myself out of their view.

One sitting, one standing in a corner, arms crossed, and one who seemed to be sleeping. Perhaps in a side room, though I couldn't tell for sure. Three people, three potential threats. I was nervous – of fucking course I was – and I had been for the entire time I'd flown here.

Random guy calling me at three A.m. for a suspicious job offer? He'd wanted Kal the artist, so it was unlikely he was looking for anything illicit, and yet… It was beyond fishy, but I didn't dare turn him down without at least hearing him out. One fucking metric ton of bronze? It would solve all my problems in one swoop. Hell, it made the impossible feasible.

A solution to such a fucking ridiculous problem that it should have me scoffing at the sheer… triviality. Bronze was trash, no one needed it, and no one used it save for artists and retro-fuckers trying to cling to the past.

Sure, it was still a fancy metal, costing roughly five hundred bucks for a hundred pounds, but since I never had enough money to even think about buying it in bulk – let alone the attention that might bring me – I had to resort to trash-diving. Which, again, fed back into the issue of no one really using bronze anymore.

In hindsight, it was a wonder that I'd ever gotten as far as I had now.

Fuck. I sighed, looking around. It's not like I wanted to have an ambush waiting for me, but no matter how many times I checked, my sight revealed nothing but emptiness. A whole block around me, devoid of life save for the three shapes below.

No point in delaying this any longer, I thought to myself, and after taking a long, deep breath full of nicotine, I snipped my still-glowing cigarette bud into the darkness and readjusted my mask. Then I coiled my wings together, moved over the skylight, and simply let myself plummet down.

I crashed through the skylight, glass shattering around me, wrapped in my beautiful crystalline wings.

Heads snapped up, eyes wide, and in the fleeting moment of free-fall, I met Carson's startled gaze before I crashed feet-first into the ground. To my disappointment, the clean concrete beneath my feet didn't shatter upon impact, and after absorbing the force with my knees, I nonchalantly took a step forward and extended my right hand.

"Hello," I said, internally wincing and ignoring my cracking knees. "So you wish to hire my services?"

Carson – to my surprise – quickly gathered himself, jumped from the couch he had occupied, and pounced like a rabid animal onto my hand as a wide grin split his face ear to ear. He still looked like he had back in the alley; nice suit, clean-shaved face, and short black hair neatly cropped and styled like you'd expect from a brave momma's boy. A small and slender man in his early thirties, exuding so much slime from every pore of his demeanor that I almost feared slipping and tripping on it.

A woman's voice snorted, "Hah, nice entry, kid." It was just the bodyguard, now once more leaning against a nearby column with her arms crossed. I recognized her, but I couldn't remember her name.

"Miss Songbird! What a pleasure, I almost feared that you wouldn't show up…and in such a dramatic manner…my poor heart!" He laughed in an almost revoltingly charming manner, gesturing to the remains on the window on the ground with his free hand. "Ah, don't worry about the window. I'll just dock it from your pay after the mission."

I… shit. I cursed internally. I wanted to slap myself. "…sorry," I mumbled. "Can fix it, if you'd like."

"That would be very much appreciated!" Carson exclaimed. He still held my hand, and I yanked it back without any regard for him. When I looked around the warehouse, I noticed a series of cots with disarrayed blankets set up in a corner. Was the guy living here?

Apart from that, the warehouse looked very much…professional. A single massive cargo hall, gloomily empty save for a fancy car parked next to the main roll gate, a few shipping crates on one end, the apparent sleeping area, and the little furnished corner I found myself standing next to.

It seemed to be an impromptu office space, dominated by a large table in the center littered with paper and all the other little bits of office shit I knew from Dad's old office in the DWA building. There were three laptops, a cup-holder tray with empty cups of takeout coffee, and a large couch set up against the rear wall.

Not quite how I imagined the working space of a legitimate businessman. Frankly, it would have made me very suspicious if not for the sheer mundaneness of everything. Criminals were supposed to be flashy and ostentatious, weren't they?

Given how the building looked from the outside, it was in surprisingly good shape. The walls were spotless and freshly painted, and the ground was so clean I could have eaten off of it. The halogen lights shining down from above were so modern that I only needed to look at them and the imaginary smell of fresh factory goods hit my nose.

Someone – Carson presumably – had obviously dumped a lot of money into this building. But why would a businessman from Boston do that, in a dying shithole of a city hundreds of miles away?

Since I'd grown up as the daughter of a Dockworker, with a history that went at least a few generations back from what I knew, I had just a little experience of blue-collar work, and ever so slightly less about the white-color work when Dad had switched to administration as the hiring head of the DWA.

I couldn't really say that I'd ever cared much about Dad's work – at least not enough ever to consider looking into it – but I'd visited him often enough at his office to pick up a few things here and there over the years.

Still, at the end of the day I still really knew shit about it if I was being honest, and thus the assumption that whatever Carson was doing here was probably some legit business stuff seemed fair enough. It wasn't like he operated out of some shady basement. and as long as he paid, and didn't trick me, I didn't care.

"I will accept the job," I confirmed again. "But I need to know more details, and I want the bronze. Upfront. I will not aid you with anything illegal."

For a moment, Carson looked like he wanted to object, but he just shrugged and gestured for me to follow him deeper into the warehouse. "Of course, Miss Songbird. Unfortunately, I can't deliver all of the bronze immediately, but I have a decent amount here I can offer." He shot me a glance before continuing. "You said the shape doesn't matter, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Uhm, forgive me my curiosity but–"

"Art," I elaborated again. "I sometimes sell it under a different name on the Boardwalk. You will never speak of this to anyone else."

"Oh, of course. Right. I understand the want to avoid attention. My lips shall remain sealed," Carson said. The smile never left his voice, but something in his eyes sparked in a way I didn't like. "So you must be Kaleidoscope then. I've heard a little about you and your art. Could I perhaps ask–"

"Sure," I said. "Pendant? Ring?"

"A pendant would be lovely, and one of your flowers, if you can."

"Fine," I said. That would be easy enough and only cost me a few minutes at best.

The crate Carson directed me to was located at the other end of the warehouse, and I idly plucked some glass from the air around me and started assembling a rose for him. Blue, black, green, red…a swirling mess of colors, shimmering and melting into each other until I held a delicate flower radiating in a kaleidoscope of shades. I made a second one, and a third, wrapping them into an impromptu bouquet, which I then shoved into the surprised man's hands when we finally stopped.

"Consider it a gift," I explained.

The crate in front of me lay on its side, with one wall pried off and sitting on the floor. It was big, reaching up to my shoulder, and when I peeked inside, I was greeted by loads and loads of what seemed to be wood wool stuffing.

"Can I look?" I asked.

"Sure, sure," Carson smiled. "It's all yours, upon agreeing to the job of course. If you need help transporting it, I can lend you one of my drivers for a token fee."

I reached into the wooden wool, and my fingers found hard shapes. I grabbed one, pulled, and was rewarded with a vaguely human-shaped thing, wrapped in crispy paper. It was at least three feet tall, but I could barely feel the weight when I hoisted it out of the crate and carefully sat it down on the floor. A statue? I'd be surprised if it wasn't.

I tore off the paper wrapping, and my eyes widened.

What the fuck is this. Oh my god. Why? Jesus fucking Christ.

"The crate holds a dozen of them."

I turned to stare at Carson. Who the hell would want something like this? And he had like a metric fucking ton of them? Oh my god…were they all like…this abomination?

"Serviceable," I nodded, but I couldn't suppress the disbelieving, "why?"

"Uhm, why what?" Carson asked innocently, but I could fucking see his lips twitch. This…this bastard! Defiler of the arts. This was a national and cultural crime, and nothing else.

"Why do you have…" I gestured helplessly at the large abomination of an amorphous but clearly suggestive sculpture. A metric fuck-ton of not so very-subtly phallic statues of liberty. "...this! This is an insult to art."

Carson winced a little. "Well, please trust me when I say that I am very happy to get rid of them. I made a deal with an aspiring…erotica artist, and well…" He coughed and shrugged. "Let's just say I made a mistake, leave it at that, and never speak of it again."

"Works for me," I shrugged, I'd melt them down anyway, so it wouldn't matter. Pure, unsullied bronze, in large quantities. This was an eyesore for the ages, but very much what I needed.

I turned my attention away from the statue on the ground, and back at Carson, standing up to my full height as I faced him. "What is this job you need my services for?"

"Ah, well. You see, I have recently acquired an invitation to a gathering of a bunch of very influential figures – next Friday actually, not this one – and I need a dashing companion to accompany me there." Carson eyed me. "Your company would truly be an exquisite enrichment for the eveníng."

I didn't like the way he eyed me. There clearly wasn't anything sexual about his gaze, it was purely calculating…but in a way that just rubbed me wrong. He checked me out like a cow for sale – like a slab of meat – and a part of me wanted to sock it out of him, whether it was just my imagination or not.

Yet, I stayed my hand, neutered my ego, and eyed the phone screen he held in front of me. Some kind of event announcement – a fundraiser? – plastered across a website.

I only caught a few names before Carson pulled the screen away; Stansfield, Anders, Estrella. It sounded…familiar, and now that I thought about it, I did remember reading about it before. What was that again…

Oh, oh, right. That massive fundraiser event this new company was hosting to rejuvenate the city. All the big fucks of Brockton Bay would be there…and that's where Carson wanted to drag me along to?

A part of me felt intrigued. If I really wanted to present Songbird as my official hero persona, which I now all but had to thanks to my hasty decisions with Carson, this was a beneficial move that would play well into the more flashy nature of my powers. It could give me a lot of clout, to get into one of those events. But…why? Why would he need me there? It wasn't the kind of place where you'd need muscle to save your hide or bust in some faces when things went wrong…fuck, I was pretty sure even some of the Protectorate heroes would be attending.

It would be a safe event, especially with the rich fucks like the Standfields and the Anders attending. As far as my knowledge went, they were among the most influential families in the Bay, with all the social bickering and hoity-toity events that entailed. They controlled some of the largest businesses in town, like the Medhall Corporation.

He wasn't looking to hire Songbird as protection. He could have brought fucking Armsmaster as his plus-one, and all that would accomplish-

Oh. Something in my mind clicked, and just like that, my self-esteem collapsed back into nothing. My cheeks started to burn, but it wasn't anger.

"I will call," I said, and without giving Carson a chance to speak, I excused myself with a curt nod, and surged into the air and out of the skylight before I did something I'd regret. I surged through the night, and I didn't stop, neither to think nor to contemplate.

As I glided over the sleeping city, I caught something in the corner of my eyes, and together with the sensation of someone watching me, I turned my head. Yet, the figure I thought I noticed watching me from an alley below me wasn't there, and even when I switched to my blood-sight, there was no one around. Fucking Carson and his fucking offer, making me so stressed I was seeing things.

Eventually, I continued my way home, and only when I was lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling while people who weren't family snored innocently in the adjacent room next to mine did I allow myself to fully process this new turn of events.

I wasn't even angry with Carson, not really, even though I'd wanted to strangle him on the spot. No, I wasn't angry…I was mortified…and that was so much worse. Sure, I pretended to be just an artist…tried to stay out of trouble, but with a distinguished merc crew like Faultine's in the same city, the thought of hiring out my services had crossed my mind before.

I couldn't help but scoff bitterly at the ceiling, digging my hand into the unfamiliar blanket that never quite itched on my skin, trying to fight down the waves of indignance and humiliation boiling through my mind as I buried my face in my pillow.

Sure, I'd fleetingly thought about the idea now and then, but I'd never really engaged with the topic. When Carson had contacted me a few hours ago, I hadn't known what to expect. Fuck if I did now…but a part of myself had thought that someone saw a new and inexperienced cape, and saw something in her. Potential, maybe.

A part of me had thought that I'd earned someone's respect. Enough respect for them to entrust me with their safety. Sure, I might have turned down the offer if it was a hit job, something where violence was inevitable, but… I'd figured that I might at least have to bust some heads, intimidate someone, or bruise a few egos.

Not exactly what I wanted to achieve in life, but I could live with the thought of being some hired thug now and then, fair enough. But to be…reduced… to fucking eye candy…for some rich g-grease-fuck to brag about with his fucking rich friends…

That wasn't what I'd expected, and it left me speechless. No…I didn't blame Carson, but it stung in a way I didn't know it could. I was an artist, sure, pretending to be a little fish in a pond of sharks. But who was I really?

I was a shattered angel who could weave songs that tore cities apart. I could burn a mark into this city – this whole fucking country – bright enough for the fucking Slaughterhouse 9 to come knocking at my door, begging me to join them.

…and I hired myself away as an arm warmer for rich fucks like a prostitute. Wasn't that a lovely prospect? He could have as well asked me to get on my knees and suck him off for a hundred bucks, and I wasn't sure if that would feel worse.

Maybe I was overreacting – overthinking things, but this revelation had so thoroughly shattered my ego that I just didn't know how to deal with it. It was insulting, disrespectful, humiliating… and I'd still fucking do it, for fucks sake.

Gaaaaah.

I closed my eyes, sulking into my pillow as I waited for the dreaded sleep to claim me. And when it finally did, I soon found myself stalking through eerily familiar corridors. There was fire everywhere, but no matter where I ran, the searing flames always followed, and the iron door would always wait for me. And when I finally stopped, exhausted, defeated, and scared for my life, slender, emaciated fingers closed around my throat and jaw from behind.

Hot, jagged breath panted into my ear, and something wet dripped onto my shoulder, but I couldn't turn around – couldn't see the thing behind me.

I screamed, sobbed, and begged until my throat gave out, but the fingers were merciless, and the grip as unyielding as wrought iron. Something hard was forced into my mouth, followed by acid tar pouring down my throat as I flailed and buckled, and retched, held by pale hands that never let go.

I screamed, and as I did, the world around me shattered in crimson and smoke.

---

The man waited until the flying cape had left his field of view, and then he waited even longer, mentally counting down five minutes before he finally dared to move again. Slowly, he pushed himself off the wall he'd pressed himself against. The rough stone texture of his skin slowly receded as he released his grip on the grimy concrete, and after picking up the tray of now-cold takeout coffee from the ground, he reached into his pocket and fished out a burner phone.

He dialed the only contact. "Yo boss, how'd the meeting go?"

"Interesting," the woman on the other side replied. "Skidmark made his move, and he made it surprisingly well. The gangs will focus on him, so we'll be covered for now. Where are you? You are late."

"Found a new Cape on a night stroll," the man said. "Purely by chance. She didn't see me."

"Interesting," The woman said. "The teleporter?"

"Hard to say. She can fly though."

---

Hey guys, a new chapter is out. I hope you liked it, and many thanks to Fwee for beta-reading this for me. Next up, there will be two connected interludes featuring our favorite Halbeard and the lovely masked lady who strings corpses to trees.​

 

[Partisanenpasta]

• 22.06.2010: Taylor triggers during the Winslow Fire by getting force-fed a vial, and her trigger scream tears the Scar through Brockton Bay, leading to over 200 casualties

• July-September: Recovery period; Hospital, Mental Asylum, Excessive Therapy.

• 01.10.2010: Taylor is deemed stable enough to be released from the Mental Hospital.

• 17.10.2010: Carol Dallon approaches the Hebert family and offers help with the lawsuit.

• 21.10.2010: Taylor starts construction on the Sentinel.

• 14.11.2010: Debut of Rogue persona Kaleidoscope.

• 06.12.2010: (Story starts) Taylor goes for a run in the morning, and it goes badly.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

A collection of in-story world news for the philanthropic reader that will be continuously expanded as the story progresses.

---

Spoiler: Book 1: Storm Clouds over Brockton Bay

Chapter 1.1

► Brockton Bay News

Estrella declares war on the Boat Graveyard!
Estrella, an American-Mexican tech company with headquarters in San Fransisco, has opened up shop in Brockton Bay. Six factories and up to eighteen thousand new jobs are expected to open in the Bay over the few months, a much-needed relief for Brockton Bay's growing unemployment issue.

Given its long history of exporting goods via naval trade and Brockton Bay's well-known harbor blockade problem which only peaked recently in the dissolution of the DWA, many citizens have questioned why aspiring CEO Gabriella Vasques would pick Brockton Bay of all cities, only to get blown away by the announcement that Estrella's sole goal is the revival and prosperity of Brockton Bay itself.


New Wards
Director Emily Piggot of the PRT ENE has announced the debut of two new Wards, Chariot and Spitfire. Their debut will be on the upcoming fundraiser hosted by Estrella, an initiative to help restore Winslow High School and aid in the recovery and treatment of the countless citizens who suffered from the accident that devastated the school and created the Scar.


Coldest Winter in decades
Brockton Bay experiences its longest and coldest winter than we have experienced in three hundred years. According to meteorologists, this is the direct cause of the debris and dust from the last years of attacks casting us in shadow and cooling ambient temperatures, but even if there are critics, everyone can agree that Santa and the children will love their snowy Christmas celebration this year.


Chapter 1.10

► Boston Globe, Cape News Section

Boilerplate takes out Drug Lab
On the night of the seventh of December, Southie's cherished indie bulldozer heroine managed to deal another blow to Morning Glory and their hold over the predominately Irish neighborhood of South Boston. While the PRT criticizes the ensuing collateral damage to infrastructure and the building itself, a resident interviewed…


Boston's edgy new protector. Hero or Villain?
A new cape, later identified by authorities to be the prolific Shadow Stalker from Brockton Bay, has been spotted engaging the villainess Jade in Downtown Boston. No one knows yet what drove her to Boston, and what feud she has with Lotus Garden, but given her brutal methods in the past, citizens are concerned about another Peacekeeper or Huntress lurking in the alleys of our beautiful city…


Bold Heist: 'Crash and Dash' steals Mayor's Car in Brazen Daylight Robbery
In a jaw-dropping display of audacity, Dorchester's troublemakers pulled another disrupting and juvenile stunt that left citizens and officials stunned. "I am not sure what Jolly Roger is thinking when she and her lackeys ambush our mayor during morning traffic and right under the nose of the Protectorate" local police spokesman Jeff Gunderson tells the press…


Chapter 1.13

► Brockton Herald

A Butcher's End – Is Brockton's scourge finally history?

The cape known as Cruficy, Brockton's first serial killer in over two hundred years has been officially declared dead by local PRT and Police offices. According to an official statement issued by Director Piggot of the PRT ENE, the elusive cape, suspected by many to be an imitator of famous Parahuman killer groups like the Slaughterhouse 9 and the Flayers, has met their end at the hands of Kaiser himself in a drawn-out fight between the ABB and Empire last night. Casualty numbers have yet to be determined, official PRT speaker Jessie Allison tells the Herald, but she seemed less concerned about the rising property damage than the threat of a new rise of hostilities between the ABB and the Empire…

 

[Ruby Boule]

Some intriguing developments. I'll admit, this has somewhat muddied my understanding of what the truth of the situation is, but that will just make finally figuring it out all the more satisfying.

The timeline is also useful to have, but despite the "minor spoilers" warning I think that first section reveals something very crucially important that had not yet been revealed in the story.

Thanks for writing, looking forward to more!

 

[IndustrialVice2]

Looks like the shards behind the Butcher Collective decided to arrange a cluster trigger.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

The timeline is also useful to have, but despite the "minor spoilers" warning I think that first section reveals something very crucially important that had not yet been revealed in the story.

Thanks for writing, looking forward to more!

Click to shrink...

Edited it out. Thank you very much

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Hey guys, I've yet to do the edits regarding the identities Tay is crafting during the Trainwreck encounter, but the new chapter is ready to deploy and shall be posted once it gets beta-read. In the meantime, over on the Spacebattles thread I had a little prompt about doing a little worldbuilding-reveal about Boston. So, I started a little poll there, and I'll make some nice cape or gang dossiers on the two winning choices. Figured I'd do the same here.

Poll's up if anyone is interested in learning more about Boston and my worldbuilding before the story actually reaches there.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

"Miss Militia. Excuse me."

Hannah stepped aside to let the tall man in the suit pass before she entered the laboratory, knocking lightly at the reinforced doorframe in passing.

"Hey," she said. "Am I interrupting something?"

As usual, the room fell somewhere between office and workshop, but that was just Armsmaster and his little things. After so many years of working with and under him, she was used to his eccentricities. Two spare suits stood at one side of the room, and a series of different Tinkertech halberds were arranged on a rack behind his actual desk. There was other stuff; machines, loaded workbenches, and knickknacks she didn't even bother to try and comprehend.

The massive spy board dominating one of the back walls was new though.

"No, please do come in," Armsmaster replied, gesturing to a chair across from where he sat. A little glass Armsmaster and some kind of device stood on the desk in front of him. The device resembled a futuristic tape recorder and was hooked up to a sleek laptop. "What's up?"

"It's past midnight, Colin," Hannah smiled. "What are you working on?"

"Dammit," Colin murmured. He sighed audibly. "Just, trying to make sense of…" He gestured towards the recorder. "This. I managed to catch some odd fluctuating soundwaves when we checked out the explosion site at the docks. I wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for Dragon being available by accident. The echoes are almost untraceable."

"Maybe something from Uber and Leet?" Hannah suggested. "I heard they got into a fight recently."

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Hm. Who's the cute little guy on your desk?" she asked.

The corner of Colin's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "A little piece of hubris, admittedly. Also a very fascinating construction. I put it through several scans, and it seems like the rogue cape Kaleidoscope can alter materials on a molecular basis. It's tougher and more durable than glass has any right to be."

"And pretty," Hannah replied. She eyed the little statue before picking it up with her free hand to hold it under the light. It was about five inches tall, made from dozens of colors that swirled and molded into each other, forming a shimmering, lifelike mini-Armsmaster with a triumphantly raised halberd.

"Pretty indeed," Colin smiled. "What's the cake for?"

"Oh," Hannah said. "The new girl, Spitfire, brought cake for everyone. Do you…?"

"Sure, thanks, just put it over there," Colin gestured towards his office desk.

"She's a nice girl," Hannah said, returning the figurine to its place and setting down the plastic-wrapped paper plate. A preemptive measure. She knew him too well; he'd forget about it, and by the time he'd remember, the cake would be dry.

"She burned down a school," Colin said flatly.

"Yes, but it wasn't her fault. You know that."

"Yeah, I know," Colin sighed. "All things considered, she isn't… bad. How's she doing?"

"Surprisingly good," Hannah answered. "She's settling in very well, thankfully, and the other kids like her. Most of the staff too. She still has issues, lots of them. Guilt, nightmares. But she says the sessions are helping."

"It could have gone a lot worse," Colin mused. "It's fortunate that Assault managed to stop her in time…" He trailed off.

"...yeah," Hannah admitted after a second. Parahumans had it bad, she knew that from firsthand experience. It was easy to see what kept Emily up at night; the worst day of her life came for her, and the first thing she did was burn down a high school full of kids. Despite herself, Miss Militia could admit that she might feel differently about the girl if that particular tragedy had come with a body count.

Even after all these years, thoughts like those stung, but the image of a completely broken, crying girl flashing in front of her eyes- moments away from making an irreversible choice- hurt more. Emily was as much of a victim as everyone else involved.

"It's good that she's with us now. Better than…that, or another Shadow Stalker. Speaking of Stalker…" Colin pulled his laptop closer to him, unplugged the recorder, and began tapping away. Hannah found that he looked oddly pleased, given the sore topic.

The girl was an edgy vigilante type, rather famous for her violent tendencies. She'd been a prominent fixture of Brockton Bay since 2008, and after nearly killing one of her victims, she'd become Armsmaster's new target. They'd almost managed to corner her before the Winslow Fire and the ensuing chaos with the Scar had derailed any and all of his plans in that regard.

Colin being Colin, he'd taken to that poorly, and when he hadn't been busy working himself to death, he'd been silently sulking about it for weeks.

Stalker's disappearance shortly after the summer break had been worrisome, especially with her personality type: hot-headed and impatient. Not someone who could sit down for months and do nothing. Nobody had claimed to have killed her, and she hadn't been seen in any nearby cities. That left a few equally unlikely options, including some based on the recent rumors that had been going around the online parahuman scene in the city.

And so she found herself intrigued, leaning forward when Colin finished typing and turned the display towards her. The website of the Boston Globe greeted her. Cape news.


► Boston Globe, Cape News Section

Boilerplate takes out Drug Lab
On the night of the seventh of December, Southie's cherished indie bulldozer heroine managed to deal another blow to Morning Glory and their hold over the predominately Irish neighborhood of South Boston. While the PRT criticizes the ensuing collateral damage to infrastructure and the building itself, a resident interviewed…


Boston's edgy new protector. Hero or Villain?
A new cape, later identified by authorities to be the prolific Shadow Stalker from Brockton Bay, has been spotted engaging the villainess Jade in Downtown Boston. No one knows yet what drove her to Boston, and what feud she has with Lotus Garden, but given her brutal methods in the past, citizens are concerned about another Peacekeeper or Huntress lurking in the alleys of our beautiful city…


Bold Heist: 'Crash and Dash' steals Mayor's Car in Brazen Daylight Robbery
In a jaw-dropping display of audacity, Dorchester's troublemakers pulled another disrupting and juvenile stunt that left citizens and officials stunned. "I am not sure what Jolly Roger is thinking when she and her lackeys ambush our mayor during morning traffic and right under the nose of the Protectorate" local police spokesman Jeff Gunderson tells the press…


"...they kidnapped the mayor in broad daylight?" Hannah asked incredulously.

"What? No," Colin frowned. "They just kicked him out of the car and drove away with it. No one was hurt, thankfully. Anyway, I think this solves our case of the missing vigilante, and I am not sorry about it."

"Yeah," Hannah said. She sighed, shaking her head. Thank god. She couldn't say that she liked Stalker and her methods, hardly so, but she was still a minor. A kid, and dead kids lying in a ditch wasn't what America stood for if she and her conscience had any say about the matter. "Boston huh? So she knew we were after her and ran away?"

"I don't think so," Colin replied. "Or at least, only partially. Given our estimates, she most likely attended Winslow as a student, and a case like a missing student would have caught our attention."

"You think the family moved after the Winslow fire?"

"It's our best hunch, yeah," Colin hesitated for a moment. "In any case, with Director Piggot's permission I have forwarded all of our data on her to Boston, and with that, the topic is now buried. As long as she doesn't bounce back, she isn't our problem, and if I'm honest, I'm glad to wash my hands of her. Especially when we're dealing with so much else right now."

He sighed again, shoulders slumping as he glanced toward the spy board at the wall, and for a moment, Hannah could have sworn she saw the sheer weight of everything lumping on his shoulders like a black mass of swirling tendrils ready to choke the life from him. Yet it only lasted a fleeting moment, and after she blinked, Colin had already reassembled himself again.

He was back as he was before, stalwart, professional, and unflinching, and despite the little show of weakness she'd witnessed just now, Hannah couldn't tell whether it was just a mask or not.

"Speaking of that. Any new insights?"

"Unfortunately not," Colin grumbled. He gestured toward the spy board. "I've got it all here, but I can't help but feel like I'm missing something. Something simple and important."

"I was meaning to ask why you put all that together," Hannah snorted. "It's a bit cliche."

"A suggestion from Mr. Calvert. You just met him, I believe. He suggested an alternative approach to the issue, more old-fashioned than my tools," Colin snorted. "Human heuristics, he called it, I think. So far, it's not really working."

"Hmm, can I…?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Hannah rose from her chair and stepped up to the rear wall. The spy board looked like it was ripped right out of a movie, with note sheets, pinned images, and lines of red threads connecting everything neatly. To her surprise, a familiar double photo smiled down at her, posted near the very top, just below a photo of Winslow's ruins.

The left half showed an awkward, lanky teenage girl with large glasses in a big hoodie, blinking shyly into the camera. A yearbook photo. The right side showed a scowling tank of a girl. The quality was bad, a grainy black and white that clued Hannah in that it was probably the feed of a security cam, but it was roughly the same angle, catching her at the moment she was facing the camera. The girl glowered – glared into the camera with a frightening intensity, her face twisted in rage. Uniformed arms were wrapped around her midriff, struggling to hold her back.

Despite the bad image quality, the difference between the two images was clear, and if it wasn't for the girl's face (or, what was left of it), Hannah wouldn't have recognized her at all. Taylor Hebert, but several inches taller and given how the sleeves and shoulders of her sleek workout jacket bulged and strained, at least three times as heavy as the meek girl shown in the other photo, presumably the most recent one that had been taken before the fire.

"Wow," Hannah said. That kind of change didn't happen overnight without superpowers, except in maybe two or three exceptional cases.

"Yes," Colin chuckled mirthlessly. He'd stood up at some point and now stood next to Hannah. He didn't say what didn't need to be said. It was a common practice to keep loose tabs on people who'd gone through severe traumatic experiences, had reached a crisis point, and were deemed likely to have gone through a trigger event.

Given what Taylor Hebert had been through, and how she looked now – just a few months after the incident – there was only one conclusion that made sense. A Brute trigger, most likely, Hannah thought, but there weren't any one-armed capes or brutes around the Bay.

Maybe a powerful Stranger as well? Unlikely, since that usually resulted in crime scenes with a unique lack of evidence, but the idea wasn't entirely unfeasible. "What happened there?" She asked, pointing at the 'after' image.

"There was an incident in a clothing store a few weeks ago," Colin answered. "An argument between teenagers turned into a brawl. Nothing exceedingly out of the ordinary, but it was recorded by the security cameras present."

"Violent outburst…" Hannah mused. "Do you–"

"No. I already ruled that out," Colin shook his head. He tapped at Taylor's datasheet, using his finger to draw lines and point to several other clues. "Miss Hebert was only deemed stable enough to be released from medical and psychological care in early October. Crucify had already murdered three people by that point. Besides, after my encounter with Crucify a few nights ago I was able to confirm that Taylor Hebert has a much heavier build and a different body type than her."

Hannah regarded the snapshot of Crucify, taken by Colin's helmet camera; Tall and slender, with straight black hair and long limbs. A white, featureless kabuki mask, eerily illuminated by the streetlight above her. A tattered trenchcoat, fluttering in the wind. The raised handguns, pointing straight at the watcher even though rivers of blood were gushing from the wound in her shoulder.

A bunch of victim cards were arranged around her. The first suspected victim was a narrow woman clad in black with a severe, dirty blonde bowl cut. Found in her apartment by her boyfriend, with her throat slit from behind with a kitchen knife. The principal.

Hannah remembered the accusations. They'd been plastered all over the news. Local school ignores the existence of a systematically bullied teenage girl. As overblown as those headlines usually were, they often still carried enough of the truth to paint a picture.

They'd only noticed her missing during the yard assembly when it was already too late.

Two police officers were the next targets, found in their patrol car with arrows sticking from their throats. They had been killed in mid-September, and it had been the first time Crucify had been spotted in person. Based on Colin's notes, the department's internal notes on the two had contained a long list of citations and complaints of corruption, but apparently, the Police union had intervened to keep them on the force.

"It did paint the image of a vigilante at first. Someone ruthlessly taking revenge, and it matched with my first theory," Colin said next to her. He tapped another image by the side of the board, connected with both Crucify and Taylor, and Hannah leaned forward to look at it.

The image showed a blurry scene shot with a phone camera. A soot-covered figure, bare and visibly muscular arms covered in welts and burn marks, hunched as if in pain. Yet the limp, charred person in her arms was unmistakable. Several other photos and digital renders arranged around the original showed the same person, presumably digitally cleaned and touched up.

A girl of Asian descent, around 17 if Hannah judged her right. She remembered her– had seen her back then, being on-site as one of the first responders the Protectorate had dispatched. She'd run away right after dropping Taylor off at the paramedics.

"The mysterious savior. First, police treated her as a simple witness, a moral courage hero, friend, or girlfriend perhaps," Colin continued. "She was my first suspect, but someone from the police found a few odd clues while investigating. Miss Hebert seemed to be something of a social outcast, isolating herself from her peers- so, not the type to have friends – and when they asked around – interviewed, and questioned staff and students, it turned out that no one had ever seen this other girl before. Including Miss Hebert and the father."

"I remember," Hannah said. "Did you manage to find out more about her?"

"Yes, and no," Colin said. "You know I arrived too late to see her myself, and all we had were some spotty camera images of her. Her general build and ethnicity is enough to tie her tentatively to Crucify, and after the kills racked up, I asked Dragon to put her through a prototype facial recognition program she's been working on, but the only match above the mean that she could find was a ninety-nine point two nine percent connection with one Saiko Tanaka, born in 1990 and reported run-away by her grandparents five years ago in 2007. Impressive rap sheet, rumors that she ran with the Teeth back when they were still a thing, but she dropped from the earth ever since."

"How accurate is this program?" Hannah asked. "She should be over 20 by now. It's been five years…she should look older."

"Indeed, but she doesn't," Colin said. "The algorithm misses about as much as it hits right now, despite the derivative data it can provide. It's still a prototype. Still, I think something doesn't add up here, especially with this." He pointed at the second batch of victims.

Three clearly homeless men and women of various ages and ethnicities, obviously tortured before they'd been nailed to a wall and executed. Another homeless teenager, found dead in a warehouse, chained to a chair with his pants pulled down. It was how she'd earned her name in the media, and the rumor of being a rapist.

"A bit like Shadow Stalker," Hannah mused. But at least she had only aimed to wound, and she hadn't targeted helpless civilians. "Torture indicates that she questioned them about something."

"It doesn't fit with her previous MO," Colin said. "The first few kills paint the image of someone having an agenda, and then she suddenly makes a full turn. She kills quickly and efficiently, moves around avoiding contact, and keeps her head down. She doesn't do vigilante work and calls it justice or robs stores for supplies or food. And then…"

"And then she escalates."

"Yes," Colin stated flatly. "And now we have this. One cop dead at 24, and one distinguished and adored police veteran fighting for his life in the intensive care unit. We've got two unknown persons with military backgrounds strung up and flayed across two trees and a stakeout post in a random neighborhood, and it just doesn't add up. The entire BBPD is on my heels like a Bonny and Clyde-lynch mob, screaming bloody murder for revenge."

Hannah could hear him grind his teeth in frustration, and she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She understood him. Apart from the most famous of them all, there weren't many Parahuman serial killers around. Monokeros, Flailer, the face stealer…This was a side of life even she didn't want to deal with. But she had to because that was what it meant to be a hero.

"The first kill makes Crucify look like someone taking revenge for what happened to Miss Hebert, and her build even matches with the presumed Miss Tanaka, but even putting aside the unlikely chance that Miss Hebert is some kind of pseudo-Glaistig Uaine who can summon ghosts from the past, it still doesn't make sense," Colin shook his head. "By all accounts, they never met each other in life, and if she felt the urge to claim some twisted justice for a student she never met, why would she then go and kill two police officers who had also never interacted with Miss Hebert before?"

"Maybe she is just that, a Vigilante seeking justice? There doesn't have to be a clear connection." Hannah suggested. "The Winslow Fire was all over the news and would make a justified target for someone with a twisted sense of what's right. Maybe she even triggered during the blast."

"I'd considered that too," Colin admitted. "But this is where I fall short. The way she escalated… it's almost like we are dealing with two separate capes. It doesn't make sense, and then there is also this."

He pulled something from a drawer and placed it on the table. A bag, containing a round object. Bright, beautiful gold shimmered through the transparent plastic.

"Before I neutralized it, it was a grenade," Colin explained. "Crude but obviously Tinkertech. A simple design. Bronze hull, some form of steam-powered dynamo that unleashes electricity into a cloud of cold steam mixed with powdered iron particles. It's basically a refillable taser grenade."

"Maybe she's working for or with someone?" Hannah suggested. "Or maybe she is a Tinker? She is definitively a Parahuman, yes?

"Yes," Colin replied. "At first, we just assumed it based on her mask and costume, but when I fought her…It reminds me of someone I fought years ago, Hannah. She didn't wear any kind of Tinkertech except this single grenade, and yet the bullets she shot at me curved in midair. The last time something like that happened was with Butcher. Her arrows did that too. She almost killed me back then. My current suits still have innovations I developed to deal with her."

"Butcher?" Hannah asked in disbelief. "But… she's dead, right?"

"Yes, and it was confirmed with Thinker support from Watchdog that there was no new inheritor after the battle," Colin said. "But her power, the Tinkertech, and the way she just…teleported away that night… I am missing something here, something obvious, and I just don't see what it is."

"There's that rumor, right? About the Dockside Tinker," Hannah offered. "There's also a new C53 Tinker in the old train yard. He was involved in a robbery a few days ago. It's a lead we can follow."

"True." Something in the background began to beep, and for the first time during their conversation, Colin cracked a sly smile. The sound came from the futuristic console set-up dominating one side of the room.

"What's that?" She asked.

"I may or may have not discovered a few of Crucify's equipment stashes, and added a little friend to each of them," Colin answered smugly. He brushed past her, and toward the station holding his current set of power armor. "If we're lucky, we'll get our answers tonight."

Hannah watched as Colin donned his power armor and gathered two halberds from the rack. She didn't need to switch into her costume, and the swirling energy that was her weapon never left her side. She was already fully geared up, and all that was left was to pull up the American bandana around her neck to mask her face.

"Let's go," he said, striding out of the room with long steps. Hannah followed, holstering the combat knife that materialized next to her. Even at this hour, the hallways were bustling with activity.

"Armsmaster here. I have successfully bugged Crucify and I am tracking her now. She's moving eastward," Colin spoke into his comm. "Requesting immediate deployment to detain her."

"Director Piggot speaking," a voice replied over the comms, almost immediately. "Request granted. We have visual confirmation. A BBPD patrol spotted her in Midtown. Every hero on base will participate in this mission, but no Wards, and that is my last word on that matter. I don't care how you do it, but I want this creep off my streets yesterday. Catch her. You'll get all the support that you need."

"Understood," Colin replied. He glanced at Hannah, and she nodded in confirmation. "I am currently with Miss Militia. We are ready to deploy."

"Meet the rest of the team on the roof. Triumph and Dauntless are on base, and Battery and Velocity will join up on the way. Eta 10 minutes. We'll deploy two strike teams, and you will have joint helicopter support from the PRT and the BBPD once she is cornered."

Helicopter support? Hannah thought. That was uncommon. But it was good that the director was willing to go to such lengths in this matter. A serial killer was an issue this already-smoldering city didn't need, and there was something else in the air. A foreboding feeling…something that made Hannah nervous, even though she couldn't put a finger on what exactly.

They didn't speak on the elevator ride up, and neither broke the silence as they approached the armored hatch leading up toward the helipad on the roof of the HQ. The dark sky was overcast, but tonight the icy wind tugging at Hannah's bandana didn't carry any snowflakes with it. Yet, out here in the bay, and even with the forcefield around the oil rig, it felt like tiny knives stabbing her everywhere the fabric of her winter costume didn't reach, over and over and over again.

Triumph and Dauntless were already waiting for them, and a crew of drowsy, bad-tempered technicians was bustling around a single black helicopter with pale purple stripes and a winged PRT emblem. The two heroes didn't look particularly happy or awake either, but Hannah didn't blame them.

Hannah idly noticed that the pilots were nowhere to be seen yet, but only a moment after they'd stepped out of the complex, the door behind them opened again, and a squad of four agents stepped out. They were fully geared up, with kevlar vests, protective chain mesh, and faceless helmets.

When she turned her head slightly to glance at Colin, the part of his face visible beneath the mirrored visor of his helmet was set in a tight-lipped frown. He kept subtly fiddling with a device on his belt. A new gadget, perhaps. She didn't know what was going on in his mind, but it was probably similar to what went through her own.

They still hadn't found out how the Winflow Fire had turned into a blast tearing through the entire city, there were new cape sightings they had to look into, the gangs were restless, and over all of it hung the dark cloud that was Crucify.

They had to find out what was going on here. Whether the Butcher or not, Crucify's latest killings had some eerily familiarities with the sickening displays the Slaughterhouse 9 left in their wake, and with the rapidly growing waves this whole ordeal was making in the media and on the big message boards…

Admittedly, neither Crucify nor her killings were flashy enough to really warrant the suspicion, but given how luck seemed to shit on Hannah these days…It wouldn't be the first time the Slaughterhouse 9 came to spontaneously visit a place where wannabe imitators lurked around to remind them happily just who the real deal was.

---

As usual, many thanks to the dashing Fwee for beta-ing this for me. I am always happy about feedback and comments!​

 

[Ruby Boule]

Interesting. A lot of new players enter the field. Some sound like a branch of the Elite, others I have no clue.
A lot of little details here that don't quite tie together yet, but probably an important staging chapter for later on.
Keep up the good work!

 

[Partisanenpasta]

(Header temporarily deleted)

A crude provisional map of Boston and the surrounding towns, made by myself with the aid of Google Earth, Gimp, and an official PRT symbol.

---

Introduction–The City of Boston​

"Ah, Boston! You see, things are different here. It's the Protectorate who controls the streets at day, sure enough, but make no mistake. Crime is subtle here, but it's there, around every corner, and there's only one man who truly holds the strings in this beautiful city. Doesn't mean you should forget about the white hats. They wiped the entire city of villains once, after all. Didn't work, of course, but it sends a hard message, doesn't it?"

-Unnamed Boston Resident-

---

Boston, the preeminent harbor city in New England and the capital of Massachusetts is one of the most important cities in the United States of America. Located in close proximity to New York and one of the more prominent cape cities on the East Coast. With a population of roughly 3 million in the wider metropolitan area, it is a booming city, riddled with prestigious universities, institutions, corporations, and a historic significance nearly unrivaled by the rest of the United States. The city's economic landscape is characterized by the presence of numerous tech and medical companies, contributing to a robust economy. Boston is notably acknowledged for its focus on parahuman research and stands as a city with a noteworthy concentration of Tinkers, further enhancing its technological profile.

In 2011, the cape scene in Boston has long calcified after the chaos of the Boston Games years prior, making it one of the most stable cape cities on the East Coast, which can be attributed to both the Protectorate and the local villain scene.

PRT Department 24, under the leadership of Director Kamil Armstrong, and the Boston Protectorate, led by Bastion, are spearheading some of the more competent, well-staffed and funded government institutions compared to cities like Brockton Bay. They collaborate tightly with their counterparts in New York City, which are a measly 4 hours drive away if anything proves too much for the locals to handle…

On the villain side, it is an open secret that most criminal factions and organizations adhere to the Boston Accords, a loose alliance proposed by the local mastermind Accord to prevent needless infighting and guarantee a united front against outside forces like the encroaching Elite.

The cape scene in Boston reflects a diverse composition, shaped by the transformative events of the Boston Games in 2007. The displacement of established entities during that period created a substantial power vacuum, attracting various gangs and heroes to the city.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

Hey guys, since I am busy with university exams and story edits, I figured I'd also go back to my story intro since I don't like it very much. What do you guys think?

---

Spoiler: Intro 1 (Original Version)

I watched the pale sun set over Boston. Slow, but inevitable, until it finally dipped behind the city and the rays of sunlight caressing my cold face were filtered through the massive skyscrapers dominating the background. Sunlight reflected off of the pristine snow covering the city, the red brick walls, and the massive panes of glass from the high rises, giving the landscape a golden and almost surreal sheen.

It wasn't as beautiful as watching the sun rise behind the Waterfront from across the harbor, but if I angled my head just right, I could spot a hint of the ship over the harbor; a certain flicker in the air, and the shadow of a shadow peeking through one of the aisles. Even for my sharp eyes, It was way too far away to really see anything without binoculars, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost see it:

A majestic frigate in the sky, hovering silently over the water and silhouetted against the rising morning sun. Where the light broke against the shield surrounding it, it would be framed by golden rainbows. The Constitution was a fusion of ancient history and technology that humanity couldn't even begin to grasp, and in a way, it represented everything Boston was and Brockton Bay would never be.

But even without that, it was a truly mesmerizing sight, and together with the bustling masses in the city below and the sparking Christmas decorations lighting up the streets, the world almost looked safe and whole.

Deep within my heart, I knew that Brockton Bay, for all its bad and good, could never truly compare to this, but I had left it behind now. I didn't have to deal with it anymore… For good, I hoped. This was my home now, and it was as perfect as anything could be in this fucked up world.

I should have been happy, but all I could do was stare blankly over the river Charles, trying to hold back the tears brimming from my eyes. Christmas Eve was just around the corner, and for the first time, I was alone. Truly alone.

What point was there in getting to live all of this, when Dad couldn't? The doctors had said that his odds of recovering – of waking up – were good. Yet, I asked myself. What will he wake up to?

What would I tell him?

Hey Dad! You've just spent a week in a coma but we both survived! I know you sold our house for a crappy apartment, but now the house is gone anyway and the apartment is uninhabitable. Me? Oh, don't worry about it. I spent some days on the streets in the deepest winter, but now I'm fine and squatting together with some supervillains from back home in an abandoned drug den.

No. No, I would not. I would no longer let my happiness be dictated by...by pigs. Dad deserved better, and I would fucking make sure he got it. Even if it meant that I needed to do something horrible.

What other option did I have?

I rose from my spot and after wiping my wet cheeks, stepped over the ledge of the roof and onto the platform of glass shards I had assembled with my song. With a thought, it began to slide through the air, carrying me across the river.

I didn't want to deal with anyone right now, so I hurried to cross the open water and flew into a dark alley on the other side. There, I shed my glass into a container, and after concealing my metal arm with my sleeve, I drew the hood of my jacket tighter into my face, and just allowed myself to be carried away by the unsuspecting masses in the streets.

By the time I got off the bus just across from the building that was supposed to become our new home, the sky had blackened. I shoved through the front door and beelined through the small Asian corner store that made up the first floor, getting into the crappy elevator next to the stairs.

The small metal box felt almost like a coffin, but I endured it as I did the nauseating pit festering in my stomach. I was about to do something wrong. The ride up to the 10th floor felt like an eternity. I could turn around, and try to find another way, but I didn't.

Finally, the battered doors opened with a creak. I stepped into the abandoned hallway and walked up to the door at the very end. I didn't even have to use my power's sight to recognize it, or what lay behind it.

It was an old wooden door like half a dozen others on this floor, but where the other doors were neatly decorated or painted, this one was as barren as the red bricks surrounding it. With every step closer, I could feel the smell growing thicker in the air – could almost taste it – and step by step, my sadness and the black pit in my gut faded to cold, merciless anger.

It was enough.

I looked around, scanning for crimson shapes behind walls, but no one was there to witness anything.

I knocked.

It took a while for something to move behind the door, almost long enough for me to knock a second time.

"Fuck off, brat." A male voice spoke, muffled through the thick wood. "I told ya I won't leave –"

A single kick was enough to shatter the lock, cutting the man off mid-sentence and sending him stumbling backward. Immediately, a nauseating stench assaulted my senses.

I stepped into the apartment and regarded the man –the pig who stood between me and everything – lying on his back in a pile of trash, gazing wide-eyed at me. The way he was dressed -- the ironed shirt and spotless slacks -- was a stark contrast to the state of the room. The fear in his eyes as I raised my arm and shook down my sleeve to reveal the pincer replacing my left hand made the beast in me salivate. I had killed before, but this would be the first time I did it out of my own volition.

"I told you to leave," I said to him, and before he could reply, I lunged forward, closed the pincer around his neck, and wrenched it shut.

The snap of his spine made me shudder both with revulsion and a twisted sense of glee.

I looked around the room as I reached for the phone in my pocket, and dialed the number of my landlord. The filth and neglect everywhere, the piles of trash and garbage, the rats scurrying in the dark, and the nauseating stench emanating from the carpet on the ground almost made me retch.

A growl rose from my throat, but I forced myself to remain calm. I wanted to rip him apart. Lift him up and shatter his back over my knee, before bringing my foot down on his head over and over and over again.

"Hello?" Carson's smooth voice tore me from my thoughts.

"The squatter has been dealt with," I said. "But I need to get rid of a corpse. How long until you have the place renovated?"

Something wet trailed down my cheek, but I forced myself to smile as I reached down and slung the corpse over my shoulder. I didn't know what to do next…but now me and Dad had a chance for a normal life again, and maybe, just maybe, if he woke up in time, we could even celebrate Christmas together.

Spoiler: Intro 2

I watched the pale winter sun set over Boston. Slow, but inevitable, until it finally dipped behind the city and the rays of sunlight caressing my cold face were filtered through the massive skyscrapers dominating the background. Sunlight reflected off of the pristine snow covering the city, the red brick walls, and the massive panes of glass from the high rises, giving the landscape a golden and almost surreal sheen.

It wasn't as beautiful as watching the sun rise behind the Waterfront from across the harbor, but if I angled my head just right, I could spot a hint of the ship over the harbor; a certain flicker in the air, and the shadow of a shadow peeking through one of the aisles. Even for my sharp eyes, It was way too far away to see anything without binoculars, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost see it:

A majestic frigate in the sky, hovering silently over the water and silhouetted against the rising morning sun. Where the light broke against the shield surrounding it, it would be framed by golden rainbows. The Constitution was a fusion of ancient history and technology that humanity couldn't even begin to grasp, and in a way, it represented everything Boston was and Brockton Bay would never be.

But even without that, it was a truly mesmerizing sight, and together with the bustling masses in the city below and the sparkling Christmas decorations lighting up the streets, the world almost looked safe and whole.

Deep within my heart, I knew that Brockton Bay, for all its bad and good, could never truly compare to this, but I had left it behind now. I didn't have to deal with it anymore… For good, I hoped. This was my home now, and it was as perfect as anything could be in this fucked up world.

I should have been happy, but all I could do was stare blankly over the river Charles, trying to hold back the tears brimming from my burning eyes. Deep below me, the unsuspecting masses bustled through the streets, stressed but happy. Christmas Eve was just around the corner, and their lives were intact. They had their friends and families, and…

…I had no one. Fucking no one.

"You have us," the voices in my head whispered. Something moved in the corner of my vision, and I clenched my fist, keeping my gaze straight so I didn't look. Oh, I was sure they tried to be soothing, but all it did was stir the bile in my throat even further.

Just another reminder of how my life had fallen apart. Boston was supposed to be our haven. A new start, a new life, but what point was there in getting to live all of this, when Dad couldn't? The doctors had said that his odds of recovering – of waking up – were good. Yet, I asked myself. What will he wake up to?

What would I even tell him?

Hey Dad! You've just spent a week in a coma but we both survived! I know you sold our house for a crappy apartment, but now the house is gone anyway and the apartment is uninhabitable. Me? Oh, don't worry about it. I spent some days on the streets in the deepest winter, but now I'm fine and squatting together with fucking Lung in an abandoned drug den.

No. No, I would fucking not.

I hissed between clenched teeth. Dad deserved better, and I would fucking make sure he got it. Even if it meant that I needed to do something horrible to claim the bright future that was owed to us. But what? Sure, I had truly lovely company in my head, with even lovelier advice, but in the end, I was still alone, and for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do.

Something wet trailed down my cheek, and I blinked furiously.

"It's ok to show weakness," a voice in my mind whispered, soft and soothing. A woman, but I didn't know who of them it was. It was hard to keep them apart sometimes. "We are still alone. You still have a moment."

No. I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now, not ever.

"Your dad is going to be fine," another voice in my mind murmured. Annoyed, but not malicious.

"Even the dragon respects you, XVI, You'll carve yourself a place. We always did."

Lung. I idly played with the razor-sharp glass shards hovering on my palm – singing to them to let them dance for me. Sure, they respected my song – my power – but that was it. No one respected me as a person…no one cared for me as a person.

Oh, the tiny fraction of mental lodgers who weren't utter monsters sure pretended otherwise, but in the end, they all wanted the same from me. I was their shattered angel who'd tear down anything that stood between the Butchers and their precious legacy.

Songbird, I'd called myself all those weeks ago, when there still was a fraying tapestry of normalcy in my life and the voices had hidden themselves from me. When Dad had still been there and I'd just been a violent teenager with hallucinations and the urge to hurt others.

I was Butcher now, a shatterbird if anything else. For all its beauty, that was all my song was good for.

"God! Depressed teenagers," someone in my head groaned. "Can't you just shut up? Just go ex a bottle of vodkas and fuck a few bitches. That's how you deal with this shit."

"Stop moping, XVI," Butcher sighed in my head. He was the easiest to recognize, the loudest, and when he spoke the others would let him. "You are who you want to be. Keep your end of the deal and we will even let you play pretend hero once in a while if that gets you off. Being the Butcher is a mutual relationship, as long as you respect our wishes."

"As long as we get to beat someone up while saving old ladies," another voice cackled.

Yeah, fuck you too, I hissed at them. They didn't bother to respond, and so I just kept looking at the sparkling world below me, playing with my glass to distract myself. Words rose in my throat, unbidden, but they were my own, and after some hesitation, I surrendered to the urge.

Carefully, I began singing, soft and quiet enough that the wind tore the words from my lips, making them almost unhearable for anyone but myself:

The cold wind is blowing and the streets are getting dark
I'm writing you a letter and I don't know where to start…​

Spoiler: Intro 3

I watched the pale winter sun set over Boston. Slow, but inevitable, until it finally dipped behind the city and the rays of sunlight caressing my cold face were filtered through the massive skyscrapers dominating the background. Sunlight reflected off of the pristine snow covering the city, the red brick walls, and the massive panes of glass from the high rises, giving the landscape a golden and almost surreal sheen.

It wasn't as beautiful as watching the sun rise behind the Waterfront from across the harbor, but if I angled my head just right, I could spot a hint of the ship over the harbor; a certain flicker in the air, and the shadow of a shadow peeking through one of the aisles. Even for my sharp eyes, It was way too far away to see anything without binoculars, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost see it:

A majestic frigate in the sky, hovering silently over the water and silhouetted against the rising morning sun. Where the light broke against the shield surrounding it, it would be framed by golden rainbows. The Constitution was a fusion of ancient history and technology that humanity couldn't even begin to grasp, and in a way, it represented everything Boston was and Brockton Bay would never be.

But even without that, it was a truly mesmerizing sight, and together with the bustling masses in the city below and the sparkling Christmas decorations lighting up the streets, the world almost looked safe and whole.

Deep within my heart, I knew that Brockton Bay, for all its bad and good, could never truly compare to this, but I had left it behind now. I didn't have to deal with it anymore… For good, I hoped. This was my home now, and it was as perfect as anything could be in this fucked up world.

I should have been happy, but all I could do was stare blankly over the river Charles, trying to hold back the tears brimming from my burning eyes. Deep below me, the unsuspecting masses bustled through the streets, stressed but happy. Christmas Eve was just around the corner, and their lives were intact. They had their friends and families, and…

…I had no one. Fucking no one.

"You have us," the voices in my head whispered. Something moved in the corner of my vision, and I clenched my fist, keeping my gaze straight so I didn't look. Oh, I was sure they tried to be soothing, but all it did was stir the bile in my throat even further.

Just another reminder of how my life had fallen apart. Boston was supposed to be our haven. A new start, a new life, but what point was there in getting to live all of this, when Dad couldn't? The doctors had said that his odds of recovering – of waking up – were good. Yet, I asked myself. What will he wake up to?

What would I even tell him?

Hey Dad! You've just spent a week in a coma but we both survived! I know you sold our house for a crappy apartment, but now the house is gone anyway and the apartment is uninhabitable. Me? Oh, don't worry about it. I spent some days on the streets in the deepest winter, but now I'm fine and squatting together with fucking Lung in an abandoned drug den.

No. No, I would fucking not.

I hissed between clenched teeth. Dad deserved better, and I would fucking make sure he got it. Even if it meant that I needed to do something horrible to claim the bright future that was owed to us. But what? Sure, I had truly lovely company in my head, with even lovelier advice, but in the end, I was still alone, and for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do.

Something wet trailed down my cheek, and I blinked furiously.

"It's ok to show weakness," a voice in my mind whispered, soft and soothing. A woman, but I didn't know who of them it was. It was hard to keep them apart sometimes. "We are still alone. They are still on the ladder. You still have a moment."

No. I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now, not ever.

"Your dad is going to be fine," another voice in my mind murmured. Annoyed, but not malicious.

"Even the dragon respects you, XVI, You'll carve yourself a place. We always did."

Lung. I idly played with the razor-sharp glass shards hovering on my palm as I sang to them to let them dance for me to distract myself. Sure, they respected my song – my power – but that was it. No one respected me as a person…no one cared for me as a person.

Oh, the tiny fraction of mental lodgers who weren't utter monsters sure pretended otherwise, but in the end, they all wanted the same from me. I was their shattered angel who'd tear down anything that stood between the Butchers and their precious legacy.

Songbird, I'd called myself all those weeks ago, when there still was a fraying tapestry of normalcy in my life and the voices had hidden themselves from me. When Dad had still been there and I'd just been a violent teenager with hallucinations and the urge to hurt others.

I was Butcher now, a shatterbird if anything else. For all its beauty, that was all my song was good for.

"God! Depressed teenagers," someone in my head groaned. "Can't you just shut up? Just go ex a bottle of vodkas and fuck a few bitches. That's how you deal with this shit."

"Stop moping, XVI," Butcher sighed in my head. He was the easiest to recognize, the loudest, and when he spoke, the others would let him. "You are who you want to be. Keep your end of the deal and we will even let you play pretend hero if that gets you off. Being the Butcher is a mutual relationship, as long as you respect our wishes."

"As long as we get to beat up someone," another voice cackled.

Yeah, fuck you too, I hissed at them. They didn't bother to respond, and so I just kept looking at the sparkling world below me, playing with my glass.

I didn't turn around when gravel crunched behind me.

"Took you long enough," I grunted. I was met with silence, and it took several more crunches, rustling, and moments of awkward silence before I was finally rewarded with an answer.

"You heard me?" A young voice replied, taken aback. A girl, and one that was a try-hard but ultimately very bad at disguising her voice.

"Ever since you stepped on that ladder," I answered. "Like an elephant."

"I…hey!" The girl replied. "You are that villain who robbed Mrs T – the grocery store yesterday, didn't you? Why are you lurking around on this roof? Trying to hurt another innocent person? Answer me!"

Her accusing, self-righteous tone made me want to turn around on the spot and clog her mouth with my fist, but I restrained the urge.

"I asked you something, villain!"

"My peace," I finally answered.

"What?"

Instead of answering, I slowly rose to my feet and turned around. Slow, and lazily, like I didn't fear her. I didn't. She had to be a cape, of course, because I couldn't think of anyone else stupid enough to climb up a skyscraper to bother a supervillain. I took my time eyeing her.

She was a stick of a girl, no older than 15, and dressed up in a way that made me think she'd just wrapped her shawl around her face and decided to follow me on a whim. It was a monstrous thing, fluffy, visibly hand-knitted, and sporting a lovely reindeer pattern.

She was huddled away in a sleek winter jacket, but her green slacks and the hem of what seemed to be a green blazer peeking from below her jacket made me think that she wore some kind of school uniform beneath it. She held a baseball bat with one hand, spinning it in her fingers like some wannabee hoodlum would his butterfly knife. It was made from metal, crudely reinforced with sheets of metal and plastic in a way that told me that she didn't quite know what she was doing or simply had no talent for DIY stuff.

Her nervousness was palatable, but she didn't flinch back even when my stare bore into hers.

"Do you have a name?" I asked.

The girl twitched at my question, briefly breaking eye contact before her gaze snapped back to me. Her silence was telling.

"She's just a kid," one of the Butchers snorted in my head. "Gosh, how cute and innocent. If it weren't for us, you might have ended up like her, XVI. Green behind your ears, not even a cape name, and already going out to fuck with the biggest guy in town because you got a death wish and something to prove."

For a moment, a big burly giant grinned at me from behind the wannabee hero, but when I blinked he was gone.

"Playground," the girl blurted out. She glanced at my belt. "Is that a skull?"

"Yeah," I said.

"...why?" She asked, aghast. "Are you one of those special creeps?"

"No."

"Well, that makes it easier then," she muttered clearly to herself, but my ears caught her words easily.

I sighed. "What do you want? I'm not in the mood. Leave me alone."

"Easy," the girl smiled at me, or at least I thought she did. "You are a villain, so I'm going to beat you up, break your kneecaps, and drag you by your hair into the next cell."

Spoiler: Intro 4

I watched the pale winter sun set over Boston. Slow, but inevitable, until it finally dipped behind the city and the rays of sunlight caressing my cold face were filtered through the massive skyscrapers dominating the background. Sunlight reflected off of the pristine snow covering the city, the red brick walls, and the massive panes of glass from the high rises, giving the landscape a golden and almost surreal sheen.

It wasn't as beautiful as watching the sun rise behind the Waterfront from across the harbor, but if I angled my head just right, I could spot a hint of the ship over the harbor; a certain flicker in the air, and the shadow of a shadow peeking through one of the aisles. Even for my sharp eyes, It was way too far away to see anything without binoculars, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost see it:

A majestic frigate in the sky, hovering silently over the water and silhouetted against the rising morning sun. Where the light broke against the shield surrounding it, it would be framed by golden rainbows. The Constitution was a fusion of ancient history and technology that humanity couldn't even begin to grasp, and in a way, it represented everything Boston was and Brockton Bay would never be.

But even without that, it was a truly mesmerizing sight, and together with the bustling masses in the city below and the sparkling Christmas decorations lighting up the streets, the world almost looked safe and whole.

Deep within my heart, I knew that Brockton Bay, for all its bad and good, could never truly compare to this, but I had left it behind now. I didn't have to deal with it anymore… For good, I hoped. This was my home now, and it was as perfect as anything could be in this fucked up world.

I should have been happy, but all I could do was stare blankly over the river Charles, trying to hold back the tears brimming from my burning eyes. Deep below me, the unsuspecting masses bustled through the streets, stressed but happy. Christmas Eve was just around the corner, and their lives were intact. They had their friends and families, and…

…I had no one. Fucking no one.

"You have us," the voices in my head whispered. Something moved in the corner of my vision, and I clenched my fist, keeping my gaze straight so I didn't look. Oh, I was sure they tried to be soothing, but all it did was stir the bile in my throat even further. Something wet trailed down my cheek, and I blinked furiously.

Just another reminder of how my life had fallen apart. Boston was supposed to be our haven. A new start, a new life, but what point was there in getting to live all of this, when Dad couldn't? The doctors had said that his odds of recovering – of waking up – were good. Yet, I asked myself. What will he wake up to?

What would I even tell him?

Hey Dad! You've just spent a week in a coma but we both survived! I know you sold our house for a crappy apartment, but now the house is gone anyway and the apartment is uninhabitable. Me? Oh, don't worry about it. I spent some days on the streets in the deepest winter, but now I'm fine and squatting together with fucking Lung in an abandoned drug den.

No. No, I would fucking not.

I hissed between clenched teeth. Dad deserved better, and I would fucking make sure he got it. Even if it meant that I needed to do something horrible to claim the bright future that was owed to us. But what? Sure, I had truly lovely company in my head, with even lovelier advice, but in the end, I was still alone, and for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do.

 

[Partisanenpasta]

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This lovely piece of art is courtesy of Intrigue_Diablo