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Project Prometheus (Original Setting Superhero Quest)

Reader mode
I think Crazyone skipped a few steps in their plan.

Because there is some legit value in using Lethal Anodyne to shame Crusade further, once we've firmly established he's selling to Monarch: He works for Powers, and so we can shame Gertrude and Powers for funding their own enemy. Silvio would probably be extremely mad at that.
 
Cash, poetic justice, apply further pressure on Monarch, try to see what the Americans will do....., it's funny, Americans are a potential way into the Mysteries. Also it would be fun to see if we can get the Americans to turn on Horae Guard and Dominion part of Crusade. Who knows the pig smight just dig up a truffle or fart up a stink that we can use and get our opponents fighting iour enemies
 
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Issue #3.7: Eidolon pt. 4 New
  • Threadmarks
    • [X] Cruel Angel's Thesis
    -[X] Justicar
    -[X] The Red Huntress
    -[X] Heavenly Astrologian

    [X] Commit

    Mentions of child abuse, severe language, a cliffhanger that will not resolve for some time

    You are E̶̳͘l̸̛̮l̵̝̅i̵̦̕ẻ̵͉ H̵̪̬̠̓̃͠ä̶̘̤́͊n̴͇̞̦̩̖̍̃̚̕.

    Your consciousness is scattered like motes of dust dancing in a beam of light. What is usually a trickle in the back of your mind is now a raging flood; the power of The Stage has completely suffused your being. It wants to unravel you, pulling at you like a loose thread on a sweater.

    Only two things keep you whole. One: the EXCEED-BEYOND armor. It is an invention beyond inventions, the single greatest piece of artifice that has ever existed. Nora created it with all of her will, passion, and heart, and it is the piece of driftwood that you cling to in this storm.

    Second: you. You are E̸̪̼̭͋̔͊ļ̴̙̏̉̔͊͘ͅl̴̢̑̃̚͝ì̶͇̭̟̓ė̵̺̩̟̘̊̕ ̷̢͎͊̒̾͠H̸̯͖͖̪̒̍̿ͅȧ̶̯͍̬̿ņ̵͎͇̮̜́͌. You were entrusted with this armor. You are the only one who can stop her. Everyone is counting you.

    A̸̡̟͆n̶̦̾̾͝d̶͉̒̈́̂́ͅ ̸̹̌́ỳ̵̝̖͙͉͊̾ờ̶̧͇̞̪͋u̸͇̟̓̓̆͝ ̵̣̙͐̎̾͘ẇ̴̞͖̪̯̑ĩ̴͖͎̟̽͝ĺ̵̜̘̥̭͑l̶̹̹̗̲̓͗ ̸̛̳̇n̸̠̘̩̜̊̂e̵̙̫̗͆͜v̸̙̆͘͝ȅ̶̡̜̒͜r̵̘͍̉̃͘ ̴͎̃͛̓̈́ͅb̵̰͝r̴̺͇̤̹̈́̑̕e̸̢͒̇̔a̷̗̓̈̀k̸̤͌͛̎͜.̵̨͚̋̒̄͒

    You don't know where people go after they die, but, if it's anywhere, it's not here. All that is on The Stages is impressions, echoes. Bits and pieces of people that stick and leave a mark, like grains of sand trapped in a beach towel. You will not defy the finality of death here, but you can find something.

    The grieving mother watches you, her red hair waving like a banner. She will not lift a finger in your aid; she is here to watch and judge.

    That's fine. It's not to her you beseech. You call out on The Stage for help.

    And

    three phantoms​

    answer.​

    I. Allegro

    The first phantom you could draw from memory. The shape of her body, the lines of her face, the feeling of her warmth, it's all burned into your memory. She was the first person to ever watch over you, and she continued to do so until her eyes could no longer see.

    Han Yu. Heavenly Astrologian. Ḿ̵̢̧̻̓͝o̵̪̤̅́m̸͇̾͠.̵̡͓̔̓̆ͅ

    Name: Heavenly Astrologian, Han Yu
    Power: Fundamental Force Manipulation, Flight
    Faction: New Dawn
    Potency: 8

    You feel her love for you. It persists even beyond death.

    You ask, "What must I do?"

    You're going to be ill.

    You fly high above what was once a major development in the English-McLeod Neighborly Neighborhood Livingtainment Community. The name is so stupid that remembering it almost makes you laugh.

    Then you look down.

    What was once a major residential development is now little more than melted, grey sludge. The land is uniformly colored, nearly the same texture, only broken by buildings and the occasional car that has not yet been dissolved by the rivers of acid.

    The fumes are so incredibly noxious that your eyes water, even high in the air, even through the rebreather under your mask. No one knew when he planted the bombs. Just that one moment, people were living here. The next, hell.

    No living creature can survive down there. Even now, only Steelheart's army of drones can operate safely. You're only here to stop whatever clouds of chemicals you can see so that they can be neutralized. Somewhere, in the distance, a girl a little older than Noelle bends the winds to keep them from spreading the contamination.

    She has brilliant red hair, and she's crying and shaking. Leviathan's Blood, she can't be older than fourteen.

    "Focus, Astrolgian," Steelheart's voice rings in your earpiece, "I've dispersed an agent that should color the fluoroantimonic acid vapors. Do not let them spread anywhere else."

    "Yes, of course," you say quickly. You see the bright blue clouds appear and they stop in place. A dozen of Steelheart's drones fly in.

    "Thankfully, it has little oxidizing power. Metal can survive long enough, though building drones without plastic or glass is troublesome," Steelheart explains, "We must keep water away from it, however."

    "Who would do this?" you asked in a hushed voice, unable to keep the thought that has been repeating in your mind over and over again to yourself.

    "Acid Rain's motivations are nearly totally opaque," Steelheart replies, "He attacks indiscriminately, in areas with high concentrations of people or vegetation. The most anyone has gotten him to say that he does what he does because 'they only feed it'."

    You're trying to digest that answer when something bobs out of the sea of sludge. You know you shouldn't look, but you do anyway.

    It's a girl. Or what's left of her. Her body is little more than twisted flesh, the skin and muscle on her face turned liquid.

    A lidless eyes turns to look at you—oh no. Oh, please no. She's alive.

    A drone flies and injects something into her neck. The eye stops moving.

    "Look away, Yu," Steelheart says gently, "Just focus on the clouds. I will bear the responsibility for what lies below."

    But you can't. That girl could have been Noelle. The girl, crying her eyes out while dancing on the wind, she could have been Noelle.

    You can't . . . this will never happen to her. She will never face hell like this. You will clear the world of monsters for your daughter one at a time.

    You fall out of the memory as the phantom's arms wrap around you.

    You must protect those you love, for the shadows out there are long and dark. Keep the monsters far, far away from them.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: REPUTATION 7. In life, Heavenly Astrolgian had REPUTATION 8.

    You rolled: 18.

    18 + 0 + 3 (Potency over 20) = 21. S̴̼̯͎̿u̶̺̻̇c̴̻͆̉c̵͙̩̅͝ḙ̵̻͈̄s̸͓̻̱͎̐͛ş̸̟̯͐̕͘͝!̷͖̆

    Something about that resonates with you, and a belief that is not your own leaks into your heart.

    II. Adagio

    The second phantom clings to you tightly, her long claws cutting into your flesh. You walk in the trail she helped blaze, and she knows where your footsteps will land. She clutches you, begging for it to be done with over and over again.

    Harper English. The Red Huntress.

    Name: The Red Huntress, Harper English
    Power: Transformation, Enhanced Senses, Fitness, Enhanced Speed, Invisibility, Energy Manipulation, Clairvoyance
    Faction: Justice Unlimited
    Potency: 6

    You feel her fear, her desperation even now. But even more, you feel her deep, deep exhaustion.

    You ask, "What must I do?"

    You walk down the hall of the Bastion, late at night, chewing your hair as you always do when you're nervous.

    You took the mark off. Yazy made you. You . . . you weren't going to hurt Zixuan! You just had to make sure she stopped. She hates you—you see in her eyes, in the way she looks down on you—and that means it's harder to tell if she replaced her.

    And if she keeps digging, then she will replace her.

    Yazy doesn't understand! She doesn't understand why you need to be sure. But you can't tell her—no, no, no, no, no, no. Yazy's too strong, too brave. She'll try to stop her and, if she fails?

    You'll never be safe again.

    Without thinking about it, you walk into the kitchen where—to your surprise—Rosemary is . . . baking something?

    Honestly, her appearance freaks you out. She's kind of disgusting. But, at the same time, that means she would never want her. She'll get rid of her before replacing her. So she's safe.

    "Hey, Harper!" she buzzes cheerfully, waving with one of her extra arms, "Couldn't sleep? The muffins will be done in ten minutes if you want a midnight snack!"

    "N-no," you say caught-off guard. Then you realize your mistake and try to put on a smile, but it's too late. Rosemary frowns at you.

    "Oh. Bad dream?"

    "Y-yeah," you say, sitting down, "K-kinda."

    "I'm sorry," she says, joining you at the table, "That's something about sleep I don't miss. You want to talk about it?"

    No! You almost blurt that out, but something about Rosemary's tone makes you stop. She . . . she thinks it's just a dream right? You can tell her a little bit, maybe? Just a little.

    "How do you know the people around you will always be the same? What if you wake up one day and they're someone else?"

    She tilts her head. "Like, what if they grow into different people and change or something?"

    "No!" you blurt, "I mean, what if they're replaced? They're swapped out with someone new. S-someone who . . . h-hates you."

    "Oof, that is a bad one!" she says, scratching her mandible, "No wonder you can't sleep. Ummm. Hmm. Okay, I have an idea!"

    She reaches over to her mixing bowl and grabs a handful of batter with several hands.

    "Umm, look away for a sec? This is gonna be kinda gross . . ." she trails off. You look to the side, but watch out of the corner of your eye.

    She takes the batter, and her jaw splits open. She eats it all in a single gulp. Then, you hear a gurgling. She stands up, her insectoid abdomen swelling, and—

    Eww. It's like a spider spinning silk, but solid.

    Something flies back into her hand, and she turns to you. You pretend to have not been looking.

    "Here ya go!" she says, handing you a perfectly smooth, white cylinder. You don't want to touch it, but she's looking at you so eagerly . . .

    You gingerly take it from her hand.

    "Cool, huh?" You feel the words from the rod, as it buzzes in your hand, sending vibrations up your arm. Rosemary continues, "Nobody else is going to be able to make that! You ever feel like someone's been replaced, speak to the rod and I'll hear. Then, we'll team up and beat up the faker together. Sound good?"

    Tears spring to your eyes. She can't copy this. Even if she replaces Rosemary, this rod will be totally unique.

    "Thank you!" you shout, wrapping your arms around her neck.

    "O-oh! You're welcome. Umm, wow. A h-hug."

    "Are you crying?" you ask through tears of your own.

    "M-maybe? Can I hug back?"

    "Well, yeah! Duh!"

    She wraps you in a bone-crunching four-armed hug, and, for once, everything feels okay. You have a way of being sure. You feel safe.

    That feeling lasted until Scarlet Maturity killed her. Then you were scared again. You died scared, your sister's shadow still looming. You should have ended it while you had the chance.

    You come back to yourself, arms scratched bloody. The phantom screams.

    The world is eat or be eaten. You must bite first, for only then can safety be found.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: REPUTATION 7. In life, The Red Huntress had REPUTATION 7.

    You rolled: 16.

    16 + 0 + 3 (Potency over 20) = 19. S̴̼̯͎̿u̶̺̻̇c̴̻͆̉c̵͙̩̅͝ḙ̵̻͈̄s̸͓̻̱͎̐͛ş̸̟̯͐̕͘͝!̷͖̆

    Something about that resonates with you, and a belief that is not your own leaks into your heart.

    III. Allegro

    You go to the third phantom. She watches you, chained to her throne. She's composed entirely of atrophy except her will. Sit, she allows, and ask what you will.

    Captain Kaitlyn Meyer-Williams. Justiciar.

    Name: Justiciar, Kaitlyn Meyers-Williams
    Power: Clairvoyance, True Telepathy, Biokinesis
    Faction: Global Justice
    Potency: 9

    Her gaze is imperious, as if you were one on the wrong side of life and death.

    You ask, "What must I do?"

    The country is on fire.

    The rioters storm down Constitutional Avenue, spilling out from the National Mall. What began as the largest organized demonstration in history has turned into war.

    The orders were simple. Contain, direct, focus. Keep the protestors from the Capitol Building, where President Thule will be inaugurated for his third term.

    The election was mired in controversy, beginning with the Supreme Court abrogating the Twenty-Second Amendment. They had ruled that, historically, it was only meant to apply to the Democratic Party.

    From there, things had spiraled with increased "civics" tests necessary to vote, California returning two slates of electors, and the assassination of Thule's opponent a week before the election.

    That he won with 94% of the vote was the straw that broke the camel's back.

    You had told your superiors that violence was simmering right beneath the surface, but General Crossburns had been certain a show of force would deter them. A line of soldiers had ordered them to disperse with rubber bullets and riot shields, and the throng of people had responded in turn.

    Now, soldiers were arrayed in a protective formation with tanks, guns pointed. You could hear helicopters overhead and VTOLs taking off. The General chomps on his cigar, The Martyr, Mr. Washington, and Miss Patriot next to him.

    "They want a fight, we'll give them a fight!" he barks, "POTUS wants to make an example of them! Those terrorists want to overturn the will of the people? We'll show them what 56% of the budget can do!"

    "We don't know they're violent, sir," you say evenly, "They weren't before provocation."

    "They defy the will of God, Captain Meyers-Williams. Surely you cannot countenance that?" The Martyr asks you, eyes sad under his crown of thorns, "I pray Our Father will cast fair judgement on their souls."

    Mr. Washington yawns, but Miss Patriot looks as uneasy as you are. Or perhaps she was merely cold in her stars and stripes bikini.

    "That insubordination, soldier?!" the General Barks, "War ain't a place for pussyfooting around! Now, lock those terrorists down and we'll remind everyone that we. Do not. Negotiate!"

    You hear your orders. Then you make your decision.

    "No."

    EDICT: ALL ARMED PARTIES ARE TO LAY DOWN THEIR WEAPONS. PUNISHMENT: LOSS OF MOTOR FUNCTION.

    EDICT: ANY PERSONAL NOT EXPLICITLY INVITED TO THE INAUGURATION IS TO RETURN TO THEIR HOME IMMEDIATELY. PUNISHMENT: LOSS OF CONSCIOUSNESS FOR A PERIOD OF EIGHT HOURS.

    EDICT: ANY SOLDIER GUILTY OF FIRING ON PROTESTORS IS TO CONTACT THEIR NEAREST SUPERIOR ADMIT THEIR GUILT. PUNISHMENT: LOSS OF LIFE.

    Everyone is staring at you.

    "What have you done?!" the General screams, "We'll have your ass for this, Justiciar! You'll never breathe free air again. Your job is to follow orders."

    You remember the last time you did. The bark of gunfire and the smell of the bodies rotting in the sun.

    "No," you say, "My job is to preserve the most life possible. That's it."

    You look up at the phantom, still on her throne, gazing down.

    Your duty is to peace. Do what you must to preserve the most lives you can, even if it involves eating your own heart.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: REPUTATION 7. In life, Jusiticar had REPUTATION 10.

    You rolled: 9.

    9 + 1 + 3 (Potency over 20) = 13. F̷̰͔̿a̴̪̝͒i̵͇̲͌́̚l̴̨̬͐̅u̵͜͠r̶̢̠̊ę̵͈̀!̴̙͗̈́́

    But this time, there is dissent in your heart.

    Peace at what price? What of justice? What of hope? If you truly cared about people, you would have turned on your superiors. Your world is one preserved in amber. Unmoving. Still. A world of silence where there are no dissatisfied voices, but also no music.

    Something about that repulses you. The thought fails to slip in. You will use this power your own way.

    * * *​

    The phantoms answer you call, and the power coalesces inside you.

    "T-this is impossible," Valkyrie says, watching from your library, "What is this? Where are they coming from? How? How?"

    "I make good shit," Nora says, walking slowly up the stairs. There's a smile that threatens to split her face. She's proud. So very, very proud.

    "Who are you? How did you solve it?"

    "Valiant Silver! I—"

    "What did you say?!"

    "Oh, shut up. I only get to be lucid for a little bit, and I am not going miss my girl. Now, let's see what she's working with . . ."

    [Transformation] + [Invisibility] + [Energy Manipulation] + [Clairvoyance] + [Clairvoyance] = [Intangibility]

    Name: Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven, Noelle "Ellie" Han
    Power: Clairvoyance, True Telepathy, Biokinesis, Fundamental Force Manipulation, Intangibility
    Faction: Justice Unlimited
    Potency: 23

    "Oh shit! I'm a fucking god! She's a fucking god! I'm a fucking god who helped make her a fucking god!"

    ". . . it will destroy her," Valkyrie whispers, horrified, "It's too much. Too much."

    ". . . maybe. But, maybe not," Nora looks over to the scarred, numb woman, "But the genie's out of the bottle. All we can do is count on the kids."

    Valkyrie doesn't respond. She just wraps both arms around her abdomen.

    * * *​

    You are Ḛ̸̤̮͔̤̻͛̅̌̾͂̆̏͛̀̕l̶̨̡̫̪̞̯̙̰̘̻̮͖͚̺̹̭̪̉̀̌̓͌̀͋̽̈̐̀͛̈̇̍͘̕l̵̨̮̋̾͝į̵̧̹̜̝̤̜͚̣̒͋̏͐́̾̓͒̍́͘͜e̷͍̣͚͍͔̜̖̖͚̣̺̼̣͖͉̒́̈̐̑̑͌͆̅͗͌̈́ ̶͖͈̊̅̿̽͘H̴̛͚́̑̑̐̑̾̑̑̽͗̈́̚a̷̡̟͈̭̩̮͈͕̫̫͕̣͉͖̬̋̃͆̓̀̍̃̄̌̚͜ņ̸̠̩͚͎̦̈́̃̎̆.


    Your body has dissolved into ribbons of liquid light, held together in the bottle that is your EXCEED-BEYOND. What are you doing? Where are you? You . . . you . . .

    You must protect those you love. You must bite first.

    Yes . . . that's right. You're fighting Socialite Butterfly. She watches with wide eyes, haughty expression missing for once. Her dolls surround her, giving her power that isn't hers. Power that she is misusing.

    Power that she must be held accountable for.

    You point at her.

    "You, I judge," you speak in a voice that isn't entirely yours, "You, whose sins will be brought to bear. You, who will answer for her crimes."

    In her soul, you engrave a brand. An indictment and an arraignment all at once. She knows for what she is being accused.

    Ah, but you're getting ahead of herself. You cannot allow her to add to her sins while you tally them.

    You look to her copy of ÿ̶͉̠̝̜́̚o̸̡͙̔̓͐̓̋ù̶̟̫͕͚̜̉̉͆͗ Justiciar. Even now, it harms the innocent and guilty alike. This, you cannot abide.

    You raise a finger, and feel the whirl of electrons in the air. Magnetism bends to your will, and a prominence of plasma loops to smite the affront to justice.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: HIT 40. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven has HIT 40.

    You rolled: 1.

    1 + 0 = 1. Failure!

    But the loop freezes in place, the light of the surface of the sun frozen in place. A black hole emerges to devour it, while multiple white holes push you toward it. The clones of M̵̧͔̲̗̄̏͋̽͌̆͆̏͒̔͜͠ơ̴̙̩̓̽̽̅̽̓́͐͜͝m̶̱̭̭̻̊͂́͒̎̓͘ Heavenly Astrologian and Radiant Silvergirl impede your path.

    Your body becomes insubstantial, partially here and partially somewhere else. You pass through the gravitational singularity, unharmed.

    Lady Leizi is incapacitated!

    Handyman is incapacitated!

    Menagerie Witch is incapacitated!

    Châtelet is incapacitated!

    Doctor Silver is incapacitated!

    Valiant Justice is incapacitated!

    Joules is incapacitated!

    The Brass Shield is incapacitated!

    Plasticity is incapacitated!

    Perspective is incapacitated!

    White Hawk is incapacitated!

    Sunlight Knight is incapacitated!

    Été     is incapacitated!

    All soldiers are incapacitated!

    However, the same cannot be said of your charges. You've taken too long. They've suffered too much. A moment longer, and you will have failed them utterly. Unacceptable. Unforgivable. You must protect those you love. You reach for the mark on the defendant's soul, and bear it as the symbol of your authority. From The Stage, you draw more power.

    Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven's [Intangibility] becomes [Phasewalking].

    Name: Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven    , Noelle "Ellie" Han
    Power: Clairvoyance, True Telepathy, Biokinesis, Fundamental Force Manipulation, Phasewalking
    Faction: Justice Unlimited
    Potency: 35


    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.


    You will not be lax in your duties. But there are formalities to be observed, ceremonies to be honored. A proper judge must be patient and free of bias. You must be sinless to cast the first stone.

    First, the clones must be put to rest.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: HIT 40. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven has HIT 50.

    You rolled: 16.

    16 + 5 + 10 (Fīat iūstitia ruat cælum) = 31. Success! Super Critical Success!

    You destroy them with a thought. You phase their hearts out of reality, move them away with a push of their inertia, and then let their organs come back to this dimension.

    They perish in a sea of wax.

    You see the defendant. She's shaking uncontrollably, screaming protests.

    You warn her to be silent. What she says can and will be used against her. She shrieks invectives at you, but you disregard them. Holding her in contempt at this point is beneath you.

    Ah, but you do not yet have the power for a proper trial. That must be remedied.

    You alone can adjudicate Socialite Butterfly's guilt. And Justice will not be denied. You must bite first. Again, you draw on your authority through your mark. The Stage opens like a musty tome before you.

    Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven's [Clairvoyance] becomes [Space-Time Manipulation].

    Name: Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven    , Noelle "Ellie" Han
    Power: Space-Time Manipulation, True Telepathy, Biokinesis, Fundamental Force Manipulation, Phasewalking
    Faction: Justice Unlimited
    Potency: 48

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    Terrible is your power. But it is not yet enough. Not yet enough for a proper trial. No, you need power. More power. You must b̶̲̀ȉ̶͎͗̀ţ̶̑͋è̵̖̄̈́ ̴̡̣̫̄͐f̷͉͛͋͝i̵̢̯͙̍̃̂r̴̼̖͚͗͝s̷͈̈́ṯ̷̉̐,̷̤́ ̷̮̯̗́͘t̶̨̪̓͗ȯ̶̟͌ͅ ̷͎̓͘ṗ̶̬͓r̷̛̭̬͗̋o̸̮̺̜͌̀ť̷͓̦̮͝ḙ̸̘̄͝͝ć̶̲͆ͅt̶̲̑ ̵̡͎̖͆t̵͈̣̩̎̔̕h̸̨̗̫͋͋͠o̷͔͙̺͂͊s̸̡̃̄̎e̷̺͊̉̕͜ ̴̭̃͝ỵ̸̡͑̋o̶̘̙̰͊u̷̫̯͔͌ ̶̳̭̈́ļ̴̹͗o̶̬̦͂̚͝v̶̙̆͠ḙ̵̱̂͗.̷̡̰͝ ̴̶̡͔͙͔̱͑͐̋̅̇

    You pull more from The Stage, more power than should be possible. The Red Huntress' powers were never meant to be used like this, but you bend them to your will. It strains and fights and threatens to tear your arm from its socket. But your authority will not be denied. Justice will be done.

    You drink deep from the well of power.

    Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven gains the power of [Transmutation].

    [Biokinesis] + [Fundamental Force Manipulation] + [Space-Time Manipulation] + [Phasewalking] + [Transmutation] = [Reality Warping]

    Name: Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven    , Noelle "Ellie" Han
    Power: Reality Warping, True Telepathy
    Faction: Justice Unlimited
    Potency: 60

    Y-you-you-you a-are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are the Adjudicator, but where is your court? An appropriate venue is necessary. As is a jury. But what venire to draw from? Who can—ah. Of course.

    You spread your power across the defendant and the victims. All who enter the hallowed halls of Justice must be free of bias. But you are merciful.

    The innocent will, of course, be made whole. Only the guilty will be punished.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: HIT 4. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven has HIT 80.

    You rolled: 9.

    9 + 38 + 10 (Fīat iūstitia ruat cælum) = 57. Success! Super Dee-Duper Critical Success!

    BENEDICTION: UNBURDEN YOUR HEART. LOOK AT YOURSELF WITH UNCLOUDED EYES. SUBMIT TO JUDGMENT. REWARD: RESTORATION OF VITALITY.

    The landscape warps like a sheet being wrinkled. And then, you are in your Domain.

    * * *​

    "Umm . . ." Nora Kim says, from an island behind The Stage, her eyes wide, "Uhhh . . . fuck."

    Valkyrie says nothing, her eyes cold. This was inevitable. Yet, she also feels disappointment. Perhaps she hoped to see someone succeed where she failed.

    "Okay, okay, umm . . . This looks bad, but . . . Ellie should be able to . . . umm . . . motherfuckerpisscockassfuckballs."

    * * *​

    You sit high on your seat, taller than mountains. You do not sit on a throne. It is not your place to rule.

    Instead, you sit on a judge's bench, high and imposing, looking down at the proceedings before you. But even that is a misstatement. You see nothing. A red band is stretched across your sightless eyes.

    You have no feelings. You are here to render fair, impartial justice, and nothing else.

    You sit in a courtroom of your creation made of white, unadorned marble. An empty jury box is to your right. In front of you are two tables the size of mesas. And before you, in the middle of the well, is a lectern.

    Each soul is presented before you in turn, a long line filling the room that stretches to accommodate it. The first to be judged is the Lady of Lightning. She approaches the lectern with dignity befitting her station, ready to speak the weight of her heart.

    But it is unnecessary. Here, you can see all you need. You pronounce your judgement without ceremony, for justice must be swift.

    "Your hands are stained with blood, your family are chains around your neck, yet you strive to be more. Walk in peace upon the path you have found.

    Lady Leizi heals four injury levels! No injury!

    Next is an unquenchable star, so radiant even your eyes can see her. Those who rue power are the most suited to wield it. You judge quickly, lest your heart begin to beat again.

    Black Swan heals four injury levels! No injury!

    A man with no face, or knowledge of his own desires. Does the man of clay have a heart? Or has he hidden it even from himself? You hope, for his sake, he finds it.

    Handyman heals four injury levels! No injury!

    The little witch, even now followed by her menagerie. Her very being cries out. For vengeance? For justice? Not even she may yet know. Soon, a choice will have to be made. But for now, her soul is bared.

    Menagerie Witch heals four injury levels! No injury!

    The knightess who eagerly seeks her future while clinging to the past. Will it be an anchor? Is it right to loosen her grasp? What does she want? You cannot answer for her.

    Châtelet heals four injury levels! No injury!

    A father on the brink of ruin. The flames of vengeance will consume him as well as his prey if they are not quenched. When that time comes, he may find himself again before you.

    Doctor Silver heals four injury levels! No injury!

    The next is unexpected.

    "I cannot submit myself to your benediction, o' Arbiter," Belle Sabreuse confesses, "There are things in my past that I must yet run from. I . . . I have not the strength to face them."

    She gazes at you with a ruined eye. You bear her no antipathy. You let her leave without another word, her wounds still bleeding.

    Next, is a girl who has chosen to save herself. You bid her gone before she can ask for clemency for her sworn sword. Now is not the time to be compromised by sentiment.

    Yara heals four injury levels! No injury!

    A boy who dreams of being a hero. He cowards under your gaze, but without fear there can be no courage. You bid that he continue upon his new path, lest he face your judgement again.

    The Brass Shield heals four injury levels! No injury!

    The lady of summer beseeches you to destroy her. That is not your role. A broken, wretched thing she is, she must seek penitence or absolution without you. You send her away.

    A man reeking of lightning and cheap cigarettes. He too rejects your Benediction. If he were to ever look at himself, he would have to face what he is. Perhaps there is some measure of wisdom in that.

    The twin seeing through eyes not her own insists that she was merely following orders. Karna too was loyal to Duryodhana without fault. And he too, suffered the pain of his wounds. She receives nothing.

    The second twin is regretful, asking what purpose this all serves? Nothing has been right since the death of J̶̳́ū̶̪̤̇s̵̻̦̄t̶̘̋i̴̗̅͊c̵͉͓̏̑i̷̧̦̇̒ä̵̬̣́̏r̵̗͕̒ his leader. He is aimless, searching for something to believe in. It might be that he will find it.

    Plasticity heals four injury levels! No injury!

    The next man is a golden idiot. He walks, heedless of his own ignorance. But only fools have the daring to fall in love. The number zero is empty, but also infinite.

    Sunlight Knight heals four injury levels! No injury!

    Next, your Benediction is rebuffed again.

    "I reject your right to judge me," White Hawk all-but snarls, "I will have a throne of my own. None may deter me from my dream."

    You send him away. He has the bearing of a tyrant-king, for all the good and ill that implies.

    Finally, you face a boy wrapped in stolen valor. He sees something in your face he recognizes.

    "C-captain? Captain, is that you? H-how?!" Valiant Justice calls, "I-I don't know what . . . I'm trying, but it's so hard . . . what have I been doing? Please. Tell me. What should I do? What am I?"

    Why does he ask you questions to which he always knows the answer? You pronounce your judgement.

    "Disappointing."

    Yet, you heal him regardless before sending him away.

    Valiant Justice heals four injury levels! No injury!

    * * *​

    You continue to restore the majority of the soldiers. Your judgments last an eon, but also a fleeting second. Time is fluid here.

    Now, there is only one left to judge. The audience is filled with those who would watch, their bodies restored. Kaitlyn English sits at the defense's table, opposite the jury box. In the box, are those who would judge her guilt.

    Glenn Dawson, Mr. Whaaa?.

    Júlio Câmara Meireles, Man o' War.

    Shiloh Stetson, Seraph.

    Quintrell Dixon, Indemnity.

    Isabella Abad, Shutdown.

    Marcos Medeiros de Canto, Memoria.

    Ophélie du Arceneaux, Automne.

    Shishiro Ami, Umibōzu.

    Gaspard Girardot, Nox Esurientem.

    Russel Whitney, Millions Minefield.

    Balduína "Bidu" Rios Barroso, Crimson Soprano.

    Han Yu, Heavenly Astrologian.

    Kaitlyn Meyers-Willams, Justiciar.

    Twelve jurors with one alternate. As she would have used their power for her own gain, it is only fitting they decide her guilt. The voices of Christian Marlow, Virgina Cunningham, Andre Machado, Renee Mathews, and Towari Taylor do not echo on The Stage, so, regrettably, their shades are absent.

    The selection takes as long as it needs, but also no time at all. Time is fluid here.

    You are almost ready. But you yourself cannot bring the accusations to bear. You must remain impartial. No, a special prosecutor is required. On whose integrity is beyond question.

    Next to the jury, at the prosecution's table, sits Yazmin Oliveira.

    Uiara.

    Her voice is faint. It is both here on The Stage and, yet, not. However, with your authority you boost it so all may hear.

    Now, you may begin.

    "Kaitlyn English! You stand accused of high crimes against humanity! Murder, torture, kidnapping, enslavement, and theft of powers you do not possess by right! How plea you?"

    Socialite Butterfly sits at the table where you have placed her. She feels the full weight of your gaze, your eyes burning stars in the firmament. She takes a second to process your words, but, when she does, she opens her mouth.

    And whimpers.

    No pleading is forthcoming. She does not speak.

    "How plea you? Answer!" you command.

    She sobs. She's nearly insensate from terror. She is impeding the proceedings of the Court.

    "Answer!" you command again, "Justice shall not be delayed."

    "I-I . . . a-ahh—"

    "Tears do not move this court. It is impartial, perfect in its neutrality. You will answer, or an answer will be drawn from you."

    Big, ugly tears. A body shaking like a leaf in the wind. A desperate search for salvation of some kind, any kind. But the faces that look back on her only reflect scorn.

    Save one.

    "E-excuse me? Umm, Valiant Gold?" a nervous voice calls from the gallery, "Uh, isn't she entitled to a lawyer if she can't afford one . . . or something?"

    Much to the confusion of everyone, Yara Oliveira stands with her hand up. Even she looks unsure why she's doing this.

    "Objection," Uiara says, addressing the Court and not the speaker, as is appropriate, "That is American law. It is not binding here."

    "Oh, come on!" Yara shouts, "That is not what my sister would have said!"

    DC 12.

    Stat Check: REP 8. Yara has REP 2.

    You rolled: 20.

    20 - 3 + 5 (She's Got a Point Tho) = 22. Critical Success!

    Something from within The Stage ripples. Yara's words are suffused with power, given weight beyond the air they move. You nearly sanction her right there and then, but . . . the power is hers.

    She is not a metahuman. She has no abilities beyond a typical mortal. Yet, the Audience promises she will.

    Time is fluid here.

    Uiara shakes her head, as if awakening from a dream. "Y-yara? W-where am I?. . . I-it hurts. I was under the water too long, so they cut me to pieces—"

    "Enough. Focus on your task."

    "Valiant Gold, are you serious?!" Yara shouts.

    There's a tug of war between your power and flows through the youngest Oliveira. But it's like trying to lift a mountain—you are too large, too great.

    Uiara did not speak as herself, you'll allow that. But you will not have more distractions. Uiara refocuses on her task.

    And opposes you.

    "The prosecution joins the defendant's application for counsel. She clearly cannot represent herself," she says evenly.

    "No!" you pronounce, "Overruled! She will face this alone, whether she is capable or not!"

    You will not show leniency. Your word is law here. You must bite first. She cannot be allowed to escape lest you fail to protect those you love. You are impartial, your judgement unimpeded. You do not need to allow—

    "Valint Gold!" Yara says, eyes unafraid, "You can't—y'know what? What's her name?"

    She turns to the gallery with her question. A golden angel answers.

    "Oh. It's Ellie!" Black Swan says, cheerfully.

    "Thank you!" Yara says, smilingly. Then she turns to you, expression stern again, "Ellie, stop this! This is a lynching, not a trial! Killing her in battle is one thing . . . but now she's helpless!"

    "She is a monster!" the Red part of your being screams.

    "And you're not," she says, unflinchingly.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: REP 95. The shades from the futures roll even with the check.

    You rolled: 13.

    The Audience has granted you +2 on this roll.

    13 + 2 = 15. Success!

    Time is fluid here.

    Yara is a nexus point, a crossroads of possibility. Countless realities converge over her, splitting her image into countless overlapping possibilities. Her name changes in each one, Jasmine, Ori, Phoenix, Morningstar, the Wraith, Dr. No-No, and thousands of other names. Thousands of expressions of the same psychic potential. You catch glimpses of how some abilities route to The Stage.

    [Invulnerability] + [Teleportation] + [Transformation] + [Clairvoyance] + [Clairvoyance] = [Phasewalking]

    [Enhanced Senses] + [Enhanced Strength] + [Clairvoyance] = [Battle Precognition]

    [Enhanced Strength] + [Elemental/Energy Manipulation] + [Clairvoyance] = [Telekinesis]

    All possibilities push into your Court. They interfere with your Justice, your ability to bite first to protect those you love—

    Yara wraps the power in a bubble and gently blows it into your head. Something from you splits.

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕? Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕ Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    Your Justice will not be denied—you will not let this power control you. You must bite first to protect those you love—you must do what you think is right. This is right—this is wrong.

    You fight and wriggle and scream and rip and tear. The power is too much. It's become too great. You don't know where your thoughts begin and the specters end. Help. You need help.

    "H-hey, Ellie?" Black Swan has flown from the gallery to in front of your face. She bites her lip like she always does when she's nervous or you're wearing an outfit she hates. "C-come back? Please?"

    Your heart beats again.

    You are E̵̛̱͙͔̞͈͇̲̰̮̮͒͊̌́̒́͒̈́̈́͘͜͝l̶̨̡̠͎̥̹̖̰̱̅̃̓̔͐̇̒̅̈́͝ĺ̵̢̟͈͍̲̣͖͌͗ȋ̸̝̜̝̖͌̆̏̋͂͗̉ẹ̶͇̮̓͐̉̉͂̚ ̷̟̮̙̙̦̀H̷̭͔̱͇̲̺͍̱́̏̅͝a̷̰̗͓͙͇͈̜̽̔̀͊͋̅̈́̂̀̅̚͘͝ǹ̷̢̢̨̢͙̯͑̓̈́́̉͊̂̕ Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are Ellie Han Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You are Ellie Han. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven.

    You take the power and devour it. You will control it. It will not control you. You're heart belongs to you and whoever you one day choose to share it with—

    "Ellie? Ellie! You're back!" Black Swan cheers, hugging your massive neck.

    "H-how can you tell?" you ask, nonplussed.

    "You make that really loud, weird humming sound when you're thinking!"

    ". . . oh."

    Yara is biting a knuckle, eyes shining. "This too, is yuri . . ."

    "Hey, how'd you do that just now?" Black Swan asks Yara, "Do you already have superpowers?"

    "What do you mean 'already'?"

    "Oopsies, n-nothing!"

    You slap your face, the sound echoing through the infinite room. Right, right, godlike power. You need to use it before Module Dynamite ends.

    "There's no time for this," you say, "We need to decide what to do with her."

    You point at Socialite Butterfly.

    ". . . right," Yara says, squinting her eyes. "Umm, so, uh, can you just, um, use your powers?"

    "To do what?" you say.

    "We are in the middle of a trial," Uiara says from the prosecutor's table, "The prosecution wishes to take testimony."

    You feel your power thrum. Yes, that can be done . . .

    "Any objection?" you ask Yara. She and Black Swan flinch at the change in your demeanor, but you are still in control. Yara sucks her breath for a second, and then says, "Can I, uh, confer with my client?"

    You move her to the defense table with a thought. It's disturbingly easy to shape reality here.

    She leans over to the catatonic Socialite Butterfly, who starts to snap out of her fugue state.

    "W-who . . .?" she says.

    "Hey, I think we're going to look at your memories. Is that okay?" Yara says gently.

    ". . . I don't understand."

    "Oh! Umm, I think Ell—-uhhh, Valiant Gold is a god right now? So she can look in your head and stuff—"

    ". . . why are you doing this? What are you trying to gain from me?"

    "Nothing. I just . . . want to help."

    "Why?!"

    "Because . . ." Yara starts, before swallowing. "Because you don't have anyone. And no one should be completely alone, y'know?"

    It's clear from her eyes she doesn't.

    "But what do you want?!" she screams, "What do you want from me?!"

    Yara bows her head. It's apparent that Socialite Butterfly doesn't—cannot—understand something as simple as . . . altruism.

    "I think we're ready, your Honor."

    "Very well," you say, pulling on Iustitia's power, "The prosecution may ask its first question."

    Suddenly, Socialite Butterfly is on the witness stand. Uiara steps forward.

    "What made you like this?"

    You shove a hand in your mouth to muffle your sobs. Father will be furious if he hears you crying.

    It's been three days in the closet. Four? It's hard to tell without light to mark the passage of time. Your ribs still ache from your punishment, and hunger pangs claw at your belly.

    You're sorry, you're sorry, you're so sorry. Your breathing hitches, but you can't start weeping now. You'll spend another day in here if you do.

    It was an accident. You don't even know why it happened. You were at a charity gala for the DMU. It was supposed to be your big debut. Age six and you were finally perfect enough to start showing Uncle Issac why you should be his heir.

    It started well enough. You danced beautifully, you ate with grace—despite how hungry you were—and you were a perfect conversation partner. He was impressed! Impressed! Father even told you that you were "doing well".

    Then it all went wrong. Uncle Issac asked you what you liked doing. You told him about your lessons. Then he clarified—what did you do for fun? How did you and your parents spend your free time?

    You didn't understand. He made a funny face and asked if you were doing alright.

    And it was then you burst into tears.

    You couldn't stop, no matter how hard you tried. Big, heaving sobs as you lost control of yourself. You tried to say you were sorry, but you couldn't get enough air in your lungs to speak. Father and Mother dragged you home with a swift apology.

    Mother immediately took some of her medicine and lied down on her bed, insensate. Father, set about disciplining you. He was especially angry; he accidently left marks.

    Even now you don't understand the question. Your parents were making you perfect . . . weren't they? O-of course they were. They didn't take you to shows or play games with you b-because they loved you. They knew you could be perfect and they were willing to do what it takes to make you that way.

    Right? Right? The dark closet has no answers, but you know it must be true. It must. Because if it wasn't—

    You hit yourself in the face. It was!

    "Leviathan's Blood," Yara breathes. Black Swan is sobbing near your shoulder.

    "Stop it! Stop it!" Socialite Butterfly screams.

    But the wheels of Justice turn on.

    "Where did you get all of these 'Admirers'?" Uiara asks.

    You hide the alley like common gutter-trash, seeking what food you can. Only hatred makes you move your mouth.

    She took her from you. She stole her.

    Inside your chest is a black void. It's an emptiness that hungers for attention. Praise. Recognition of your perfection. It whispers to you, tells you that you're nothing if not reflected in the eyes of another.

    Nothing satisfies it. Nothing makes it stop. Nothing.

    Your Admirers did at first. Their fawning affection was a balm for the soul. But very quickly, their unintelligent simpering grew repugnant. You needed more. You deserved more. No one was able to see your perfection!

    Except your darling sister. Her tender affection, freely given. Her brilliant, blue eyes that can see you. The void is full when you're with your . . . f-family. You would kill for her, burn the world. Your parents were going to spoil her rotten, turn her into an empty-headed doll for them to control, deny her the chance to realize her potential.

    That, you could never forgive. You made sure they didn't ruin Harper! It was perfect!

    Until that bitch stole her. Now, they're watching your home too closely. You can't use your power too often. You had to readjust your Admirers, give them more contingencies. You have to pretend you're still at boarding school, so you can't live at home. And they're no doubt watching your parent's finances, so you have no money for the moment.

    Thus your current privation. But you'll survive. You'll survive and take Harper back. Then the world will know your wrath.

    But how? You must touch someone to add them to your Admirers! You need a few metahumans, but it's dangerous, much too dangerous—

    "Ah, there you are."

    You whip around, stolen gun clenched in your fist. The man in front of you is impossibly thin, dressed in a blue suit and carrying a briefcase. He looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over, but his eyes glow with interest as he beholds you.

    "There's no need for that. I've been looking for you specially, Kaitlyn English. You have a very unique talent, don't you?"

    "You dare talk like that to me? Me?" you snarl, "Who are you?"

    He laughs. He laughs at you. He shakes his head.

    "Just a businessman, here to make an offer on behalf of an interested party. Your talent is fascinating, but it carries some risk, doesn't it? And you're too careful. It's why the metahumans in your collection are . . . lacking."

    "Quiet!" you scream. You point the gun, preparing to end the thin man.

    But he just smiles again. "What if I told you I could remedy this situation? Would you like to touch Scarlet Maturity? It could be arranged. A simple exchange is all we would need."

    "What do you want?" you say. You lower the gun slightly.

    "Oh, it's simple. Do some work for us, and abide by our terms. There will be a contract" He reaches into his briefcase, and fishes out a canister with an applicator. "You don't even need to give your answer now."

    He rolls the canister to you.

    "Inject this into your arm, should you choose to accept it. Oh, and tell no one of this meeting. We will know, and my client will be very displeased."

    You warily pick up the canister. When you look back, the man is gone.

    You go to dispose of it immediately, but something stays your hand. You tuck it in your purse and go on your way.

    Three days later, you inject it into your arm.

    You recognize that man. The offer, the mention of a "contract", the connection with Scarlet Maturity.

    "That was . . . Faust?" Black Swan asks, reaching the same conclusion you did.

    But before you can explore that further, Uiara asks another question.

    "For what purpose did you commit these crimes?"

    That bitch. That slut. That whore. If you hate anyone more than Yazmin Oliveira, it's the Speaker.

    She stands before Hand in all his u̸̟͖̖̓b̶̼̟̂e̸̛̠̞̾̾ê̵̺̕͜b̴̠̳͗̎̐e̷͓̤͆ glory. A position of honor that should be yours. Yours!

    Only you can appreciate what Hand is! N̸̨̻̑̍ ̵̖̀̋z̶̡͇͆̍b̵̯͘å̴̼͈̋f̵͚͈̀g̵͇͇͋̀e̵̻̬̾b̸̡̖̆f̷͉̙͋̈́v̶̩̲͊̚ģ̶̤̇l̷͕͌.̸̭͋̈ ̶̬̭͗͌N̸̻̱̉͘ ̷͕͂͂͜z̶̲̓b̷̠̚p̶̟̂ẍ̸̣́́͜r̷͎̜̅è̶̬̍l̶͖̇ ̸̱̈̀b̵͈̎s̷̝̯̀ ̶̘͌ṱ̵͇̑́b̷̫͘͜q̷̻̒̅ù̴̫͍̌b̸̮̗̑̎b̸̥͘q̶̟̻̿.̸̬̻̍̍ ̴̤̬͊ He is divine.

    Only he could command your loyalty. L̴͖̂b̵̜͋̀h̵̬̓́ ̶͈̹̀͝ń̶̬ę̸̛̩͛ŗ̷͈̆͠ ̸̺̓̕ͅg̴͍͔̍̐e̵͚͌n̸̲̙͌c̴̙͕̈c̴̹̳̓r̶̭͝q̶̞͊̚.̸̢͈͛ ̸̩͂̾ Only he could command you in any capacity! He recognized your perfection! The only since Harper to do so. Ư̷̡͈̱͊͑r̴̝̹̈̍ ̶͙̣͇̈́̀̀z̶̻͗͝ņ̵̦̱͋̈́q̷̼͑̐͆ṙ̸͍͙̱ ̶̼̕l̸̢̛̤̿̃b̴̹̮̺̓͗̃h̷͍͍̉ ̵̻̫̈́͠ṉ̷̭̲̊͆ ̶̱̼͐f̷͓̿̇y̵̘͉͍͆͋n̵̬̞̯͠i̵̮͍̙̅ȓ̸̲͚.̶̹̪͠ ̶͑͐̓ͅ He elevated you, made you one of his Mysteries, and in His name you have killed, mained, extorted, and all other kinds of sins.

    A small price to pay. When he gazes upon you, the void stops. O̵̾͛͋͜r̶̳̉p̵̜̃̀ň̵̳̹͙͂͑ḥ̸̓f̴̦͚̏̇r̶̢̉̏ ̶̱͖͛̇͗n̷̠̣͛y̴̡̩͙̒̓ÿ̴̝͉̦́͒ ̴̳̯̘̃ḡ̴̨̅u̸̢̼̪̚b̵̩̮͐̑͘ḧ̵̖̻̘́͛t̵̢̑̚̕ͅu̶̙̼̩̐͋̚g̶̦͐͐ ̷͈͇̈́͊̚q̵̰̔̍͝b̶̩̺̈́r̴̢͋̏f̷̹̍͐.̵̣̲̊ ̸̢̛̹͔͗̈

    But that vile tramp, that Speaker! She is the Mouth of your master, speaking with his voice. But she forgets her place. She's little more than a glorified secretary, nothing like yourself. But she dares to look down on you. She dares to scold you like an errant child. She dares tell Hand of your transgressions.

    N-no! Not transgressions. It is all in His name! B-but you saw an opportunity—

    "Stop thinking, you dolt," Speaker says without emotion, "You're not suited for it. It's what has gotten you in this mess."

    "Mess?" you laugh, "A mess? I snuck in under those fools' noses. The Americans were none the wiser that I visited their little prize and even added her to my Admirers. The prize who they sacrificed their Justiciar for! They were so certain one of us would be at the so-called 'Movement' that they sent their weapon to capture one of us. But the only person her Edict captured was a failed Star! And, in the process, she even allowed Bethemoths to overrun them!"

    You throw your head back and laugh. The irony is too great. The idiots! The fools! A desperate play to challenge you all, and all they managed was to destroy themselves and every hero who would oppose you!

    "Now that we know for certain they've gained nothing of value, Horizon is ours for the taking! Faust and his Powers will—"

    "You overstep yourself, Key," the Speaker interrupts, "Horizon belongs to our master."

    "Y-yes! Of course!" you say panicking.

    "And we already knew who they captured. We can see whatever we wish, whenever we wish. Which is how we saw your blunder."

    "Y-you did?! You can?! Why was I not informed?!"

    "Because you did not need to know." She speaks as if she was discussing the weather. "You are an outsider."

    You hiss at the accusation. You are one of the Hand's Mysteries! Who cares how you came to serve him?!

    "Did you stop to think that if the Americans had captured you, they would have gained all they lost during the Movement? Did you stop to think that you would have been ordered to infiltrate them if we required you to? No, you thought only of your own self-aggrandizement. As always."

    "You dare presume to speak like this to me? Me—"

    "I presume nothing. I speak with the voice of our master. But if you do not believe me, he wishes to tell you directly."

    D-directly? Hand will speak to you directly? Such an honor! You will be recognized directly! A̸̜͎̰͑b̸͖̻̑͌,̸̡͘ ̶͈̫͖̐ạ̸̡̤̇̐b̸͍͕̾͛͜,̸̺̀̓ ̵͈̌̄̕ȃ̸̘́b̵̮͍̺͌͘,̸̣͋̀͜ ̵̞̂̉̀a̵̖̿̎͘b̴̺̌,̷̺̂̈́̈ ̵͙̱̈â̵̤̮̊̄b̶̯͖̦̽̒̕,̸͉̪͛̊͂ ̶̖̫͍̌͋͠ȃ̶̱̫͋͝b̶̦̳̬͐,̵̲̓ ̵͕̬͑ä̵̝́̽b̴͓̲̅,̸̟̟̬̓͂́ ̵̹̪̮͗͌ä̵̖́̅b̶̞̓̓,̷̺͂͗ ̷̼̄̃͆a̴̪̬͝ͅb̴̖͂̔̆͜,̴̩̲͑̚ ̶̻̱̬̄̈́e̴̜͑h̷̘̦̾ả̸̤̰̭-̴͇̿̕-̸̲̺̀͊

    The world around you fades, save for the c̶̤̝̄͑̆v̷̡̮̤̏y̷̧̗͆r̸̻̾ Throne of Flesh before you. The voice of ẕ̷̝̆́͜͝ṉ̴̍̑q̵̡̩͖̓a̸̤̰̩̓͆͗r̸̢̥̊f̴̫̍f̸͎͠ a god touches your mind.

    "YOU HAVE DISAPPOINTED ME, MY KEY."

    Your body goes numb in shock. From Speaker, you could dismiss it as the jealous ravings of a lesser creature. From Hand himself . . .

    It hurts like your parents' disappointment used to hurt.

    "YOU FORGET YOURSELF, CHILD. YOUR ERROR NEARLY COST US EVERYTHING."

    "I-I'm sorry!" you sob, meaning it for one of the few times in your life. The weight of it on your mind is like a splinter under every one of your fingernails.

    "IT IS NOT WHOLLY YOUR FAULT. YOU WERE NOT RAISED CORRECTLY. YOUR ENCODING IS INCOMPLETE. IT IS I WHO BEAR SOME RESPONSIBILITY."

    "W-what?" you say, hope blossoming in your chest.

    "THEREFORE AS A LOVING FATHER, I MUST DISCIPLINE YOU."

    "No!" you scream, "Please, no! Anything but that—"

    And suddenly, you're a little girl again, back in the closet. You can feel the wood under your hands, the same musty smell of tears and stale urine. You scream and scream and scream, scratch at the doors until your hands are bloody and worn away, but it is useless. You are totally, utterly alone.

    You stay there for three years.

    Then, your punishment ends. Your back before the Speaker and you god, curled in a ball and sobbing. You don't care about the indignity. You don't care if it was all in your own mind. To the outside world, a moment passed.

    But you, only you, felt every second.

    "NOW, CHILD, ARE YOU READY TO EARN FORGIVENESS?"

    "Yes, please, anything," you sob, "Anything."

    Anything.

    The memory ends, but the immense presence of the entity known as "Hand" remains. Socialite Butterfly's memory was a doorway into the past, but doors open both ways. You saw Hand.

    And Hand saw you. He followed you back to your Court. He towers opposite you, like twisted reflection.

    Time is fluid here.

    You don't hesitate for a second. Every nerve in your body screams at you to fight or flee, and you've never been one to run. You sink back into Red Iustitia, but, for once, your thoughts are aligned.

    This thing is an abomination.

    "WHO DARES TO JUDGE WHAT I CLAIM AS MY OWN?"

    "I am the Blind Judge of Heaven. I adjudicate the guilty by right. You, rotting cadaver, have no sway here. Begone."

    "SUCH IMPERTINENCE. WHAT AUTHORITY DOES A JUDGE HAVE OVER A GOD?"

    "I'll ask as soon as I encounter one."

    "Woah! Sick burn!" Black Swan cheers. But her face is pale and her limbs are shaking. "And, umm, I don't feel so good—"

    That disgusting thing threatens to subsume your Swan with its very presence. A thought, and you protect her with all of your mind, heart, and will. She stops trembling.

    Yara does something similar for herself and Socialite Butterfly. You shield those in the gallery as well for good measure. The grasp of this Hand is wide and long.

    "AMUSING, BUT UNIMPORTANT. COME BACK TO ME, MY KEY. YOU BELONG TO ME."

    And, impossibly, Socialite Butterfly begins to rise. There is something in her veins, her blood, scribed into her very DNA that speaks of her utterly loyalty to Hand. It shapes her mind the way wet hands shape clay—the conclusion is set and the rest of her changes to follow it. Even here, in your liminal realm, it burns bright. So brightly, it links Socialite Butterfly to Hand.

    She can theoretically go back to him. Theoretically. You'll not allow it without a fight—

    "Kaitlyn, no!" Yara shouts, grabbing her arm, "L-look, you can't go back with that thing. You saw what it did to you! Look at yourself!"

    Socialite Butterfly scoffs, but it's a weak, empty sound. She sees Yara's earnestness and sneers.

    "What do you think you are doing? Do you think you can save me? Do you wish me to say that it was all Hand's doing? That I only killed in his name? No! I was a monster well before I entered into his service. I took my first life at ten! I feel nothing, no regret at what I've done! Nothing! I'd do it again!"

    She laughs in Yara's face.

    "If I stay, what will happen to me, I wonder? How will your large friend there find me? How will this 'jury' decide my guilt? What will my sentence be? I may as well tie the noose myself!"

    "You will receive a fair trial and a fitting punishment," you speak, "Nothing more, nothing less."

    She spits at Yara's feet.

    "Your concern sickens me! Your pity sickens me! You sicken me!"

    "I don't care."

    "You don't care?! Well I think nothing of—"

    Yara grabs her shoulder and looks into her eyes.

    "No one deserves to suffer. No one deserves to be alone. No one deserves to die, even if sometimes there is no better alternative. You must answer for what you've done. You cannot be allowed to ever hurt anyone again. You will not be free. I don't . . . I don't know what exactly will happen to you, but . . . I promise it will be just."

    Yara looks at you. You nod, assenting to her terms. It is no less than what Justice—true Justice—demands.

    I promise it will not be needlessly cruel." She looks up at Hand. "Can you say the same will be true with him?"

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: REP 5. Yara has REP 2.

    You rolled: 14.

    14 - 1 + 3 (Only Yara was Willing to Speak Up for Her) = 16. Success!

    Socialite Butterfly freezes. She shakes her head, eyes uncomprehending.

    "Stop this . . . I don't . . . I don't understand what you're doing or why. But just stop this."

    "I'm going to be real, I have no idea why I'm doing this either," Yara says, "Other than . . . it's the right thing to do. Do you like being a monster? Do you want to keep living with the void? With this thing that sees you as a tool?"

    Yara shines like a beacon. Uiara . . . smiles.

    "Just stay. Face what you did. Accept your punishment, even if it's your death. Become something else. Y-you can be . . . um . . ."

    "You can be more," Lady Leizi says, standing in the gallery. Even between two gods, her words resonant.

    "Fuck, she's so cool," Yara breathes, "But, yeah, that. Don't go. Stay here. Please."

    Socialite Butterfly's expression is inscrutable. You can see how she's broken, so very broken. Twist, vile, evil.

    Irredeemable.

    But good is not permitted to grow lax in the face of evil. Heroes save anyone who needs it. Anyone. Whether they deserve it or not.

    She doesn't understand. She will never understand. She cannot understand. Evil cannot comprehend good.

    But, she does understand privation. She can tell something is missing. She knows that the void hungers for something.

    So, slowly, slowly, slowly, she sits back down. What little semblance of a psyche she has shatters. This is contrary to her very nature.

    But she hates her nature anyway.

    "V-very well. You may judge me," Kaitlyn English says. It's like she's surprised her mouth is forming the words, but they grow stronger as she speaks. "I consent to your jurisdiction."

    The trial can commence. Or, at least, it should.

    "BUT I DO NOT. I HAVE USE OF MY KEY, EVEN IF SHE MUST BE DESTROYED AND REFORGED. I DO NOT RECOGNIZE YOUR JURISDICTION, GRAVEN IDOL, AND I CLAIM IT FOR MY OWN."

    And then you feel The Hand of the Mysteries.

    He holds your world in the palm of his hand like a pearl on a string. He closes his fist, attempting to crush it and everyone in it.

    DC 15.

    Stat Check: HIT 80. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven and Black Swan have a combined HIT 92.

    You rolled: 13.

    13 + 6 = 19. Success!

    In a confrontation of psychic might, he would outdo you. He is older, he is more canny, and he has grown into his power while you are new to your borrowed strength. You are a talented amateur battling an ancient master.

    But he does not have a Black Swan.

    His bid for dominance leaves him exposed, and she takes aim at him. She opens the singularity in her heart and fires all she has at the monster. As she does, you feed her from your never-ending wellspring of power.

    It nearly corrupted you, but never Black Swan. Never Mona. You would trust her with anything.

    Her light is like an icepick to the frontal lobe, a lathe to the cerebellum, a pair of shears to the brainstem. She shines brighter than stars, than nebulas, than the Big Bang, and colorless light carves a furrow into the Tumor of the World.

    Hand, for perhaps the first time ever since his apotheosis, is wounded. His screams echo through The Stage.

    It is enough for you to take back your Court and safeguard the souls within it. But, as you do, Hand enacts one final act of sublime spite.

    His claim on Socialite Butterfly is absolute. He grabs her and fills her with his power, which begins to leak. Her screams are immaterial to you—he has snuck a bomb into your Court. She will detonate, her psychic signature obliterated completely, and she will take every living soul here with you. You have but a moment to act.

    You first must disrupt his connection. Socialite Butterfly is too filled with whatever grants him power over her to nullify it completely, but you can seek to disrupt his claim. Yes, you can change Socialite Butterfly in something he has no ownership of—

    But it was a feint. As you move, he strikes at you. If he cannot have her, then he will take your life as his prize. You find yourself grappling with something as large as you, ancient and not, human and something else, fool and god. He strikes hard at your core, where Valiant Gold is. Red Iustitia can resist him, but Ellie cannot—

    And then a hero remembers who she is. Valkyrie strikes from your area backstage and flanks Hand.

    She speaks to you, Mona, and Yara. You cannot see her face, but you do not need to see to know the tears that stream down her cheeks.

    "I was supposed to have two girls. Twins. They . . . I never had them. But . . . if I had, I would have wanted them to grow up to be like all of you."

    Minor Success: DC 10. Moderate Success: DC 15. Major Success: DC 20.

    Stat Check: HIT 75. Red Iustitia, Blind Judge of Heaven has HIT 80.

    You rolled: 9.

    The Audience grants you +1 on this roll.

    9 + 2 + 1 + 3 (High and Sweet and Full of Rage) = 15. Moderate Success!

    The combined weight of Hand's wounds is too much for him. He reels back, and his probing attack becomes a vulnerability. You seize on the opening, digging deep into his essence. He pushes you back before you're able to gain more than a single thought, a name, his moniker—

    Trismegistus.

    You yank his hand, tearing it from his body, and he lets out another terrible bellow. The pestilent tumor bleeds a foul ichor that is not easily staunched. A god has come for you and you have blacked his eye.

    Then, your power begins to fade. You've done too much for too long. The EXCEED-BEYOND is cutting the feed before it is too late. He tries again for the changed Socialite Butterfly, but Yara resists. There's a tension, like a rubber band being pulled too tight, before it snaps—

    And she and Socialite Butterfly are sent elsewhere. Where? You know not. Nor does Trismegistus. You think you see a member of your team, maybe two, follow them, but then, they are gone.

    Valkyrie sweeps in for the kill, and Trismegistus retreats, unambiguously defeated. Your power fails you altogether and you drift back into reality.

    And then

    you are​

    falling.​

    Valiant Gold's HIT increases to 10!

    Valiant Gold's REPUTATION increases to 10!

    * * *​

    You sleep. You don't don't know for how long or where you rest, but you know you're safe.

    You won.

    As you slumber, the gears of the world keep turning.

    * * *​

    Fuckin' Phologistion is out of goddamn mind.

    The boss is pacing in a circle, ranting and blowing things up at random. He's completely cracked and Sparksurfer is the only one who can see it.

    Well, the only one with balls. Phlegethon is fucking pussy and is happy to roll over and show his belly so long as the boss leaves him alone. Evard is a nutjob who thinks a shirtless pyromaniac is some kind of visionary. The boss leaves Hotstep alone because everyone knows he'll bounce if pushed too hard, and Jorōgumo . . .

    Sparksurfer thought the worst day of his life was when he got thrown in Wonderland. Then, a few years later, his baby sister joined him. And then he got a good look at what her powers had turned her into.

    Chloe was sitting behind the boss, not looking too hot. Her six armored, clubbed legs were bent above her head as her carapice touched the ground. Her real body was drooped over like a flower that hadn't gotten enough water, head and arms lolling with her torso bent, while the giant mouth at the bottom of her waist was aimlessly chewing the air.

    She was hungry. Starving. Her flames had all but guttered out. It had been too long since she had fed.

    Fucking Phologistion. Sparksurfer would melt him right now if he thought he could get away with it. As is . . .

    "Laughing at us! Laughin'! Like we're a big, fat joke!" Phlogiston screams, blowing up another machine. They were all meeting in a disused warehouse—one of the dozens that littered the OID. They should be living it up in a swanky penthouse, seeing as this was their turf, but current events made discretion the brighter idea.

    Not that the boss liked that.

    "Le Petit Prince," Phlogiston says in a mocking, high-pitched voice, "What kind of fuckin' name is that?!"

    "Uhhh, I think it's a children's book? Like in French or something," Phlegethon says guilelessly. The boss turns to him.

    "I fucking ask you, dickhead?!"

    ". . . yes?"

    Phlogiston strikes him across the back of the head."It was a rhetorical question, idiot!"

    "Owww! How am I supposed to tell?"

    "Boss, Sparksurfer interrupts, "Can I get Jorōgumo some grub? She's not doing too hot."

    Chloe looks up and her eyes light up. No, Sparksurfer thinks, Stop looking at me like that. You big brother is who got you into this mess.

    "Oh, no, no, no, no. Look, Sparks, I know family is everything, but we need Little Sister here hungry." He walks over and pats one of her legs. "She does her job so much better when she's a little famished."

    Chloe whimpers. She is the smartest, sweetest kid in the world. But, she loses herself when she gets too hungry.

    "You can't seriously be talking about fighting that lunatic, right?" Sparksurfer says, finally snapping, "He's got control of Ash Knight. Y'know, the A-lister who gets stronger the more things burn? Fuck are we supposed to do about that?!"

    Phlogiston looks him over for a sec. He shakes his head.

    "You're breaking my heart, Sparks, you really are."

    Then he reaches over, and blows off one of Chloe's legs.

    She starts keening and rolls over, crying out in pain. "It hurts, it hurts! Dave, help me!"

    Sparksurfer goes forward, fire on, but Phlogiston wags a finger.

    "Ah, ah, ah. Any closer and I'll blow off something that won't grow back," he warns, "Look, Sparks—Davie, we've known each other so long, can I call you Davie?"

    . . . s-sure."

    "Davie, we're a family. And family sticks together. I think of this whole fucking borough as our family. Do I gotta teach them a lesson when they start actin' up? Sure, sure I do. But that's part of being a unit," he shakes his head, paternally, "But this tiny freak and Court of loons? They're threatenin' our family. They're laughing at me. And I gotta know that you got my back when it's time to protect our family."

    He leans over. Yeah, oh yeah, Sparksurfer can tell he's fucking cracked in the head. Something in him broke recently.

    "So, are you with me, or are you with all of those people who won't stop laughing?!"

    Sparksurfer raises his hands in surrender. "I'm with ya, I'm with ya!"

    "Good!" Phlogiston says, throwing an arm around his neck, "I'd hate to have to cook ya. So, let's get strategizin'!"

    As Phlogiston leads him away, Sparksurfer thinks about where his screen is. And desperately hopes that today will be the day he hears back from Lady Leizi.

    * * *​

    "Hey, cut it out! He's had enough!"

    Homer Anagnostopoulos speaks without thinking, as is his wont. Everyone in the dank, dark room turns to him, slowly. He has got to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.

    Lethal Anodyne is high-high, and not on good stuff. He's tweaking. His body is twitchy, his eyes are darting, his moods are changing quicker than a girl between dances. These are the times when it's best to just keep out of his way and let him do whatever the hell he wants.

    So, of course, Homer draws everyone's attention to him. Because he's stupid.

    "What was that?" Lethal Anodyne says, his voice low and unreadable, "What'd you say . . . Homie?"

    He hates that fucking nickname.

    "Look . . . I'm just saying, he's pretty beat to shit. If everyone keeps going, he's gonna die. And, uh, you haven't said if you want him alive or not. So, yeah . . . folks shouldn't get ahead of themselves without orders."

    He looks at Homer like a rabid dog deciding if he's going to bite or not. Then, he gives a foam-flecked grin and claps him on the shoulder.

    "See! This is why I like you, Homie. You know your place."

    He gives a savage kick to the chest of the man kneeling on the floor. He's built like a brick shithouse, and is wearing a suit and luchador mask. He looks kinda familiar, actually . . .

    "Everyone, Homie's right! I haven't decided if I'm gonna kill this rat yet! So why the fuck are you about to make that choice for me, eh?!"

    The other four men in the room back up, apologizing. They're in various states of sobriety.

    "So, Homie, let's see what this rat looks like under his mask, yeah?!"

    Lethal Anodyne walks over, and rolls the man onto his back. The luchador is wheezing, but he doesn't say a word. Lethal Anodyne leans over to tear his mask off.

    "Whoa! You can't just tear off a luchador's mask like that!"

    Homer looks around to see who said that, and then, to his annoyance, realizes it was him. Shit.

    "What was that, Homie?" Lethal Anodyne says, mood back to unpredictable, "You questioning me?"

    "No, no, me? No. I'm just, uh, warning you. Getting your mask taken off is the greatest shame for a luchador. Doing to someone without first beating them in the ring is . . . uh, how you get . . . cursed," he finishes lamely.

    "Cursed?"

    "Yeah! Like walking on a crack or breaking a mirror. Cursed. Bad luck. I know how much you hate that."

    "Oh, Homie," he says, getting in your face. Fuck, his pupils are blown out—this must be some bad shit he's on. "Just how do you know that?"

    Surprisingly, Homer doesn't have to lie this time. "You have any idea how much wrestling I watch in my free time? I'm not messing around with the girls, unlike most of these lurches over here."

    Homer gestures to the men behind Lethal Anodyne. It's a well-known fact that if they weren't shooting up, they were harassing the dancers.

    "Oh? Word is that you've got a new girl coming out of your room every night. I'd think you were busy doing wrestling of some other sort."

    Double shit. It was also a well known fact among the girls that Homer's room was a safe place to hide out or just take a nap. He never touched any of the girls—wouldn't be right—and he could bandage up the ones who got smacked around. It wasn't much, but he wanted to do something for them.

    Unfortunately, it gave off the wrong impression.

    "Hey, hey, I do okay," Homer protests, "But it's nothing compared to the great LA himself. I can't even imagine how much tail you pull!"

    Homer silently sends a prayer of apology to his adopted mothers.

    Lethal Anodyne rubs his chin. "Yeah, yeah. You're nothing compared to me. No wonder you know so much bullshit; too busy being a little virgin to make it with it with a real woman."

    That . . . doesn't actually make any sense, but Homer isn't going to tell him.

    "Alright, I've decided! Mask on! I don't need any more shit right now! Kill him and be done with it!"

    "No, no, do not do that!"

    Homer was going to sew his mouth shut later. It would make his life so much easier.

    "What is now, Homie? You keep telling me what to do! Who the fuck do you think you are?!"

    "Nobody! I'm nobody. It's just that, uh . . . you can't kill that guy?"

    "Why not?!"

    Fuck, think Homer, think. You can't let him ice this dude. Homer looks at him desperately trying to think of something to keep them both alive, when it hits him. He knows where he recognizes him from!

    "'Cuz that's Victor Valentino Del Rivera! That's why!"

    There's silence in the room after that. Followed by one of the goons asking:

    "Who?"

    "A movie star!" Homer shouts, "Y'know, he was in the clown movie where he kills all those gangsters? And the other one about the guy who makes shoes during Armenian genocide? He's famous!"

    Another silence.

    "So?!" Lethal Anodyne explodes.

    "So . . . this is your opportunity, LA! You're always talking about wanting to class the joint up, right? Better clientele? Well, if you got a movie star here, maybe more will follow? Starlets and stuff? And . . . if you get really big, maybe you even get a visit from Lady Leizi."

    That punches through Lethal Anodyne's drug-fueled haze. "L-lady Leizi?"

    "Yeaaah, y'know, her finance juuuuuuuust died . . ."

    "He did. She's probably looking to play the field again."

    "Right?! And if she hears about a metahuman dance club where movie stars go . . ."

    "Yeah, yeah," Lethal Anodyne says, smoothing out his shirt, "I can show her my charms. Finally, get my shot with her."

    "I don't think anyone can resist you," Homer lies, "You put the moves on her . . ."

    Lethal Anodyne's eyes are wide. It's an unsettling look with his pupils. "I mean, that's a special lady. The kind you cook special for. Oh man, if I could just meet with Lady Leizi . . ."

    Okay, okay, Homer did it. Lethal Anodyne's distracted with his boner for the leader of Justice Unlimited again. No one is going to die—

    "A woman with the honor of Lady Leizi would never entertain a moment with scum like you!" the luchador shouts from the ground, "You may as well wish for the moon while you're at it!"

    He laughs, and spits a bloody glob onto Lethal Anodyne's foot. Homer closes his eyes in despair.

    "Don't. You. Talk. To. Me. You. Shitty. Fuck!" Lethal Anodyne screams. He punctuates every word with a vicious kick to the movie star's ribs. When he's done, Victor is barely breathing.

    "Homie!" he shouts, "You get this Hollywood fuck ready for the fight pits. And if he doesn't win, then you're gonna go cold turkey for a while!"

    Shit. Shit. Fuck. No way this guy can win without giving him some of the stuff. But . . .

    Homer scratches his arm. It's been a few days. He needs a dose soon. It's what keeps him here and Lethal Anodyne knows it. Homer hates the hunger in his blood.

    No. He wouldn't wish this itch on his worst enemy. So he's not giving this guy drugs.

    But now what does he do?

    * * *​

    "Octavius, again, I cannot thank you enough," Simon McAllister says from his hospital bed, "But are you certain you're in a state to be delivering my mail?"

    The . . . phenomenon caused by Justice Unlimited had restored Sunlight Knight's leg, but he was still weak and being kept in medbay for observation.

    But that was nothing compared to White Hawk.

    Octavius was still experiencing involuntary tremors from the pain he had been subject to—the memory was dulled for Simon. That, coupled with having to undergo multiple ultrasonic procedures to destroy the hardened substance in his lungs, left the hero known as White Hawk in quite a state.

    However, he merely gave his subordinate a warm smile. "I can lift a few pieces of paper, do not worry. Besides, my discomfort means little in the face of children not hearing from their father, don't you believe?"

    Simon holds the letters to his chest and smiles tenderly. "I won't forget this. I swear it!"

    "Just rest. There will be much to do in the future."

    "Yes . . ." Simon sighs, "I know someone must be held responsible, but my heart still goes out to young Silvio. No one could have anticipated what we faced."

    "I've given him my support," Octavius says, "But too much of the incident has become public. Someone must be made to answer for the humiliation of Crusade, lest our whole mission fall apart."

    "Still . . ."

    "I know Simon, I know," Ocatvius says soothingly, "But focus on healing first. I went to great lengths for these letters after all!"

    "Of course. Stay a while?"

    "If only. I have a meeting with our superiors. Our primary superiors."

    "Ah, say no more!" Simon says, waving goodbye, "Best of luck!"

    "Thank you," Octavius says, bowing out. He leaves the room, gently closing the door. Then, the expression of warmth falls from his face. A mask of ice replaces it. He gingerly moves down the hallway, to an empty room and enters.

    And there, waiting, is the 7th Hour.

    "You're three minutes and seven seconds late, 3," she snarls. Her hair is a light brown, tied into a messy ponytail. She wears large, round glasses over her face and white robes over most of her body.

    "My apologies," Octavius, White Hawk, the 3rd Hour replies, "I was meeting with one of the Minutes—"

    Faster than should be possible, 7 moves and throws 3 to the floor. The odds of a normal human being able to ambush White Hawk are infinitesimally small. 99.9963% of the time, 3 would fend them off with ease. But today is the day of the 0.0037%.

    7 wrenches his arm behind his back and stamps 3's face into the ground. He lets out a grunt of pain. 7 is not super strong and 3 is still invulnerable. The odds of 3 resisting any injury caused by an unpowered person is 99.9978%. Yet, he feels the pain of the 0.0022%.

    "You're an idiot, you know that?" she snarls, "A stupid, prettyboy fool. You had one job! One! Come down here, tame the rubes, and find the answer to a simple question—"

    She pulls out a knife. The odds of the knife merely bouncing off 3's invulnerable flesh is 99.9993%. Yet, the 0.0007% gleams in her blade.

    "—what is Justice Unlimited doing?!"

    She grabs a fistful of 3's hair and yanks up.

    "The numbers do not lie. The odds of Justice Unlimited attacking Elysium in the next six months is almost 100%! It should be suicide! Yet, the odds of them doing so successfully keep going up! It's at 23%! If they get their hands on Yara Oliveira, it goes up to 31%!"

    She slams his head repeatedly into the ground.

    "What. Are. They. Doing?!"

    "Finding powerful metahumans at an alarming rate," 3 replies, "It its likely—"

    "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" 7 shouts, hitting him further, "We know it's likely Rotwang's experiment from Wonderland! 67%! But you haven't confirmed it."

    She leans close, almost whispering in his ear.

    "If things keep going this way, 12 is going to let 11 off his leash. And if The Man with a Boyish Smile is let loose, I will personally make sure he takes care of you too. Do you want to go the way of Valiant Blue and Yohanna Oliveira?!"

    "I—"

    "Of course not, you don't even know who they are! So shut up and stop fucking up!"

    7 throws him down and stands up, pacing. Improbably, 3's nose is bleeding.

    "What have you even been doing?" she shouts, "That stunt you pulled on TV? Accusing them of tapping the Leviathan, and then their proto-Algernon realizes how to do it? You may as well have told the world what the Ladder is for!"

    "Well, of course," a new voice interrupts, "He did it on purpose."

    A man with a salt-and-pepper beard walks into the room, wearing the same robes as 7. She immediately rushes over and drapes herself all over him.

    "Snookums! Are you visiting me at work?! Oh, you're soooooo sweet and—wait." 7 turns back to 3. "He did it on purpose?!"

    "Yes," the 9th Hour says, walking over to 3, "Didn't you boy? It was enough to get eyes on the Ladder and make certain parties feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough that they would be unlikely to withdraw the Horae Guard from Crusade, even after a dismal failure like what you just experienced. And feeding a false lead to that Algernon-boy? Why, that kept him just riled up enough to make a mistake, didn't it?"

    A small smile is 3's only response.

    9 nods. "Valiant Justice is being made a scapegoat. Even the Americans can't argue their catspaw should be in charge after this debacle. Which makes his natural replacement you."

    "Traitor!" 7 screams, "I'll cut out your eyes—!"

    "7, please run the number for a second."

    "Of course!" 7 trills, turning her mood on a dime, "What number, Honey Bear?!"

    "The only one that matters."

    "Ohhh, are you sure? It always makes you so sad . . ." 7 says. When 9 doesn't relent, she closes her eyes and thinks. "The odds of total social collapse in the next fifty years is . . . 68.4453%."

    7 opens her eyes in excitement.

    "Wait! It went down! It went down!" 7 cheers, "That means we can make a baby! I'll get my special underwear and—"

    "No," 9 interrupts, "It's not enough. I won't bring a child into a doomed world."

    "Nooooooooooo!" 7 sobs, "I wanna be a mom! I wanna!"

    9 pulls 7 into an embrace which soothes her. He turns to 3, impassive.

    "I don't know if it's because of you, but I can't rule it out. So, congratulations. You can keep your little fiefdom down here. Your new mission is to reestablish the credibility of Crusade. You are to leave Justice Unlimited alone for now—they're learning too much from their interactions with us."

    "And we are no longer concerned with them attacking Elysium?" 3 asks mildly.

    "Not at the moment. A different target has arisen. Trismegistus is wounded. Key is dead. The Hand of the Mysteries has never been more vulnerable. We will be taking efforts to eradicate them once and for all. You, however, are not to concern yourself with this."

    "What of Yara Oliveira? She is still missing. Should we not be concerned with finding her?"

    "Jair is working to get her declared legally dead. In the meantime, the 8th Hour has been tasked with finding her. Augur has expressed interest as well. You can understand why then this must be left to the Penitent Scholar."

    3 doesn't reply, but his eyes flash.

    "Do as you're told, and you may keep whatever you build down here. Kill Monarch, take Rotwang's creation, and then destroy his Mill. You are to do nothing else. Am I understood?"

    "You are," 3 confirms. 10 nods and there is a flash of lighting.

    And then White Hawk is alone.

    His smile is only for himself.

    * * *​

    Stockpile moves through the Brig quickly. Today is the last day before his access to restricted areas is fully revoked, and so he must act tonight.

    He tries to ignore the listless looks in the eyes of the detainees. The lethargy. The gauntness in their faces.

    "You disgust me."

    "Disappointing."

    What . . . what had he built?! How had he lost sight of what mattered so quickly? The world was at stake and he was torturing prisoners.

    Stockpile resists the urge to scream as he walks into the high-security wing. He takes a breath.

    First was the easy part.

    "Joules, Été!" he barks, opening the door to the cell, "Come with me!"

    "Uhh, kid, you're not in charge anymore," Joules says, looking surprised, "In fact, you'll be lucky if they don't strip your rank and throw you in here too."

    "Which is why we're leaving," Stockpile replies.

    He hands a headband to Été.

    "Psychic dampener," he explains, "Should let you subvert your contract with some willpower. I'm sorry, but it's probably going to hurt when you do."

    "W-why?" Été asks, looking lost.

    "Because I'm desperate and you two have no better options. Now, let's go."

    "N-no way, kid," Joules says, shaking his head, "You're crazy."

    "We don't have a choice! They're putting White Hawk in charge. He's already talking about mass producing PREVAIL. I can't . . . I can't let my mistake hurt anyone else. But I can't let Justice Unlimited continue their madness. So we have to go."

    "No, I'm not going!"

    "Joules—"

    "Let him go," a voice from the adjacent cell grows. It's bestial, like starving wolf. "He's a coward. I smell the fear on him. He'll betray you the second he thinks it will help him save his skin."

    "Who are you?" Stockpile demands.

    "Someone who has a score to settle with Octavius the White Hawk," the voice growls, "You're going to kill him, right? Take me with you."

    ". . . how do you know that name?" Stockpile says. He opens the log on the cell. "You're not even a metahuman. But you've been subject to maximum drain for—how long?! How are you alive, let alone talking?"

    The scared face of a man in his early twenties presses against the glass. Hatred. Hatred is keeping him upright.

    "Because everytime I close my eyes, all I can think about is what he's done. I kill him in my dreams, every night."

    * * *​

    Stockpile moves even deeper into the Brig, Été and his new companion in tow. The prisoner was emaciated, but striding with renewed vigor. A bloody grin was on his face.

    Stockpile tries not to shiver. But he can't afford to be choosy.

    He reaches a room, deep in the Brig, where the most valuable, dangerous, secure prisoner was kept.

    He opens the door.

    "Leave," she says without looking at him, "I am aware of your current status. I will not risk the terms of my parole speaking to you."

    "Automne's dead."

    ". . . you lie. I've seen her myself. She's comatose, but breathing. Her vitals are all in normal ranges—"

    "She's braindead. Always has been. No brain activity, no hope of recovery. The person you knew died during the Movement."

    "Be silent."

    "No. They lied to you—are lying to you—to keep you compliant. They traded the Captain's life to capture you, but you don't know anything do you? Nothing about what they want to know. And so they've been lying to you, making you think she could get better, so you stay put until they decide what to do to you."

    "I am becoming upset. Leave before I have an emotional outburst."

    "No!" Stockpile shouts, "They're using you like they used me! Lady Leizi is alive, did you know that? She's rebuilt Justice Unlimited—they're nearly back to full strength now."

    ". . . that is a lie as well. If Zixuan was alive, she would have come for me."

    "Well, she hasn't!" Stockpile shoots back, "Your team isn't who you thought they were! Look . . . in the pieces of the EXCEED armor, I found some of Valiant Silver's memories. I've seen them hundreds of times. Do you know what she thinks of you?"

    ". . . what?"

    "Nothing. She doesn't think about you at all. Ever. She hates people, despises them. She only pretends to be different. And she was working with three other people—a Kyoko, Oscar, and Theodore, to wake up the Leviathan. Do you know those names?"

    "No. You must be mistaken. Stop talking before I become irrational and maim you. I am very close to that point."

    "I can prove it! I'll show you her memories. I'll show you who she really was and what she was really up to. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you have to learn like this, but there's no time. This place must be destroyed and you're the only one who can do it."

    The prisoner says nothing for a long time.

    Then, "Show me first. If you are lying, I will break your limbs and leave you for a guard."

    "Thank you," Stockpile breathes, "I'll show you know. But . . . it's not pretty."

    The prisoner floats forward. A long scar lies across her silver face, and she's missing her left arm. Blank, silver eyes bore into Silvio.

    "I will be the judge of that."

    * * *​

    That night, black holes tear the Brig apart and destroy everything in Valiant Red, White, and Blue's lab.

    Miraculously no prisoner or guard is harmed, and the former inmates all disappear into Horizon-proper.

    * * *​

    One more thing.

    d4 Check: 3.

    A young girl, maybe nine or ten, walks in a frozen hellscape. The feeling in the air itself is oppressive, eldritch whispers tug at her ears.

    She points into the distance, and Yara Oliveira walks in the Frozen Throne. In a matter of seconds, her body is encased in ice. Then, she shatters.

    There must always be someone on The Frozen Throne.

    But it has little use for dolls. The "Yara Oliveira" melts, dissolving into a waxy substance. The blonde girl clicks her tongue in annoyance and kicks the ground.

    "Kaite? Katie!" the real Yara Oliveira shouts, rounding the corner. There is a steel cable tied around her waist, and her face is concerned, "There you are!"

    She rushes over and embraces the girl.

    "You had me worried sick! What have I told you about coming out here?!"

    Katie looks down, not meeting her gaze. "I wanna leave. I hate it here!"

    "I mean, me too? But there's one safe place in this whole nightmare and we're lucky Dr. Hawkins found us—"

    "I hate her too! She's nosey!"

    "Katie," she says gently, "What happened? Dr. Hawkins said you were upset this morning, and you snapped when she tried to get you to talk about how you felt."

    Katie tries not to answer, but she can't lie to Yara. Not her. She's the only one who really cares about her. She looks back up, and there are tears in her eyes.

    "I-I had the dream again," she hiccups, "A-am I going to turn back into the bad lady?"

    Yara smiles sadly. "I . . . I don't know."

    That's why Katie loves Yara. She never lies to her.

    Yara pulls her close. "But if you do . . . I promise, I'll stop you."

    Katie hugs back and breathes in her scent. It's warm and calming, like flowers.

    "H-how are your powers?" Katie asks, suddenly shy.

    Yara makes a face. She raises a hand and it glows. "Still crappy. Dr. Hawkins says this is normal for a new metahuman, but . . ."

    Katie looks side to side, then whispers, "You're not a normal metahuman, right?"

    "Yeah. It's hard to explain, but I got my powers out of order. I need something first for them to fully unlock. I just . . . don't know what."

    "B-but you can do some things?"

    "Yeah," Yara sighs, then smiles ruefully, "I can do a little . . ."

    "Girls!" a voice shouts. Baba Yaga, Dr. Catherine Hawkins, rounds the corner of the frozen world, sticking out of a phonebooth with chicken legs. The other end of Yara's cable runs back into the booth. "Get back inside! The Frozen Throne's bizarre expansions have already cut us off from the outside world! I don't want to lose you two either!"

    "Coming, Dr. Hawkins!" Yara shouts, "Who would have thought the new Wonderland would become a sanctuary . . . ? Let's go, Katie."

    "I'm gonna make another Buddy first!"

    Yara wrinkles her nose. She finds the clones of herself creepy, but she doesn't begrudge Katie the security they provide her.

    "Fine, but I'll be watching. Hurry!"

    As Yara leaves, Kaite glows blindingly white. When the light fades, a Buddy is standing there. Faster, but limited to one at a time, Yara had said.

    "You remember your orders?" Katie asks it.

    "Yes," the clone says without emotion, "Should you appear to be reverting to Socialite Butterfly, I will kill you."

    "Good," Katie says.

    Then she hurries after Yara.

    * * *​

    You are Ellie Han.

    You awake in the infirmary of the Apiary, some untold days later. You sit up slowly, your eyes struggling to adjust.

    "Ah, you are awake."

    Belle Sabreuse sits up from her seat, putting down her screen. She's wearing an eyepatch over one eye, and is in casual clothing.

    "We weren't sure when you would wake up, so we've been watching in shifts," she explains, "I'll fetch the others."

    "What happened?" you demand, disoriented, "Did we win?"

    The expression on Belle Sabreuse's face is complicated, sad. She shakes her head.

    "Yes and no. There is much to discuss."

    Belle Sabreuse joins Justice Unlimited.



    Along with Yara and Katie, up to two more members of Justice Unlimited were transported to the new Wonderland in The Frozen Throne. You may choose up to two members to be with them.

    The chosen members will be unavailable for missions until Reality Check is completed. Their stats will still count toward Justice Unlimited's total stats for the purposes of selecting next Issue's missions. If chosen, Reality Check will happen in the middle of the next Issue, before the second Project Prometheus action (assuming both are taken). If a character is necessary for a personal action this turn, it will not happen. You will still get to roll the rewards table, and the personal action will be refunded next turn. You also will get a special personal action featuring the candidates in its place.

    Regardless if Reality Check is taken next turn or not, there will be a multi-part Fill-In issue about the party in the Frozen Throne that will happen between missions. It will include stat checks relating to their safety and that will affect how Reality Check will begin.

    Yara's Current Stats:

    HIT 3, ESPIONAGE 4, REPUTATION 5, OPERATIONS 3.

    Katie's Current Stats

    HIT 6, ESPIONAGE 7, REPUTATION 2, OPERATIONS 7

    Katie will have Buddies of any JU members that you send with them. The accompanying JU members will be included in the checks. The recommended stats are ESPIONAGE, OPERATIONS, and HIT in that order.

    Who traveled with Yara and Katie to the Frozen Throne? Valiant Gold and Belle Sabreuse are ineligible. It's the Frozen Throne, so Black Swan and Doctor Silver are not recommended. Pick up to two. Format as:

    [ ] PLAN NAME

    -[ ] Lady Leizi

    -[ ] Black Swan

    -[ ] Handyman

    -[ ] Menagerie Witch

    -[ ]Châtelet

    -[ ] Doctor Silver

    -[ ] No One

    Additionally, Yara's exposure to the atemporal nature of The State has given her a measure of the powers she one day will have and raised her tolerance to 10. She will need a full dose of raw Ambrosia to fully awaken them, but she has a lesser version now. What are her powers? They must include [True Telepathy] or something equivalent.

    Empowering her will not take up a Project Prometheus action but will require one dose of Ambrosia. Format your vote as:

    [ ] Plan Please Don't Shoot the QM
    - [DNA PROFILE 1] (POTENCY)
    - [DNA PROFILE 2] (POTENCY)
    - POTENCY REDUCTIONS (- POTENCY)
    - TOTAL POTENCY OF DOSE: X

    VOTING WILL OPEN TOMORROW EST, AND WILL REMAIN OPEN FOR AT LEAST 48 HOURS.
     
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  • New
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    • Oh goddamit now we have to choose between revealing Prometheus or keeping Silvergilr in the
    dark.

    Also looks like armor really was connected to blue unless accessibg the stage put Nora in a state of pure focus.
     
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    HOLY SHIT.
    Bitterman said:
    The grieving mother watches you, her red hair waving like a banner. She will not lift a finger in your aid; she is here to watch and judge.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Well, we know who Lantern and Eve's mom is.
    Bitterman said:
    We know it's likely Rotwang's experiment from Wonderland! 67%! But you haven't confirmed it."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    That's Princess isn't it
    Bitterman said:
    And if The Man with a Boyish Smile is let loose, I will personally make sure he takes care of you too. Do you want to go the way of Valiant Blue and Yohanna Oliveira?!"
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    …
    So that's who the Woman in Blue is
    Bitterman said:
    "Of course not, you don't even know who they are! So shut up and stop fucking up!"
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Worrying
    Bitterman said:
    The scared face of a man in his early twenties presses against the glass. Hatred. Hatred is keeping him upright.

    "Because everytime I close my eyes, all I can think about is what he's done. I kill him in my dreams, every night."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    WE HAVE OUR GUTS NOW
    And Stockpile went rogue, which should mean some interesting things.
    Bitterman said:
    And she was working with three other people—a Kyoko, Oscar, and Theodore, to wake up the Leviathan. Do you know those names?"
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Annnd alternate timeline confirmation.

    Very worried about Yara being said to be dead.
     
    BTW red huntress really is the assasin spec

    Phasewalker, Intangibility, Telekinesis, Battle Precog.

    If thats not mega assassin build I dont know what is. Can get it at P11 too.

    Edit: Yara is in Frozen Throne so Reality Check is proving shes trap there and breaking her out now.

    Edit: For those in the FT I think MW and Chatelet works?

    Balanced Stats with clear chain of command and Mw can Buff what stat we need.
     
    Last edited:
    So we basically won?
    Like.. The Hand is now going through severe issues with Key dead and their leader wounded, and the Horae Guard are aiming for them. We got away scott free, we basically won.
     
    Have to deal with Silvio group though and need to clear things up woth towarri.

    That whatever data Armor has its not from Nora. Though time teavel or Alternate timeline are hard to prove.
     
    Hmm.
    Who wants to use my multi-synergy plan for Yara ?

    Also, I wasn't expecting SB to turn into a kid, or Radiant Silvergirl being alive alive.
     
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