Russian Caravan (Worm, Eldritch Horror, Crossover/AU)
- Thread starter GraftingBuddha
- Start date
- Crossover Mystery Horror
-
- Tags
- worm eldritch horror
- Location
- Montréal
Enjoy Disco!
212 - Conceive the Pattern, Birth the Algorithm
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
212 - Conceive the Pattern, Birth the Algorithm
Vicky was, understandably, stressed. She hissed as Turk got to work on her side, the small tray of tools already starting to become deeply stained with blood. It was a conscious effort to keep her shield down, to allow Turk proper access. To his credit, he was working remarkably quickly and efficiently. He cleaned the wounds on her side from where Astrid had raked her, pulled out any pieces of debris, stitched it up again with quick, precise motions, applied a final layer of antiseptic… but as she glanced down, she realised that she'd be left with some very, very ugly scars if she didn't go and see Amy. Otherwise… holidays by the beach were going to be markedly less fun from now on. Turk was good at stitching things up quickly, but he wasn't exactly interested in leaving her scarless. She sighed as he kept going, feeling a ripple of numbness slowly spreading out from the painkiller she'd taken. Her hands were a mess. Complete mess. Turk had taken one glance at them, and promptly brought out the boards - at this point she could maybe wiggle a few of her fingers, the rest were bound up to reset properly. He'd told her, with no care for her delicate feelings, that she had the liberty to remove them if she wanted to. But he'd then be obligated to break her fingers so they could heal as fingers were meant to. Or, y'know, she could just live out the rest of her days with fingers that could make her pass for a combination between Count Orlok and a haunted tree. Shame that it was summer, she already had a good idea for a Halloween cos- fuck, that hurt.
"Need place to sleep?"
"...kinda, yeah. I was hoping I could borrow the room over the-"
A key jingled as it was tossed onto the table. Vicky's eyes flicked between it and Turk - he didn't seem to have moved. Certainly wasn't expecting a reaction, just getting back to work making sure she didn't die of tetanus or sepsis or something. Gangrene, maybe. That'd be kinda funny, admittedly. Fight someone who was around from the earliest days of the country, die of something from the Civil War. Oh, and she was pursuing a crazy Nazi who'd decided to get funky, and had poked around a comet which predated the word 'America', so… huh, wow. She'd really just spanned a good chunk of American history over the course of a few days. Prehistory, colonisation, Civil War, World War II, and here she was, a modern high schooler. OK, the painkiller was definitely working its magic.
"Thanks. Means a lot."
"Hm."
She was really seeing why Taylor was attached to Turk. The guy was an absolute champ when it came to unusual requests like this. As he continued his work, she studied the razor before her. A shining piece of white metal, like something she'd expect to see peeled off from a hull, or some piece of industrial machinery. Not exactly… comet-like. Come to think of it, weren't comets mostly ice? Wasn't that what distinguished comets from meteorites? One was ice and left a blazing trail (not to mention, remained up in space) while the other was mostly rock and actually impacted the earth? She was starting to wonder if maybe she'd been using the wrong terminology this whole time… then remembered that she had, ultimately, committed to saying comet. Feh. Either way… she had a razor peeled from the surface of a chunk of space-metal, and apparently that metal was charged with a principle which granted and severed roles from people. She could feel her shield quivering when it came close to her skin, afraid at being sliced away again. Clung closer than ever to her skin, almost shrinking from the bright edge. She knew she should rest. She'd technically rested - had a nap on that table over there, drank some tea, great time. That counted, right? That was, by the broadest possible definition, a rest. It counted. Turk gave her a look as she started to shuffle uneasily in her seat.
"...hm?"
"...just thinking, this razor stuff, the comet, it's all… well, I thought I might see Arch about it. I mean, he knows about this stuff, all I'm saying."
"If you move, your stitches will open."
"Yeah, but you can redo them. Right?"
His look became a look. With italics.
"Teenagers are much more stupid than they used to be."
"I doubt that."
"I just joined the army. Stable job. You and Taylor, though… parahuman abilities are preventing natural selection from happening with the youth of today. If either of you lacked your powers, you'd be dead a dozen times over. Removed your suicidal impulses from the gene pool."
She assumed he was joking. She hoped he was joking.
"If we didn't have powers, I doubt we'd be risking ourselves this much."
Turk's look became a look. Underlined. Vicky scowled.
"Shut up."
He said nothing. Simply got back to finishing off her stitches. Either way. She studied the razor in her hands, and wondered if she could… take it to any possible conclusions. Gerrit had been able to animate skins, to take away powers… that last one was really what she was interested in. Everything else was nice, if horrifically disturbing and something she didn't want to engage with ever again if she had any choice in the matter. But being granted a near-perfect Trump power… that'd be astounding. It'd rewrite the rules, that was for sure. A part of her imagined using it on villains she fought, dragging them down to earth with the rest of humanity. Another part of her imagined, in a silly way, severing Amy's powers. Cutting them off. Seeing if they could be given to someone else - if they could exist outside of the body, maybe as some… non-autonomous construction of powers which could just be plugged into a machine and left to run. And Amy would be able to come home again. Freed of responsibility. And then she remembered deviancy testing, the impossibility of getting to her, the fact that being known as 'the girl that could take your powers away forever' would get her assassinated a dozen times over by every villain on the surface of the planet working together. And also every secret service, every parahuman agency, everyone who had a stake in powers being inviolable. She sighed. And her eyes flicked to a box in the corner of the room - the box with Iron Rain's skin. Not for the first time, she wondered what she was going to do with it. Couldn't leave it behind in Naaktgeboren Ridge, that was for sure. And now, she just-
Did that thing just move?
Her eyes were fixed on it. Unblinking. She swore she'd seen it move. She swore she had seen the lid of the box quiver a little, saw the sides bulge slightly, saw… did she? Did she see anything? The box was being very, very still now… she quietly reached out and poked it with the tip of her razor. Nothing. No response. She quietly poked the lid a little, exposing the mass inside. Pale skin, beige hair, empty holes where the eyes had once been… had it been in that position when she last looked at it? Maybe it'd been shifted by the journey over, or…
She let the box fall closed.
…she was going to duct tape that thing up.
Just in case… uh. She wasn't sure what she was preventing. But taping it up seemed like a very, very good idea.
Time to see Arch.
Just… just after she had a very, very quick nap.
Sanagi and Ahab looked very out of place. The two of them had called up their employer and had been given instructions to meet him in a public location. Worked for them, reduced the possibility of getting killed. Not sure why they'd be killed, but it was always good to prevent the possibility from occurring. And thus, here they were. Samarkand House Country Club, a sprawling expanse of golf greens surmounted by an elegant clubhouse. Taken an hour to drive out here, winding through increasingly well-kept and deserted country lanes which catered to silent villas which overlooked the Bay. Few people lived here now - rising crime had started the decline, the Conflagration had worsened it, and the arrival of the Teeth hammered in the final nail. Their drive out had been pleasant enough, but… something was up with the city. As they approached the outskirts, into the sprawling industrial decay of old packing factories and canneries, they saw more and more signs of violence. Bloodstains on the walls which looked a little too fresh for comfort. A severed finger lying like a pale slug in a gutter. The scent of sweat and blood, like fried chicken surrounded by a haze of thick copper. An air of… departed violence. Like the environment around them was slowly relaxing, nursing its wounds, staring suspiciously at any intruders. As the car bumped over a fallen length of lead piping, crusted with chunks of hair and scalp, Sanagi got the feeling that something bad was on the horizon. Violence like this never stayed hidden for long - there was no catharsis to it, nothing which could be final.
This violence demanded a sequel. And in Sanagi's experience, it was the kind of sequel which took the same emotional stakes, the same characters, and pumped a much, much larger budget into it all. Hiring crowds of extras, building more complicated props, constructing a more elaborate set, and putting together action sequences which just ran on and on and on.
Now she was just waiting for the premiere.
The club had been a pleasant respite by comparison. A wide, one-storey clubhouse, built like an Italian villa crossed with a hunting lodge - wide, elegant couches placed atop huge animal skins. No-one was here, no-one but a few staff members, and a few elderly retirees talking quietly over a game of checkers in the corner. The newborn light of the morning sun shone through the vast windows, casting on the mirror-sheen of the furniture and the glinting array of crystal glasses which piled high inside a dozen cabinets. The place looked like a house which had gone insane, really - lost any sense of itself. It had all the signs of a house, it was clearly affecting a domestic atmosphere with fashionable disorder and everything hard-worn yet high-quality… but it was lacking something. The kitchen was hidden away in another building, the toilets were squirrelled away and nearly impossible to find, there was no dining room, no bedrooms, nothing. Just an endless series of barren living rooms. Made Sanagi think of the house in Mound Moor which just kept going on and on and on - infinite repetitions of the same basic formulae. Felt wrong. They were quietly ushered into one of the many living rooms by an attendant who looked half-dead, and found themselves faced with the thinnest man they'd ever seen. Looked like he'd disappear if he turned sideways. Like he could get his clothes printed out instead of tailored. Everything about him was well-groomed and elegant, nothing was left to chance. His hair was slicked back, his lips were pressed into a thin line of concentration, his legs were artfully crossed and refused to move an inch. He never fidgeted, never flinched, never even twitched. He simply flicked his eyes up, acknowledged them, and flicked his eyes down once more to his newspaper. Financial paper.
Sanagi might be in love.
"Mr Sarkis?"
He nodded, and gestured idly for them to sit across from him. Their seats were ever-so-slightly lower, and he was a bit of a tall bastard anyhow. So he towered over them, and Sanagi felt like she was a student again, sitting in front of the headmaster while being firmly told to stop biting people. Just like… oh. Oh no. She was sad again. Just like Leah's own reports had suggested. Violence from a young age wrapped up in a not-entirely-awful individual. Leah Goodluck Nettle, a bundle of potential which would never be realised. A bomb was just a hunk of metal once it was deactivated. A human was just an assortment of flesh and paperwork once the spark went. Coldness ran down her spine, draining away any childish crush she might've been developing on Sarkis. Almost. Her expression hardened as she sat. All business.
"We have information, as promised. You have the recording?"
He looked up and studied her silently. When he spoke, his voice had the same oily quality she remembered from the phone. With a quick motion, he extracted a tiny drive from his suit's interior pocket.
"Of course. The recording of the voicemail is right here - rather enlightening, too. And the data?"
Sanagi quietly placed the ledger down on the table. Sarkis tilted his head to one side.
"...hm. A bit old-fashioned, isn't it?"
Ahab cut in, her words interspersed with the sound of her chewing a mouthful of tobacco. Sanagi knew full well she didn't chew tobacco, she was just trying to irritate Sarkis without violating a smoking policy. Ahab was like a gas - a gas expanded to fill its container, no matter how convoluted its structure might be. Ahab found a way to annoy her opponent, no matter the difficulties placed before her. Very adaptive.
"That's all they had in there. All we could take, at least. Now, was that it? Because if we're staying for much longer, I could go for some food. Drink, definitely. Does this place serve Finlandia?"
Sarkis looked at her with an expression Sanagi vaguely recognised as divine exasperation.
"...ah. Sorry, could I ask - are you a mercenary, by any chance?"
Ahab grinned.
"Used to be, yeah."
"Oh."
He looked sad. Spiritually exhausted.
"...wonderful."
Sanagi felt a moment of kinship with him. The crush was starting to return. A little. Maybe it was the suit. It was a very nice suit.
In this strange broken-down world, could a woman with a skull-face and a (literally) two-dimensional man find love?
Probably not.
"Now… I took the liberty of listening to that recording before I procured it from the PRT - at a not insignificant personal risk. Listen to it if you like, the club has a terminal for members in the back, Giles can show you the way. Ancient machine, but it ought to read the information clearly enough. If you find what you were looking for, please, don't feel the need to indulge any sense of politeness - leave and do what you intend. If not…"
He sat back, unfurled his newspaper once more, and began to scan the style section. Sanagi felt a definitely flutter. Either way. Giles - the man who'd shown them inside - was happy to take them to a cramped booth in the back. A table with a leather surface, an ancient cream-coloured engine of information which might have once been called a computer, and a heavy wood-and-glass door behind them. There were a few other booths like this, and Giles explained that they dated from the days when the club had a universal ban on electronic or ruckus-causing devices in the clubrooms. Disturbed people's rest, he said. The booths were the areas where such things were permitted - phones, in the old days. Typewriters, even. Escalating to laptops, mobile phones, mp3 players… Sanagi could find some kinship there, she supposed. Though she found some difficulty with the computer - impenetrable. Ahab, though, fiddled with it easily, breezing through the relevant command prompts, accessing the necessary drives, downloading the files they needed from the disk they'd been handed. A querying glance made her shrug in something resembling embarrassment.
"I grew up in Pakistan in the late 80s, this kind of machine was literally the best we had. Makes me feel all nostalgic."
Her voice descended to a murmur.
"...but I'll tell you what, these machines can't stream porn for shit."
Sanagi gave her a look, and Ahab gave her a shit-eating grin. Yellow-and-black from plaque and tobac', made her look like she'd been eating wasps all day. Her voice definitely had a vespiform buzz to it. Irritating enough.
"Don't worry, darling, it's straight. You're in no danger from little old me. That being said…"
She clicked a few buttons, and the computer wheezed as it started to engage the right programs. Ahab sat back in her uncomfortable chair and twiddled her diseased thumbs.
"...so, Etsuko, how're you holding up?"
"Fine. We've got a job to do, I… suppose that'll suffice."
"Cool, cool. I can respect that. How's your mom?"
"...my mother?"
"No, your… OK, I have no idea what else 'mom' could mean, yes, your mother. How is she?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
Ahab swivelled around and stared at her. She had a look on her face that Sanagi had only seen back when she was discovered floating in a bath surrounded by wine bottles with half her face missing. Seeing it in a civilised place was… genuinely disconcerting.
"Yes. Fine. She's alive."
"OK, I don't like interfering in people's lives too much, feels like I'm intruding, but… seriously, maybe you should talk to her. You're pretty stressed. Can be nice to talk to a parent about it, y'know? Hard to judge someone too harshly when you've had to change their nappies. Sorry, diapers. Americans, forgot."
Sanagi muttered under her breath.
"...you'd be surprised."
Ahab noticed. Definitely noticed.
"...OK, so, not really met your mom before, but is she… super judgy?"
"She has high standards."
"Judgemental, right. So, what'd you do? Go out with a guy without intending to marry him? Did you smoke the reefer? Oh, goodness, did you play that wicked Dungeons and Dragons?!"
"None of the above. Well, the first. But that was… anyway. I've never smoked marijuana, and I've never played one of those… tabletop role-playing time-wasters. I've always had other things to do. My mother is just… she has high standards for me. And I don't want to see her. Not at the moment."
"...because you feel like a failure?"
Sanagi hardened her expression.
"The files are almost done. Come on, let's-"
"No, no, we're sticking with this, dearest delectable. Look, I'm a nice little bundle of failures, but at this point there's no reason to regret any of them. Why bother? Look at me - I'm disintegrating, soon enough I'll be too toxic for the fucking crematorium. They'll literally have to bury me at sea, my corpse will be so riddled with tinkertech toxins. You weren't awake when it happened, but Panacea couldn't heal me. I'm a mess. You? You've got a life ahead of you… sort of. So what if you feel like a failure? Feeling it is pointless - you either are a failure or you aren't, and you are. So am I. You just need to stop caring about it quite as much. Seriously. Talk to your mom. If there's one thing I've found, it's that mothers generally mellow out once they start staring death in the face. Start being awfully sensitive about the legacy they leave behind in a way you just ain't when you can always churn out a replacement. But bluntly, Etsuko, you are now non-fungible. Makes you a valuable asset."
Sanagi blinked slowly.
"...is everything about either money, violence, death, or nausea with you?"
"At the moment? Yeah. Had the rest of my personality shot off in the war."
"Which one?"
"It was big and shooty, what more do you need to know? I lost my personality, my good looks, and… uh, a nipple. Plus, got a nasty hole in my leg. Oh, and my liver, but that got replaced."
Another very slow blink.
"Go see your mom, Sanagi. And remember - it can always get worse. Never treat anything as rock bottom, you won't know rock bottom until you're on your deathbed and looking back. As it is, this could just be a… plateau before your descent into the abyssopelagic zone. Like a lip over the Mariana Trench."
Sanagi turned away in absolute silence. She could sense Ahab making a face and pinching her rotten nose between rotten fingers. She was trying her best, Sanagi understood that, but… she didn't want to feel better. Too soon for that. Ahab had only learned the emotional resilience of combat situations, where you had precisely two seconds to mourn before the next vicious guerrilla attack or artillery bombardment. Sanagi, like Ahab said, had a life ahead of her. Plenty of time to mourn and… maybe get over it. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way… possibly, there was a point in going to see her mom. Might have to consider it.
Might.
The file loaded, and she hit play.
Nothing happened.
Ahab reached over and typed in a series of obscenely complex commands with a shit-eating smile on her face.
The file played, and Sanagi felt herself dying inside a little.
The audio was awful, the words were indistinct, and it kept trailing off into blurs of static. But she could still pick out a few necessary details. She heard whimpering, she heard laboured breathing… something snapping. A voice, muffled, yelling something indistinguishable. And then… climbing, a jump, someone running away from the phone, something rushing to capture the person. Sanagi's heart climbed into her throat like… like that tongue-eating louse she'd read about once. Climbing up and up, biting all the way, ready to steal her voice and sap her energy. A parasite lingering in the most visible possible place. Her very own cymothoa exigua. She heard choking… and a voice. Quiet. Careful.
"Don't worry. I'm told that towards the end, people feel that they can breathe the smoke. It's a comfort, to some."
She had a voice. She had a voice. It was… smug, smooth, calm. It dripped with an inward self-confidence that could speak only to the most profound levels of delusive zealotry. The kind which not only placed confidence in the self, but in the world. This man had, she guessed, an absolute faith in a certain vision of the world, so absolute that nothing could ever shake it. There were no doubts in that voice, there was no possible doubt. He'd not flinched before killing a child. The smile was audible.
"Don't worry. No point, not anymore. The smoke has you. Already dead, your body is just catching up."
Her fists clenched. And light bloomed slightly behind her glass eyes. Ahab rested a hand on her shoulder, and the contact brought her down to earth a little. There was some crackling… odd. This recording had a great deal of interference, but the phone had been intact, the speakers had been functional. And the crackling seemed strangely… old-fashioned for something relatively modern. Odd. Very odd.
"My family says the afterlife is like this. Lonely. Not sure if that makes us narcissists or not. Never quite made up my mind. They used to call me Vision of Heaven, which… did feel a little egotistical. I prefer Kabiri. More refined."
Two names. One was enough. Two was excellent.
"I'll tell you my real name, though. Just so we're on… equal footing. Always found this game of silly names to be faintly ridiculous. And for surviving longer than people many times your age… well, you've earned this.
Both of them leant forward. A tiny star wriggled around one of her glass eyes like a miniscule mote of dust, dripping to the table and scorching a tiny hole, no wider than a cigarette burn. Ordinarily she'd be humiliated at such a loss of control. Now? She couldn't give less of a shit.
"It's Xavier. Xavier Crowley. Nice to meet you."
The recording ended.
One name - good. Two names - excellent. Three names - the man was dead already. Ahab was already sliding around Sanagi to get access to the computer, booting up what passed for a browser on this ancient operating system. The fans at the back whirred into angry life, clearing away years of dust… trying to, at least. Not succeding much. But the effort was appreciated, even if it left the room clouded with a grey haze. Sanagi stared dead ahead at the screen, at the play of letters. Kabiri… she knew that name. Had gone over it with Taylor, or had the names relayed to her by Turk. The man had been keeping all of them updated on the important details of the Teeth - it took barely any time to share this information, and any scrap was beyond appreciated. The members of the Teeth's inner circle - Animos. Kabiri. Nibelung. Rocinante. Matrimonial. Hadal. The Butcher. Of them, Animos and Nibelung were dead. Rocinante was a mercenary on Taylor's side. Kabiri… no idea what his power had been, but now she had an idea. Something to do with black smoke, according to the news reports. Nothing more specific. And now she had two other names. Ahab was looking them up rapidly… Vision of Heaven produced nothing. Shit. Xavier Crowley… nothing. Widening it to Crowley, they did find something. And it was… definitely odd.
A long-dead occultist and his many followers, a few nondescript individuals who'd appeared in various stories… narrowing it down to criminal stories, they found a weird spate of attacks around New Orleans and Louisiana. Arrests of individuals with the last name 'Crowley'. Nothing more… hm. The PRT's official website, which loaded up with stuttering chunks of light appearing like squares on a chess board, had something on the Crowleys. Crowley clan, known to be affiliated with the Fallen.
Ahab hissed.
"Fuck me."
Sanagi was just glad someone had said it first. Fallen, Christ. They were… shit. She had the rundown on parahuman groups. Elite were, by and large, civilised - except if you were unlucky. Sometimes you had jokers and gangsters, the gangs that were just ordinary gangs with a little more parahuman firepower. ABB fell into that category. E88 were a mix between the two, more rigid than a normal gang, better-organised… but at the bottom, just standard scum. Then you had the nihilists, the insane groups whose longevity proved, more than anything, why you should fear them. The Teeth. The Slaughterhouse Nine. And the Fallen.
In a field where people died young, she knew it was worth being wary of the nihilistic barbarians that achieved a few grey hairs.
Along with the Mathers and the McVeays, they were the leadership of a branch which worshipped Leviathan. Not many more details - that was enough to justify their position at the bottom fo everyone's shit lists. Compared to the others, they weren't too… notable. Sanagi scanned everything in front of her, and already a pattern was revealing itself. Familiar to her police instincts - kind of thing she saw all the time from the rich kids, the ones who had nice pricey lawyers and nice devoted mummies and daddies. Each Fallen branch had an MO. Mathers were an outright cult. McVeays were something like a motorcycle gang, had clashed explosively with the Khans (a name that still made her flinch to remember. Hard to get the impression of those boots out of her ribs). But the Crowleys… every news story, every single one, was about some youngster causing shit. The parahuman reports? Youngsters causing shit. Petty acts of violence. One parahuman, Angle Angler (space-distorter), had caused a slaughter at a night club outside New Orleans… never appeared again.
She knew the sort. Sometimes you had the idiots who sped, got their tickets paid off, and were speeding again a month later. Or they'd be fighting, or they'd be caught with a tiny bag of cocaine that they swore wasn't theirs. But she remembered finding one fucked-up case. A rich kid, implicated in the death of a prostitute. He was whisked away, lawyers negotiated a tidy bail, and then… gone. Vanished. The harmlessly irritating were tolerated. But those who became liabilities were sent far, far away, never to return. Always how it was - big boys at the top who had something to lose, shitheads at the bottom with no sense of responsibility. The troublemakers in these news stories about the Crowleys appeared over and over, but there were still too few. Experienced parahumans were few and far between. If something serious happened, the perpetrator… vanished. Good at controlling their own, then. If she was going to guess, she'd say there were older types. Older parahumans, older members, all of them experienced with how to fly under the radar, how to survive while others burned out.
And one of them had joined the Teeth. The Fallen were bad. The Teeth were bad. A Fallen member defecting to the Teeth was… fuck.
Even Ahab looked a little taken aback. But the evidence was… high. Crowley. New Orleans accent. 'Vision of Heaven', and some kind of unconventional religious upbringing. A tiny knock came from the door to the booth, and both whirled around to see who it was, hands reaching for weapons they'd stashed very, very securely. Sarkis was waiting there, ledger under one arm, mouth quirking upwards into a small smile. His eyes gleamed flatly, like the surface of a snake's eye. The kind which, she imagined, would glow in the dark. Sanagi politely opened the door for him, and the three wedged into the slightly too tight space. Sanagi, in a moment of recklessness, stood up and found herself pressed against Sarkis. OK. It was petty. But… fuck, being near him was like standing near a walking papercut, she felt like she was about to get her chest bisected just by standing close. OK, intimacy regretted, Christ. Sarkis didn't seem to care… if anything, he seemed eager. There was something in his eyes, something… excited.
"I take it you've listened?"
Ahab chewed some more tobacco, and grinned, flashing her wasp-coloured teeth.
"Yeah. Interesting stuff."
"It is. Indeed. But I find it rather… lacking compared to the full scope of things."
He smiled.
"Ladies, would you, perhaps, be interested in… further employment? Naturally, I'll be happy to give you access to whatever you might need. Information. Resources, even."
Sanagi's fake eyes narrowed.
"In exchange for what, exactly?"
"Well. This ledger has proved useful - if you can, I'd like you to scope out a few more targets for me. The PRT has a great deal of information on Kabiri, including his powers, advisable tactics… help me, and I assure you, I'll be more than willing to help you. I might even be able to find his location."
Sanagi pressed closer, trying to intimidate through superior body mass.
"Why are you so interested in S.E.T.?"
Sarkis shrugged.
"Why wouldn't I be? My interests are with the PRT. And isn't it a little remarkable that there's a series of federal organisations which exist, seemingly, as nothing more than entries on a series of databases? And that this agency is involved heavily with the PRT's operations? And that the PRT, somehow, has no files on the true nature of this group? My agent, Eccles, was rather up-front - believe it or not, my concern is the truth. Perhaps this is simply evidence of some great act of bureaucratic malpractice. Perhaps something more serious. Either way… I don't want to take any chances. The two of you have the luxury of being outside of the system. Now, you want more information on Kabiri, I'll be here for you to-"
"I accept."
Ahab glanced up at Sanagi, and blinked lazily.
"Oh. Me too. Totally on board. Nice to be working with you, boss-man."
"And likewise…"
He paused, and a strange look flashed over his eyes.
"Miss Ahab."
"...holy shit, your intel's good."
"I'm aware. Now - I'll send you the relevant addresses. You'll find these mildly more difficult… it appears someone wised up to the last break-in. We'll need to interface more directly on this matter - I have some insight into patrols at present, I'm sure I can predict, or even create an appropriate opening for you."
Pleasantries were exchanged. Details were passed around like hot cakes. Sarkis made his goodbyes. And the two women were shortly outside in the parking lot for the vast country club… and the moment the clubhouse passed out of sight and they were surrounded on all sides by towering evergreens, the two leapt in the air and hooted in victory. Well, Ahab did. And Sanagi reciprocated, after being sufficiently encouraged by repeated slaps to the abdomen.
"Come on Sanagi, come on, we fucking did it! Tiny job, and now we have a nice little target - oh, I'm getting my good shit for this, my best shit."
Sanagi managed a small smile.
"...it's good, yes. But we should be-"
"Sanagi, my dearest darling, think like me for a moment - we have a target, we have high prospects of success, we have a field of battle were are thoroughly acquainted with… at this stage, you either relax or you stay wound up like overtuned guitar wire. Come on. Let your hair down a bit."
"This is as let down as it goes."
"...shit, shame. You'd look good with longer hair. Try a braid."
Sanagi patted her hair, imagining it a different style… hm. Hm. Might be an idea. Alright, she was… OK, the punishment could wait a little. Just a little. She could punish herself later. For now, she was actually succeeding. Had a target. Had a plan. Sarkis was about as trustworthy as a spaceship made of bubblewrap, but information was information. And she had an ace up her sleeve - her powers. He knew nothing about her powers. And that, that gave her a remarkable advantage. She walked off towards her car with Ahab, and a genuine smile crossed her face.
Things were looking up.
Calvert was reading the ledger over and over again. His eyes ached. His head throbbed. His throat was parched. His mind wouldn't stop fixating on random details, and he'd find himself hovering in place on a single page for minutes at a time before blinking and moving on. He'd tried to work with two timelines at once, but… the experience was like trying to hack two different systems simultaneously while a man kept clashing cymbals behind his head. Inefficient. The ledger was a maddening soup of letters, it had no rhyme, no reason, no organisation. There wasn't even a title, or a table of contents, or an index, it just… started on page one, and ended on page nine-hundred and eighty seven. Each page was Bible-thin, cigarette-paper thin, reminding him far too much of student years poring over the Norton Anthology… urgh. The endless letters, the lack of organisation, the randomness, the madness…
The worst thing was… it was starting to make sense.
He couldn't say when it happened. The symbols were clicking. The randomness was forming a series of coherent patterns. It was like seeing… like a sequence operating by a principle which he hadn't quite understood, but now the truth was starting to become just a little clearer. He'd look at a string of letters, and see nothing. Then he'd look closer, and briefly imagine some kind of linking point - if he translated those into morse code (sharp points equalling a dot, lengthy swoops and gaps indicating a line), then he could get a sequence which very, very slightly resembled the Fibonacci sequence. But if he poked a little deeper into the anomalies in that sequence, he found that there was an inverted Fibonacci sequence operating within the first, one which stretched across a huge number of pages. Two, running in parallel within the same string of numbers. Then he lost his place in the pattern, and had to start somewhere else. And he realised that if he traced between all the Cs on page 173, he could spell something - a complex pictogram, which, when consulted, was in fact… a picture! Yes, a very precisely made picture, one that he could very fully understand. It was… hm. A pair of curving lines, one mirroring the other, with a final line bisecting the two - ending with a strange crook. He stared at them.
A moment later, it clicked.
A logogram. A pair of horns… and a crook. Hm. He wondered…
No.
His name. Thomas Calvert. Calvert, coming from the Middle English 'calfhirde', a name of Anglo-Saxon origin. Meaning - calf herdsman. Calf, cow, horns, herdsman, shepherd, crook… no, no, that was stupid. He was just being weird. He checked over his notes, quickly. Plans. And oh boy, did he have plans. His apartment was shadowed at the moment, he hadn't bothered turning on any lights as the day wore on, only twitching to switch on his desk lamp - a green-shaded one he'd plundered from an antique store years back, never mustered the will to dispose of. Petty sentimentality. Silly now, but… but he could see a tiny alignment of concentrated letters, and if he aligned all the Gs in that sequence, he almost saw a constellation resembling a… no. No. Silly. This ledger surely had a cipher, but he couldn't just search for it like a mad schizophrenic seeking meaning in the chaos. No, he had to be logical. So. Anyway. The plans. A little test in the country club had yielded a secret. He'd pulled a gun on that irritating little cop, shot her in the gut. The bitch had stood near him, and he wanted to split timelines around them anyhow. And what could've happened, but her skin peeled off, stars bloomed in her hollow skull… and the timeline collapsed.
A cape. Ahab wasn't one. Only Sanagi. A few more timelines had served as rudimentary power-testing. Blaster/Changer, fairly potent. No brute rating, though, not unless he counted those pincers. Either way… he had a plan. He stared at it, and split a timeline. The other him went back to the ledger, poring over the symbols. He couldn't say why, but… looking away had made him feel odd. Drained, even. He performed rudimentary self-checks, quickly measured blood pressure, pupil dilation, all the standard symptoms. Nothing to suggest Master influence, and he wasn't going to check in for a full test… but the ledger was calming him, now that he read it properly. And as he stared at the plan with one set of eyes and at the endless pages with another, he could feel something pricking the back of his mind. A dull sense that he was being an idiot. The plan was terrible - laughably simplistic! It used far too few components, and used them to the least of their abilities. No, no, no. He had to be complex. He had so many elements to work with, so many enemies to dispose of. Already he could feel an idea coming together, and he began to scribble.
Yes, yes, yes… oh, he was getting somewhere! By incorporating more elements into it, by making the plan as all-encompassing as possible, he found that more meaning was being extracted from it. At the beginning, he was just scribbling down ideas. By the end, he was making art. He was… he was a conductor of schemes, he was a composer of conspiracy! He was a delicate craftsman, putting the right pieces into place with a total sense of where they ought to go for maximum effect. The more components he integrated, the better the plan was - and his capacity to predict was superb. By integrating everything into a plan, he could predict better, and everything could be accounted for. No tangential plans, no side-plans, everything worked towards the whole. Totalitarian, in a way - in the sense that everything flowed through the central plan. The ledger was like a mantra, calming him, focusing him, granting him insight he couldn't possibly imagine otherwise. Master influence? What master influence? No, no, no, he was having a wonderful time…
OK. So. The pieces on the board. The PRT. SET. Sanagi & Ahab. The Mercenaries. The Teeth. Kabiri (evidently turned traitor). He casually cast aside a few pieces - E88, ABB, both of them suffering terminal decline at this stage. A slow death, one where they were simply no longer relevant to the grander game. He could see them eradicated in a matter of years, if nothing interrupted him. Especially if he so happened to leak the Empire's identities… anyway. No, his eyes were set on higher prizes, and more dangerous prey. No, for this matter he had a few targets which needed neutralisation, and he could easily see his way to it. His first plan had involved a few crude manipulations, nothing of any significance… but his current plans were going somewhere new. A way that he could play traitors against each other, eradicate multiple foes at once, and place the PRT in a position where it could fully establish itself as his organisation. Furthermore, he could expose SET quite dramatically, yes he could - redirect a few patrols, exert executive authority in a few cases, squirrel away a few things for his own use… yes, yes, he could see a route to greatness here. SET had gotten careless with this Angrboda business. And… Xavier Crowley, alias Kabiri. Clarissa Crowley, the girl who'd seemingly died in Angrboda's place. Didn't take a genius.
His networks of intelligence began to gather data… and soon he had a certain number at his disposal.
Three calls were made.
Only three. His satisfaction increased with each one.
The first was to the mercenaries at his disposal - Colter, Uheer, and Rocinante.
The second was to Sanagi and Ahab, a quiet little adjustment to their orders.
And the third… well.
The third was to a certain man who had a certain sister. A certain man who produced the most odious fog, and had just engaged in some overzealous educational reform. Calvert wasn't totally aware of Kabiri's motivations here, nor did he particularly care. He had the tools he needed, he had a scapegoat, he had a wonderful pile of information. He had enough knowledge to manipulate him. Once you knew what a man wanted, you could make him do… just about anything. One of the infinite delights of his work was manipulating people like this, he found. It reduced them to the level of animals. An animal saw food and ate it, saw water and drank it, saw an appealing pair of familiar buttocks and went to town. Animals were little meat machines that operated on the most basic programming language necessary. Humans… well, most humans were much the same. Present a man with an appealing pair of buttocks (configuration, size, shape, and attachments to those buttocks could be tailored, of course), and he'd be enslaved. Present an addict with drugs, and Calvert became his god. Present a gambler with money, and he had a ready-to-go suicide bomber if he played his cards right (heh). And present Kabiri, who seemed achingly surprised at the call, with a certain location, and… well. Piece. Of. Piss. And most satisfactory of all had been the alteration he made to that voicemail… a pair of words, purged out in a flicker of simulated static. A messy job with the time he'd been given and nothing but home software, but he could still cover up those two words.
He began to search in one timeline as the other sank deeper and deeper into the ledger, starting to see how by cross-referencing the pages with opposite numbers (12, 21, 49, 94, 117, 711…) he could find the constellations of the Zodiac… and if he aligned all these pages together, he found that it resembled precisely the night sky on the date of his birth. For some reason, he laughed at loud at the realisation. How… enjoyable! His mind was buzzing. The headache was gone. He felt whole. He felt… oh, he felt happy as he began to hunt. He even murmured under his breath, he was so utterly content.
"Mr. Arch Levingston… now, who oh who could you be…"
Vicky was, understandably, stressed. She hissed as Turk got to work on her side, the small tray of tools already starting to become deeply stained with blood. It was a conscious effort to keep her shield down, to allow Turk proper access. To his credit, he was working remarkably quickly and efficiently. He cleaned the wounds on her side from where Astrid had raked her, pulled out any pieces of debris, stitched it up again with quick, precise motions, applied a final layer of antiseptic… but as she glanced down, she realised that she'd be left with some very, very ugly scars if she didn't go and see Amy. Otherwise… holidays by the beach were going to be markedly less fun from now on. Turk was good at stitching things up quickly, but he wasn't exactly interested in leaving her scarless. She sighed as he kept going, feeling a ripple of numbness slowly spreading out from the painkiller she'd taken. Her hands were a mess. Complete mess. Turk had taken one glance at them, and promptly brought out the boards - at this point she could maybe wiggle a few of her fingers, the rest were bound up to reset properly. He'd told her, with no care for her delicate feelings, that she had the liberty to remove them if she wanted to. But he'd then be obligated to break her fingers so they could heal as fingers were meant to. Or, y'know, she could just live out the rest of her days with fingers that could make her pass for a combination between Count Orlok and a haunted tree. Shame that it was summer, she already had a good idea for a Halloween cos- fuck, that hurt.
"Need place to sleep?"
"...kinda, yeah. I was hoping I could borrow the room over the-"
A key jingled as it was tossed onto the table. Vicky's eyes flicked between it and Turk - he didn't seem to have moved. Certainly wasn't expecting a reaction, just getting back to work making sure she didn't die of tetanus or sepsis or something. Gangrene, maybe. That'd be kinda funny, admittedly. Fight someone who was around from the earliest days of the country, die of something from the Civil War. Oh, and she was pursuing a crazy Nazi who'd decided to get funky, and had poked around a comet which predated the word 'America', so… huh, wow. She'd really just spanned a good chunk of American history over the course of a few days. Prehistory, colonisation, Civil War, World War II, and here she was, a modern high schooler. OK, the painkiller was definitely working its magic.
"Thanks. Means a lot."
"Hm."
She was really seeing why Taylor was attached to Turk. The guy was an absolute champ when it came to unusual requests like this. As he continued his work, she studied the razor before her. A shining piece of white metal, like something she'd expect to see peeled off from a hull, or some piece of industrial machinery. Not exactly… comet-like. Come to think of it, weren't comets mostly ice? Wasn't that what distinguished comets from meteorites? One was ice and left a blazing trail (not to mention, remained up in space) while the other was mostly rock and actually impacted the earth? She was starting to wonder if maybe she'd been using the wrong terminology this whole time… then remembered that she had, ultimately, committed to saying comet. Feh. Either way… she had a razor peeled from the surface of a chunk of space-metal, and apparently that metal was charged with a principle which granted and severed roles from people. She could feel her shield quivering when it came close to her skin, afraid at being sliced away again. Clung closer than ever to her skin, almost shrinking from the bright edge. She knew she should rest. She'd technically rested - had a nap on that table over there, drank some tea, great time. That counted, right? That was, by the broadest possible definition, a rest. It counted. Turk gave her a look as she started to shuffle uneasily in her seat.
"...hm?"
"...just thinking, this razor stuff, the comet, it's all… well, I thought I might see Arch about it. I mean, he knows about this stuff, all I'm saying."
"If you move, your stitches will open."
"Yeah, but you can redo them. Right?"
His look became a look. With italics.
"Teenagers are much more stupid than they used to be."
"I doubt that."
"I just joined the army. Stable job. You and Taylor, though… parahuman abilities are preventing natural selection from happening with the youth of today. If either of you lacked your powers, you'd be dead a dozen times over. Removed your suicidal impulses from the gene pool."
She assumed he was joking. She hoped he was joking.
"If we didn't have powers, I doubt we'd be risking ourselves this much."
Turk's look became a look. Underlined. Vicky scowled.
"Shut up."
He said nothing. Simply got back to finishing off her stitches. Either way. She studied the razor in her hands, and wondered if she could… take it to any possible conclusions. Gerrit had been able to animate skins, to take away powers… that last one was really what she was interested in. Everything else was nice, if horrifically disturbing and something she didn't want to engage with ever again if she had any choice in the matter. But being granted a near-perfect Trump power… that'd be astounding. It'd rewrite the rules, that was for sure. A part of her imagined using it on villains she fought, dragging them down to earth with the rest of humanity. Another part of her imagined, in a silly way, severing Amy's powers. Cutting them off. Seeing if they could be given to someone else - if they could exist outside of the body, maybe as some… non-autonomous construction of powers which could just be plugged into a machine and left to run. And Amy would be able to come home again. Freed of responsibility. And then she remembered deviancy testing, the impossibility of getting to her, the fact that being known as 'the girl that could take your powers away forever' would get her assassinated a dozen times over by every villain on the surface of the planet working together. And also every secret service, every parahuman agency, everyone who had a stake in powers being inviolable. She sighed. And her eyes flicked to a box in the corner of the room - the box with Iron Rain's skin. Not for the first time, she wondered what she was going to do with it. Couldn't leave it behind in Naaktgeboren Ridge, that was for sure. And now, she just-
Did that thing just move?
Her eyes were fixed on it. Unblinking. She swore she'd seen it move. She swore she had seen the lid of the box quiver a little, saw the sides bulge slightly, saw… did she? Did she see anything? The box was being very, very still now… she quietly reached out and poked it with the tip of her razor. Nothing. No response. She quietly poked the lid a little, exposing the mass inside. Pale skin, beige hair, empty holes where the eyes had once been… had it been in that position when she last looked at it? Maybe it'd been shifted by the journey over, or…
She let the box fall closed.
…she was going to duct tape that thing up.
Just in case… uh. She wasn't sure what she was preventing. But taping it up seemed like a very, very good idea.
Time to see Arch.
Just… just after she had a very, very quick nap.
* * *
Sanagi and Ahab looked very out of place. The two of them had called up their employer and had been given instructions to meet him in a public location. Worked for them, reduced the possibility of getting killed. Not sure why they'd be killed, but it was always good to prevent the possibility from occurring. And thus, here they were. Samarkand House Country Club, a sprawling expanse of golf greens surmounted by an elegant clubhouse. Taken an hour to drive out here, winding through increasingly well-kept and deserted country lanes which catered to silent villas which overlooked the Bay. Few people lived here now - rising crime had started the decline, the Conflagration had worsened it, and the arrival of the Teeth hammered in the final nail. Their drive out had been pleasant enough, but… something was up with the city. As they approached the outskirts, into the sprawling industrial decay of old packing factories and canneries, they saw more and more signs of violence. Bloodstains on the walls which looked a little too fresh for comfort. A severed finger lying like a pale slug in a gutter. The scent of sweat and blood, like fried chicken surrounded by a haze of thick copper. An air of… departed violence. Like the environment around them was slowly relaxing, nursing its wounds, staring suspiciously at any intruders. As the car bumped over a fallen length of lead piping, crusted with chunks of hair and scalp, Sanagi got the feeling that something bad was on the horizon. Violence like this never stayed hidden for long - there was no catharsis to it, nothing which could be final.
This violence demanded a sequel. And in Sanagi's experience, it was the kind of sequel which took the same emotional stakes, the same characters, and pumped a much, much larger budget into it all. Hiring crowds of extras, building more complicated props, constructing a more elaborate set, and putting together action sequences which just ran on and on and on.
Now she was just waiting for the premiere.
The club had been a pleasant respite by comparison. A wide, one-storey clubhouse, built like an Italian villa crossed with a hunting lodge - wide, elegant couches placed atop huge animal skins. No-one was here, no-one but a few staff members, and a few elderly retirees talking quietly over a game of checkers in the corner. The newborn light of the morning sun shone through the vast windows, casting on the mirror-sheen of the furniture and the glinting array of crystal glasses which piled high inside a dozen cabinets. The place looked like a house which had gone insane, really - lost any sense of itself. It had all the signs of a house, it was clearly affecting a domestic atmosphere with fashionable disorder and everything hard-worn yet high-quality… but it was lacking something. The kitchen was hidden away in another building, the toilets were squirrelled away and nearly impossible to find, there was no dining room, no bedrooms, nothing. Just an endless series of barren living rooms. Made Sanagi think of the house in Mound Moor which just kept going on and on and on - infinite repetitions of the same basic formulae. Felt wrong. They were quietly ushered into one of the many living rooms by an attendant who looked half-dead, and found themselves faced with the thinnest man they'd ever seen. Looked like he'd disappear if he turned sideways. Like he could get his clothes printed out instead of tailored. Everything about him was well-groomed and elegant, nothing was left to chance. His hair was slicked back, his lips were pressed into a thin line of concentration, his legs were artfully crossed and refused to move an inch. He never fidgeted, never flinched, never even twitched. He simply flicked his eyes up, acknowledged them, and flicked his eyes down once more to his newspaper. Financial paper.
Sanagi might be in love.
"Mr Sarkis?"
He nodded, and gestured idly for them to sit across from him. Their seats were ever-so-slightly lower, and he was a bit of a tall bastard anyhow. So he towered over them, and Sanagi felt like she was a student again, sitting in front of the headmaster while being firmly told to stop biting people. Just like… oh. Oh no. She was sad again. Just like Leah's own reports had suggested. Violence from a young age wrapped up in a not-entirely-awful individual. Leah Goodluck Nettle, a bundle of potential which would never be realised. A bomb was just a hunk of metal once it was deactivated. A human was just an assortment of flesh and paperwork once the spark went. Coldness ran down her spine, draining away any childish crush she might've been developing on Sarkis. Almost. Her expression hardened as she sat. All business.
"We have information, as promised. You have the recording?"
He looked up and studied her silently. When he spoke, his voice had the same oily quality she remembered from the phone. With a quick motion, he extracted a tiny drive from his suit's interior pocket.
"Of course. The recording of the voicemail is right here - rather enlightening, too. And the data?"
Sanagi quietly placed the ledger down on the table. Sarkis tilted his head to one side.
"...hm. A bit old-fashioned, isn't it?"
Ahab cut in, her words interspersed with the sound of her chewing a mouthful of tobacco. Sanagi knew full well she didn't chew tobacco, she was just trying to irritate Sarkis without violating a smoking policy. Ahab was like a gas - a gas expanded to fill its container, no matter how convoluted its structure might be. Ahab found a way to annoy her opponent, no matter the difficulties placed before her. Very adaptive.
"That's all they had in there. All we could take, at least. Now, was that it? Because if we're staying for much longer, I could go for some food. Drink, definitely. Does this place serve Finlandia?"
Sarkis looked at her with an expression Sanagi vaguely recognised as divine exasperation.
"...ah. Sorry, could I ask - are you a mercenary, by any chance?"
Ahab grinned.
"Used to be, yeah."
"Oh."
He looked sad. Spiritually exhausted.
"...wonderful."
Sanagi felt a moment of kinship with him. The crush was starting to return. A little. Maybe it was the suit. It was a very nice suit.
In this strange broken-down world, could a woman with a skull-face and a (literally) two-dimensional man find love?
Probably not.
"Now… I took the liberty of listening to that recording before I procured it from the PRT - at a not insignificant personal risk. Listen to it if you like, the club has a terminal for members in the back, Giles can show you the way. Ancient machine, but it ought to read the information clearly enough. If you find what you were looking for, please, don't feel the need to indulge any sense of politeness - leave and do what you intend. If not…"
He sat back, unfurled his newspaper once more, and began to scan the style section. Sanagi felt a definitely flutter. Either way. Giles - the man who'd shown them inside - was happy to take them to a cramped booth in the back. A table with a leather surface, an ancient cream-coloured engine of information which might have once been called a computer, and a heavy wood-and-glass door behind them. There were a few other booths like this, and Giles explained that they dated from the days when the club had a universal ban on electronic or ruckus-causing devices in the clubrooms. Disturbed people's rest, he said. The booths were the areas where such things were permitted - phones, in the old days. Typewriters, even. Escalating to laptops, mobile phones, mp3 players… Sanagi could find some kinship there, she supposed. Though she found some difficulty with the computer - impenetrable. Ahab, though, fiddled with it easily, breezing through the relevant command prompts, accessing the necessary drives, downloading the files they needed from the disk they'd been handed. A querying glance made her shrug in something resembling embarrassment.
"I grew up in Pakistan in the late 80s, this kind of machine was literally the best we had. Makes me feel all nostalgic."
Her voice descended to a murmur.
"...but I'll tell you what, these machines can't stream porn for shit."
Sanagi gave her a look, and Ahab gave her a shit-eating grin. Yellow-and-black from plaque and tobac', made her look like she'd been eating wasps all day. Her voice definitely had a vespiform buzz to it. Irritating enough.
"Don't worry, darling, it's straight. You're in no danger from little old me. That being said…"
She clicked a few buttons, and the computer wheezed as it started to engage the right programs. Ahab sat back in her uncomfortable chair and twiddled her diseased thumbs.
"...so, Etsuko, how're you holding up?"
"Fine. We've got a job to do, I… suppose that'll suffice."
"Cool, cool. I can respect that. How's your mom?"
"...my mother?"
"No, your… OK, I have no idea what else 'mom' could mean, yes, your mother. How is she?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
Ahab swivelled around and stared at her. She had a look on her face that Sanagi had only seen back when she was discovered floating in a bath surrounded by wine bottles with half her face missing. Seeing it in a civilised place was… genuinely disconcerting.
"Yes. Fine. She's alive."
"OK, I don't like interfering in people's lives too much, feels like I'm intruding, but… seriously, maybe you should talk to her. You're pretty stressed. Can be nice to talk to a parent about it, y'know? Hard to judge someone too harshly when you've had to change their nappies. Sorry, diapers. Americans, forgot."
Sanagi muttered under her breath.
"...you'd be surprised."
Ahab noticed. Definitely noticed.
"...OK, so, not really met your mom before, but is she… super judgy?"
"She has high standards."
"Judgemental, right. So, what'd you do? Go out with a guy without intending to marry him? Did you smoke the reefer? Oh, goodness, did you play that wicked Dungeons and Dragons?!"
"None of the above. Well, the first. But that was… anyway. I've never smoked marijuana, and I've never played one of those… tabletop role-playing time-wasters. I've always had other things to do. My mother is just… she has high standards for me. And I don't want to see her. Not at the moment."
"...because you feel like a failure?"
Sanagi hardened her expression.
"The files are almost done. Come on, let's-"
"No, no, we're sticking with this, dearest delectable. Look, I'm a nice little bundle of failures, but at this point there's no reason to regret any of them. Why bother? Look at me - I'm disintegrating, soon enough I'll be too toxic for the fucking crematorium. They'll literally have to bury me at sea, my corpse will be so riddled with tinkertech toxins. You weren't awake when it happened, but Panacea couldn't heal me. I'm a mess. You? You've got a life ahead of you… sort of. So what if you feel like a failure? Feeling it is pointless - you either are a failure or you aren't, and you are. So am I. You just need to stop caring about it quite as much. Seriously. Talk to your mom. If there's one thing I've found, it's that mothers generally mellow out once they start staring death in the face. Start being awfully sensitive about the legacy they leave behind in a way you just ain't when you can always churn out a replacement. But bluntly, Etsuko, you are now non-fungible. Makes you a valuable asset."
Sanagi blinked slowly.
"...is everything about either money, violence, death, or nausea with you?"
"At the moment? Yeah. Had the rest of my personality shot off in the war."
"Which one?"
"It was big and shooty, what more do you need to know? I lost my personality, my good looks, and… uh, a nipple. Plus, got a nasty hole in my leg. Oh, and my liver, but that got replaced."
Another very slow blink.
"Go see your mom, Sanagi. And remember - it can always get worse. Never treat anything as rock bottom, you won't know rock bottom until you're on your deathbed and looking back. As it is, this could just be a… plateau before your descent into the abyssopelagic zone. Like a lip over the Mariana Trench."
Sanagi turned away in absolute silence. She could sense Ahab making a face and pinching her rotten nose between rotten fingers. She was trying her best, Sanagi understood that, but… she didn't want to feel better. Too soon for that. Ahab had only learned the emotional resilience of combat situations, where you had precisely two seconds to mourn before the next vicious guerrilla attack or artillery bombardment. Sanagi, like Ahab said, had a life ahead of her. Plenty of time to mourn and… maybe get over it. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way… possibly, there was a point in going to see her mom. Might have to consider it.
Might.
The file loaded, and she hit play.
Nothing happened.
Ahab reached over and typed in a series of obscenely complex commands with a shit-eating smile on her face.
The file played, and Sanagi felt herself dying inside a little.
The audio was awful, the words were indistinct, and it kept trailing off into blurs of static. But she could still pick out a few necessary details. She heard whimpering, she heard laboured breathing… something snapping. A voice, muffled, yelling something indistinguishable. And then… climbing, a jump, someone running away from the phone, something rushing to capture the person. Sanagi's heart climbed into her throat like… like that tongue-eating louse she'd read about once. Climbing up and up, biting all the way, ready to steal her voice and sap her energy. A parasite lingering in the most visible possible place. Her very own cymothoa exigua. She heard choking… and a voice. Quiet. Careful.
"Don't worry. I'm told that towards the end, people feel that they can breathe the smoke. It's a comfort, to some."
She had a voice. She had a voice. It was… smug, smooth, calm. It dripped with an inward self-confidence that could speak only to the most profound levels of delusive zealotry. The kind which not only placed confidence in the self, but in the world. This man had, she guessed, an absolute faith in a certain vision of the world, so absolute that nothing could ever shake it. There were no doubts in that voice, there was no possible doubt. He'd not flinched before killing a child. The smile was audible.
"Don't worry. No point, not anymore. The smoke has you. Already dead, your body is just catching up."
Her fists clenched. And light bloomed slightly behind her glass eyes. Ahab rested a hand on her shoulder, and the contact brought her down to earth a little. There was some crackling… odd. This recording had a great deal of interference, but the phone had been intact, the speakers had been functional. And the crackling seemed strangely… old-fashioned for something relatively modern. Odd. Very odd.
"My family says the afterlife is like this. Lonely. Not sure if that makes us narcissists or not. Never quite made up my mind. They used to call me Vision of Heaven, which… did feel a little egotistical. I prefer Kabiri. More refined."
Two names. One was enough. Two was excellent.
"I'll tell you my real name, though. Just so we're on… equal footing. Always found this game of silly names to be faintly ridiculous. And for surviving longer than people many times your age… well, you've earned this.
Both of them leant forward. A tiny star wriggled around one of her glass eyes like a miniscule mote of dust, dripping to the table and scorching a tiny hole, no wider than a cigarette burn. Ordinarily she'd be humiliated at such a loss of control. Now? She couldn't give less of a shit.
"It's Xavier. Xavier Crowley. Nice to meet you."
The recording ended.
One name - good. Two names - excellent. Three names - the man was dead already. Ahab was already sliding around Sanagi to get access to the computer, booting up what passed for a browser on this ancient operating system. The fans at the back whirred into angry life, clearing away years of dust… trying to, at least. Not succeding much. But the effort was appreciated, even if it left the room clouded with a grey haze. Sanagi stared dead ahead at the screen, at the play of letters. Kabiri… she knew that name. Had gone over it with Taylor, or had the names relayed to her by Turk. The man had been keeping all of them updated on the important details of the Teeth - it took barely any time to share this information, and any scrap was beyond appreciated. The members of the Teeth's inner circle - Animos. Kabiri. Nibelung. Rocinante. Matrimonial. Hadal. The Butcher. Of them, Animos and Nibelung were dead. Rocinante was a mercenary on Taylor's side. Kabiri… no idea what his power had been, but now she had an idea. Something to do with black smoke, according to the news reports. Nothing more specific. And now she had two other names. Ahab was looking them up rapidly… Vision of Heaven produced nothing. Shit. Xavier Crowley… nothing. Widening it to Crowley, they did find something. And it was… definitely odd.
A long-dead occultist and his many followers, a few nondescript individuals who'd appeared in various stories… narrowing it down to criminal stories, they found a weird spate of attacks around New Orleans and Louisiana. Arrests of individuals with the last name 'Crowley'. Nothing more… hm. The PRT's official website, which loaded up with stuttering chunks of light appearing like squares on a chess board, had something on the Crowleys. Crowley clan, known to be affiliated with the Fallen.
Ahab hissed.
"Fuck me."
Sanagi was just glad someone had said it first. Fallen, Christ. They were… shit. She had the rundown on parahuman groups. Elite were, by and large, civilised - except if you were unlucky. Sometimes you had jokers and gangsters, the gangs that were just ordinary gangs with a little more parahuman firepower. ABB fell into that category. E88 were a mix between the two, more rigid than a normal gang, better-organised… but at the bottom, just standard scum. Then you had the nihilists, the insane groups whose longevity proved, more than anything, why you should fear them. The Teeth. The Slaughterhouse Nine. And the Fallen.
In a field where people died young, she knew it was worth being wary of the nihilistic barbarians that achieved a few grey hairs.
Along with the Mathers and the McVeays, they were the leadership of a branch which worshipped Leviathan. Not many more details - that was enough to justify their position at the bottom fo everyone's shit lists. Compared to the others, they weren't too… notable. Sanagi scanned everything in front of her, and already a pattern was revealing itself. Familiar to her police instincts - kind of thing she saw all the time from the rich kids, the ones who had nice pricey lawyers and nice devoted mummies and daddies. Each Fallen branch had an MO. Mathers were an outright cult. McVeays were something like a motorcycle gang, had clashed explosively with the Khans (a name that still made her flinch to remember. Hard to get the impression of those boots out of her ribs). But the Crowleys… every news story, every single one, was about some youngster causing shit. The parahuman reports? Youngsters causing shit. Petty acts of violence. One parahuman, Angle Angler (space-distorter), had caused a slaughter at a night club outside New Orleans… never appeared again.
She knew the sort. Sometimes you had the idiots who sped, got their tickets paid off, and were speeding again a month later. Or they'd be fighting, or they'd be caught with a tiny bag of cocaine that they swore wasn't theirs. But she remembered finding one fucked-up case. A rich kid, implicated in the death of a prostitute. He was whisked away, lawyers negotiated a tidy bail, and then… gone. Vanished. The harmlessly irritating were tolerated. But those who became liabilities were sent far, far away, never to return. Always how it was - big boys at the top who had something to lose, shitheads at the bottom with no sense of responsibility. The troublemakers in these news stories about the Crowleys appeared over and over, but there were still too few. Experienced parahumans were few and far between. If something serious happened, the perpetrator… vanished. Good at controlling their own, then. If she was going to guess, she'd say there were older types. Older parahumans, older members, all of them experienced with how to fly under the radar, how to survive while others burned out.
And one of them had joined the Teeth. The Fallen were bad. The Teeth were bad. A Fallen member defecting to the Teeth was… fuck.
Even Ahab looked a little taken aback. But the evidence was… high. Crowley. New Orleans accent. 'Vision of Heaven', and some kind of unconventional religious upbringing. A tiny knock came from the door to the booth, and both whirled around to see who it was, hands reaching for weapons they'd stashed very, very securely. Sarkis was waiting there, ledger under one arm, mouth quirking upwards into a small smile. His eyes gleamed flatly, like the surface of a snake's eye. The kind which, she imagined, would glow in the dark. Sanagi politely opened the door for him, and the three wedged into the slightly too tight space. Sanagi, in a moment of recklessness, stood up and found herself pressed against Sarkis. OK. It was petty. But… fuck, being near him was like standing near a walking papercut, she felt like she was about to get her chest bisected just by standing close. OK, intimacy regretted, Christ. Sarkis didn't seem to care… if anything, he seemed eager. There was something in his eyes, something… excited.
"I take it you've listened?"
Ahab chewed some more tobacco, and grinned, flashing her wasp-coloured teeth.
"Yeah. Interesting stuff."
"It is. Indeed. But I find it rather… lacking compared to the full scope of things."
He smiled.
"Ladies, would you, perhaps, be interested in… further employment? Naturally, I'll be happy to give you access to whatever you might need. Information. Resources, even."
Sanagi's fake eyes narrowed.
"In exchange for what, exactly?"
"Well. This ledger has proved useful - if you can, I'd like you to scope out a few more targets for me. The PRT has a great deal of information on Kabiri, including his powers, advisable tactics… help me, and I assure you, I'll be more than willing to help you. I might even be able to find his location."
Sanagi pressed closer, trying to intimidate through superior body mass.
"Why are you so interested in S.E.T.?"
Sarkis shrugged.
"Why wouldn't I be? My interests are with the PRT. And isn't it a little remarkable that there's a series of federal organisations which exist, seemingly, as nothing more than entries on a series of databases? And that this agency is involved heavily with the PRT's operations? And that the PRT, somehow, has no files on the true nature of this group? My agent, Eccles, was rather up-front - believe it or not, my concern is the truth. Perhaps this is simply evidence of some great act of bureaucratic malpractice. Perhaps something more serious. Either way… I don't want to take any chances. The two of you have the luxury of being outside of the system. Now, you want more information on Kabiri, I'll be here for you to-"
"I accept."
Ahab glanced up at Sanagi, and blinked lazily.
"Oh. Me too. Totally on board. Nice to be working with you, boss-man."
"And likewise…"
He paused, and a strange look flashed over his eyes.
"Miss Ahab."
"...holy shit, your intel's good."
"I'm aware. Now - I'll send you the relevant addresses. You'll find these mildly more difficult… it appears someone wised up to the last break-in. We'll need to interface more directly on this matter - I have some insight into patrols at present, I'm sure I can predict, or even create an appropriate opening for you."
Pleasantries were exchanged. Details were passed around like hot cakes. Sarkis made his goodbyes. And the two women were shortly outside in the parking lot for the vast country club… and the moment the clubhouse passed out of sight and they were surrounded on all sides by towering evergreens, the two leapt in the air and hooted in victory. Well, Ahab did. And Sanagi reciprocated, after being sufficiently encouraged by repeated slaps to the abdomen.
"Come on Sanagi, come on, we fucking did it! Tiny job, and now we have a nice little target - oh, I'm getting my good shit for this, my best shit."
Sanagi managed a small smile.
"...it's good, yes. But we should be-"
"Sanagi, my dearest darling, think like me for a moment - we have a target, we have high prospects of success, we have a field of battle were are thoroughly acquainted with… at this stage, you either relax or you stay wound up like overtuned guitar wire. Come on. Let your hair down a bit."
"This is as let down as it goes."
"...shit, shame. You'd look good with longer hair. Try a braid."
Sanagi patted her hair, imagining it a different style… hm. Hm. Might be an idea. Alright, she was… OK, the punishment could wait a little. Just a little. She could punish herself later. For now, she was actually succeeding. Had a target. Had a plan. Sarkis was about as trustworthy as a spaceship made of bubblewrap, but information was information. And she had an ace up her sleeve - her powers. He knew nothing about her powers. And that, that gave her a remarkable advantage. She walked off towards her car with Ahab, and a genuine smile crossed her face.
Things were looking up.
* * *
Calvert was reading the ledger over and over again. His eyes ached. His head throbbed. His throat was parched. His mind wouldn't stop fixating on random details, and he'd find himself hovering in place on a single page for minutes at a time before blinking and moving on. He'd tried to work with two timelines at once, but… the experience was like trying to hack two different systems simultaneously while a man kept clashing cymbals behind his head. Inefficient. The ledger was a maddening soup of letters, it had no rhyme, no reason, no organisation. There wasn't even a title, or a table of contents, or an index, it just… started on page one, and ended on page nine-hundred and eighty seven. Each page was Bible-thin, cigarette-paper thin, reminding him far too much of student years poring over the Norton Anthology… urgh. The endless letters, the lack of organisation, the randomness, the madness…
The worst thing was… it was starting to make sense.
He couldn't say when it happened. The symbols were clicking. The randomness was forming a series of coherent patterns. It was like seeing… like a sequence operating by a principle which he hadn't quite understood, but now the truth was starting to become just a little clearer. He'd look at a string of letters, and see nothing. Then he'd look closer, and briefly imagine some kind of linking point - if he translated those into morse code (sharp points equalling a dot, lengthy swoops and gaps indicating a line), then he could get a sequence which very, very slightly resembled the Fibonacci sequence. But if he poked a little deeper into the anomalies in that sequence, he found that there was an inverted Fibonacci sequence operating within the first, one which stretched across a huge number of pages. Two, running in parallel within the same string of numbers. Then he lost his place in the pattern, and had to start somewhere else. And he realised that if he traced between all the Cs on page 173, he could spell something - a complex pictogram, which, when consulted, was in fact… a picture! Yes, a very precisely made picture, one that he could very fully understand. It was… hm. A pair of curving lines, one mirroring the other, with a final line bisecting the two - ending with a strange crook. He stared at them.
A moment later, it clicked.
A logogram. A pair of horns… and a crook. Hm. He wondered…
No.
His name. Thomas Calvert. Calvert, coming from the Middle English 'calfhirde', a name of Anglo-Saxon origin. Meaning - calf herdsman. Calf, cow, horns, herdsman, shepherd, crook… no, no, that was stupid. He was just being weird. He checked over his notes, quickly. Plans. And oh boy, did he have plans. His apartment was shadowed at the moment, he hadn't bothered turning on any lights as the day wore on, only twitching to switch on his desk lamp - a green-shaded one he'd plundered from an antique store years back, never mustered the will to dispose of. Petty sentimentality. Silly now, but… but he could see a tiny alignment of concentrated letters, and if he aligned all the Gs in that sequence, he almost saw a constellation resembling a… no. No. Silly. This ledger surely had a cipher, but he couldn't just search for it like a mad schizophrenic seeking meaning in the chaos. No, he had to be logical. So. Anyway. The plans. A little test in the country club had yielded a secret. He'd pulled a gun on that irritating little cop, shot her in the gut. The bitch had stood near him, and he wanted to split timelines around them anyhow. And what could've happened, but her skin peeled off, stars bloomed in her hollow skull… and the timeline collapsed.
A cape. Ahab wasn't one. Only Sanagi. A few more timelines had served as rudimentary power-testing. Blaster/Changer, fairly potent. No brute rating, though, not unless he counted those pincers. Either way… he had a plan. He stared at it, and split a timeline. The other him went back to the ledger, poring over the symbols. He couldn't say why, but… looking away had made him feel odd. Drained, even. He performed rudimentary self-checks, quickly measured blood pressure, pupil dilation, all the standard symptoms. Nothing to suggest Master influence, and he wasn't going to check in for a full test… but the ledger was calming him, now that he read it properly. And as he stared at the plan with one set of eyes and at the endless pages with another, he could feel something pricking the back of his mind. A dull sense that he was being an idiot. The plan was terrible - laughably simplistic! It used far too few components, and used them to the least of their abilities. No, no, no. He had to be complex. He had so many elements to work with, so many enemies to dispose of. Already he could feel an idea coming together, and he began to scribble.
Yes, yes, yes… oh, he was getting somewhere! By incorporating more elements into it, by making the plan as all-encompassing as possible, he found that more meaning was being extracted from it. At the beginning, he was just scribbling down ideas. By the end, he was making art. He was… he was a conductor of schemes, he was a composer of conspiracy! He was a delicate craftsman, putting the right pieces into place with a total sense of where they ought to go for maximum effect. The more components he integrated, the better the plan was - and his capacity to predict was superb. By integrating everything into a plan, he could predict better, and everything could be accounted for. No tangential plans, no side-plans, everything worked towards the whole. Totalitarian, in a way - in the sense that everything flowed through the central plan. The ledger was like a mantra, calming him, focusing him, granting him insight he couldn't possibly imagine otherwise. Master influence? What master influence? No, no, no, he was having a wonderful time…
OK. So. The pieces on the board. The PRT. SET. Sanagi & Ahab. The Mercenaries. The Teeth. Kabiri (evidently turned traitor). He casually cast aside a few pieces - E88, ABB, both of them suffering terminal decline at this stage. A slow death, one where they were simply no longer relevant to the grander game. He could see them eradicated in a matter of years, if nothing interrupted him. Especially if he so happened to leak the Empire's identities… anyway. No, his eyes were set on higher prizes, and more dangerous prey. No, for this matter he had a few targets which needed neutralisation, and he could easily see his way to it. His first plan had involved a few crude manipulations, nothing of any significance… but his current plans were going somewhere new. A way that he could play traitors against each other, eradicate multiple foes at once, and place the PRT in a position where it could fully establish itself as his organisation. Furthermore, he could expose SET quite dramatically, yes he could - redirect a few patrols, exert executive authority in a few cases, squirrel away a few things for his own use… yes, yes, he could see a route to greatness here. SET had gotten careless with this Angrboda business. And… Xavier Crowley, alias Kabiri. Clarissa Crowley, the girl who'd seemingly died in Angrboda's place. Didn't take a genius.
His networks of intelligence began to gather data… and soon he had a certain number at his disposal.
Three calls were made.
Only three. His satisfaction increased with each one.
The first was to the mercenaries at his disposal - Colter, Uheer, and Rocinante.
The second was to Sanagi and Ahab, a quiet little adjustment to their orders.
And the third… well.
The third was to a certain man who had a certain sister. A certain man who produced the most odious fog, and had just engaged in some overzealous educational reform. Calvert wasn't totally aware of Kabiri's motivations here, nor did he particularly care. He had the tools he needed, he had a scapegoat, he had a wonderful pile of information. He had enough knowledge to manipulate him. Once you knew what a man wanted, you could make him do… just about anything. One of the infinite delights of his work was manipulating people like this, he found. It reduced them to the level of animals. An animal saw food and ate it, saw water and drank it, saw an appealing pair of familiar buttocks and went to town. Animals were little meat machines that operated on the most basic programming language necessary. Humans… well, most humans were much the same. Present a man with an appealing pair of buttocks (configuration, size, shape, and attachments to those buttocks could be tailored, of course), and he'd be enslaved. Present an addict with drugs, and Calvert became his god. Present a gambler with money, and he had a ready-to-go suicide bomber if he played his cards right (heh). And present Kabiri, who seemed achingly surprised at the call, with a certain location, and… well. Piece. Of. Piss. And most satisfactory of all had been the alteration he made to that voicemail… a pair of words, purged out in a flicker of simulated static. A messy job with the time he'd been given and nothing but home software, but he could still cover up those two words.
He began to search in one timeline as the other sank deeper and deeper into the ledger, starting to see how by cross-referencing the pages with opposite numbers (12, 21, 49, 94, 117, 711…) he could find the constellations of the Zodiac… and if he aligned all these pages together, he found that it resembled precisely the night sky on the date of his birth. For some reason, he laughed at loud at the realisation. How… enjoyable! His mind was buzzing. The headache was gone. He felt whole. He felt… oh, he felt happy as he began to hunt. He even murmured under his breath, he was so utterly content.
"Mr. Arch Levingston… now, who oh who could you be…"
213 - Funk Cruise for Ineligible Bachelorettes
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
213 - Funk Cruise for Ineligible Bachelorettes
Night came, and Taylor dreamt once more. A dream which began as many do - with painful mundanity. She was rocking in the boat, trying to sleep… hovering in the inbetween state where everything was real and nothing was, where her body was painfully realised but the world was a hazy mass of blurred shapes. She looked around uncomfortably, incapable of focusing… and a cold trickle of unease ran down her spine. She couldn't hear Chorei. And she couldn't see Patience. The boat was completely, and utterly, empty. Water, water, water… and a tiny metal island, with her stranded. She wasn't more alert, but her body twitched to life, shambling around without any sense of the world. Just… existing, painfully. A dead body which kept moving despite nature's best efforts. She looked around, tried to get her bearings… her vision was hazy, but the ocean was clear as glass. She could see further than she'd ever managed in the waking world… so far that she could see nothing at all. Simply the curvature of the earth. No land. No islands. Nothing. Not even another boat. She was alone. Alone and increasingly afraid… with difficulty, she crossed her legs and tried to meditate like Chorei had shown her, tried to get her mind back under control. Not much luck. She found no peace. Her mind buzzed. Her swarm was gone. Even Chorei was absent. All she could do was last out the nightmare.
A dull thump came from below the sea.
The boat rocked slightly.
Taylor shuddered. Stay still. Ignore it. Just a dream. Dreams were harmless if she refused to pay attention.
Thump.
Her eyes were closed. Maybe if she deluded herself enough, she'd actually fall asleep, pass from some invisible phase of sleep into another, one where dreams ceased.
Thump.
No, no, ignoring it, ignoring-
Thump. Thump.
Louder. More insistent. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around. Something dark was spilling from under the boat, like a cloud of ink. She stared down at it, refusing to investigate. The darkness spread. And she felt… something. The water splashed. Something had broken the surface. Behind her. The splashing continued, and the boat rocked quietly. It was… still breaking the surface. She refused to look. Refused to acknowledge her own hallucinations. Product of starvation and dehydration. Nothing more. Not like she could fight it, just… just accept that this was going to be awful, and look away. The presence continued to grow. She felt something huge. Dark. Oily. Achingly cold. She felt eyes on her… and her resolve began to shiver a little. Just a dream, right? Why not look around, see what was behind her. The boat had stopped thumping. Something had been underneath. Something had moved. Something had risen. If she… no, don't look, no point, no point at all. Remember the Five-Horned Bull? Look away at all costs, never look over her own shoulder, not if she had any brains. And she did. Brains, that is. Had plenty. Mostly. Probably? Yeah. Brains. Come on, just… just stare ahead, keep her eyes fixed on the prize. What prize? What was she avoiding? Sleeping?
Her eyes began to slide a little, before she forced them back to the bottom of the boat. A pool of brackish water, some rusting metal… she felt a gentle hand in her hair, rustling through the strands. She shuddered, and paled. No, no, no, no, no… not her. Not her. A pair of lips brushed by her ear, and her hands clenched. Another hand slowly, slowly traced up her side, exploring her inch by agonising inch. Her breath caught. Wasn't looking. Just a nightmare. Ignore it. Ignore her. At all fucking costs. But she wanted to turn, she wanted to look on her… it was just a dream, maybe she could indulge? Maybe she could lean back into her lap and let the world wash away, smile happily as she finally understood what normal people called love, a peace which might wait for her at the end of all of this. An end to her road… romance was a wonderful ending, it resolved everything, it gave her a lifelong partner, and… not real, it wasn't fucking real. It was a lie, a cocktail of chemicals in her brain which had been forced there, no matter what the warmth in her stomach wanted her to believe. Confusion kept flicking through her. No, no, no… never look at her again, not if she…
A word. One that the girl had never spoken… but that Taylor could nonetheless hear.
Darling?
She suppressed an uncharacteristic whimper, forced it into the back of her throat where only she could sense it. A rumble, a concession to her own weakness.
The presence moved.
Her head flicked around before she could think, combat instincts coming to the fore.
Something vast. Not Matrimonial. Not Matrimonial at all.
Dark.
A silhouette that blocked out the sun.
Eyes glaring down at her in something resembling amusement.
A wound in the world.
She saw the wound. She saw the gap. The ragged tear left by two rows of impossible teeth. Her eye widened… one eye again. Reality closing in like the jaws of a bear trap. In the shadows, she… she saw…
HOW MANY DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD?
She didn't lunge upwards. People didn't do that. She just opened her eyes, realised that her breath was coming with unnatural heaviness… and sighed. The boat rocked from side to side like a cradle, but Taylor didn't feel remotely comforted by the regular motions. The sea was a little choppier today, and the mood had definitely shifted. The Butcher was sprawled on the other side, staring upwards into the clear sky, her eyes tracking the faintest wisps of cloud on the horizon. Storm might be coming. If it did, this boat would, undoubtedly, capsize. Not meant for long-haul trips, not remotely - probably just good for quick jaunts away from the shore, certainly never going far enough that the shore vanished into a vague haze. Time limit, unsure of how strict. How flexible. Her stomach begged for food… and she'd begun experimenting with drawing up lobsters and crabs to the surface, anything that they could try and eat. But the floor was a good distance below them, and these creatures were eerily fragile. They'd swim upwards, make some distance, and then grow exhausted and fall down once more. Or a fish would eat them. That was… a common occurrence. It was weird to feel her swarm confined to the dozens, not the thousands - it was weirder to feel a greater swarm around her at all times, one far beyond her own control. One by one, the lights would fade as fish seized upon her lobsters, cracking the shells open and feasting in the interior. Invisible in the dark of the ocean floor. Jaws. A flash of eyes. A glimmer of scales. And then nothing at all.
Her throat was, undoubtedly, the worst. Dry. parched. The sun beat down relentlessly, and her skin was almost entirely red at this point - no shade could protect her. It'd been… shit, how long? Right, there'd been a… fine, maybe two, three days? Verging on four? She slept when tired, woke up when she wasn't. Panic had given way to a slow decay. She needed water. Desperately. Hard to exist like this. And the Butcher just occasionally dipped a glass into the ocean and drank greedily from it, smacking her lips like she'd had something truly delectable. Slowly, languidly, she reached into the hidden compartment once more, forming a key from the metal of the boat - a little more and they'd spring a leak. The key was thrown overboard, and she withdrew a… was that a fucking radio? Taylor stared at it. Chorei was uncharacteristically silent, but not out of fear - there was an undercurrent of scheming anticipation. Soon. Soon. The radio was… no, it was a disk player, her sight was just acting up. Reminded her of when she needed glasses… fuck, if she'd still needed glasses, maybe she could've had those fancy ones which doubled as sunglasses. Probably wouldn't, but… anyway. Not worth being angry at the Tube o' Panacea. Felt wrong to be mad at the ominous tube.
Slowly, the Butcher pressed play… and guitar echoed out, with a dreamlike voice chanting over it all.
Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time
For y'all have knocked her up
I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe
I was not offended.
I knew I had to rise above it all… or drown in my own shit.
Chorei made a noise of elderly curmudgeonliness. She'd earned it, Taylor supposed. The Butcher reclined further back as someone started to shred on a guitar. No lyrics. Just a guitar mournfully wailing away into the silent abyss of the ocean surface. Not a cloud to be seen. Water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. And the ocean seemed to rot around her… she could feel the slow descent of dead matter to the bottom, her lobsters, crabs, shellfish, they all thrived on these leftovers, and their perception was specialised for it, their primitive minds roared at her when they sensed the rain. The ocean was a barren place, and hunger was an impulse more keenly felt than on land. A mournful guitar, a clear sky, a rotting ocean… maggots in the mind of the universe. Sure. Why not. She coughed quietly, and the Butcher lazily directed a single eye towards her… OK, that was weird. The Butcher was apparently capable of moving her eyes independently. Eerie. Faintly ridiculous. Eerie all the same.
"...what's this?"
"Funkadelic. Maggot Brain."
Taylor froze. Maggot… what the… what? Even Chorei was broken from her silence.
What did she say? Did she say… did he get his name from a song?
"I've got Tarkus, Thick as a Brick, couple of King Crimson records, a little Yes… I picked stuff that goes on for a while, y'know? Figured we'd be out here for a while, so… y'know."
Taylor blinked.
"Did you plan this?"
"Nope."
"Do you just have this stuff in a bug-out bag, or-"
"Yep."
"Including the mu-"
"Especially the music. Trust me, prog rock does wonders for the voices. They hate the stuff, but it goes on for a while and I can get lost in it. Especially when I turn the music up very, very, very, very fucking loud."
She reclined, and languished in the damp coils of Maggot Brain. Patience mumbled as she bathed in the salt-filled air, sipping from a glass of seawater like it was a pina colada.
"You know, the guy on the guitar… they told him to play like he'd just found his mother dead."
"...uh-huh."
"Like… that's just bitchin'. Like, imagine just being like, 'woah, my mom's dead' - and like most people, I'd go 'oh shit, oh no, oh boo hoo'. But this guy… this fuckin' legend, he'd see her lying there and would just shred. Like, imagine it. Opens the door. Sees a trail of blood. Follows it. His eyes widen. And then he shreds."
A drowsy giggle spilled from her crystal-encrusted mouth.
"...like, woah. How badass do you need to be to do that? We should try that. At some point, someone should die, and I should just shred. Like, my inner turmoil is great, I'm sure my shredding would be good. This guy was thinking about some personal bereavement, buddy-boy, I've got a brain-o-strange. I got funk. He's got soul? I've got fifteen, baby doll."
Her smile faded.
"...now, if only I could play the guitar. Hm."
Chorei grumbled.
Really. This is just absurd. We need to get home, not… indulge her strange taste in music. Maggot Brain, goodness me… in my day we sang good songs. Polite songs. There was none of this… this 'shredding'.
No, no, this had some value. Taylor twitched her fingers slightly. Hard to scheme when Taylor couldn't speak out loud, but… they'd made do. Certain twitches to indicate agreement, rejection, doubt, requests for elaboration. Slowly but surely, they'd put together something resembling a plan. So, the priorities were as follows: get back to shore. Keep her mind intact. And maybe, maybe, get revenge on Matrimonial… and to accomplish all of this, she needed the Butcher to like her, trust her, even. She was part of the way there. Now she just had to not screw it up.
Easy enough.
"...it's pretty good. I like it."
"Chorei too?"
Not at all.
"...her opinion is a little more mixed."
The Butcher blinked slowly, like a huge cat… and promptly grabbed the disc player and flung it into the ocean. A final whisper of 'maggot brain…' carried over the ocean air before it went down. Patience quietly saluted it as it sank below the waves, before slumping back under her umbrella. Taylor was frozen.
"You didn't need to do that."
"Chorei hated it. She loathed it. And now I'm just… I can't enjoy it anymore. It's like I can hear your voice. Your buzzy, buzzy voice. Saddens me."
I didn't hate it. It just wasn't my… thing.
"She didn't hate it. Just… unfamiliar."
"...is she ancient?"
"Feudal Japanese."
"Does she like… like chanting and stuff? Like, uh-"
Patience stood, wobbling a little, and stared into the distance. And then she just howled sonorously, a wailing 'O' that coursed over the waves and rebounded off the horizon, a cry fit to wake the dead, a cry that was eerily close to echolocation. The kind of thing the Romans heard before they were strung up at the Teutoburg forest. A warbling wail which sounded like… honestly, it barely sounded like a noise a human could make, but somehow it felt insulting towards someone. Chorei made a low growling sound that could, perhaps, be called a growl. Yes. Definitely a growl. The kind that bears made… which abruptly cut off, replaced with a sense of vicious cunning.
Tell her that she just said twenty different slurs.
"You just said twenty different slurs in Japanese."
Patience gazed out over the ocean… and hummed.
"Cool."
And tell her that I am not some… antiquated so-and-so. This establishes a rapport, you see. Should ingratiate us further. Tell her that I had some business in Osaka after the war, and, in point of fact, I dabbled for a time in… hm, disco. Yes. Disco.
Taylor blinked. News to her. She had a brief image of a very awkward-looking Chorei dressed like she was ready to hit the dance floor. The glowing dance floor. With a mirrorball hanging above. Alright, her mood had improved a little. She relayed the message, and Patience fell to pieces, laughing maniacally, slapping the side of the boat, generally making an absolute state of herself. Taylor noted that Chorei was feeling nothing more than smug satisfaction. If she was going to guess… ah. Good. Chorei knew how she came across, and in a rare moment of self-awareness, had willingly mocked herself to establish a better rapport. Oh, she was good. Not sure if Taylor was learning from Chorei, or if Chorei was learning from Taylor. Pair of little sociopaths. But the moment had come. She had her chance - time to take it. The Butcher was lying sprawled once more, feet hanging over one side of the boat, head from the other. She was drumming her long, elegant fingers on her stomach in an erratic pattern, and her expression was starting to shift.
"Patience?"
"Hm?"
Another one of her mood swings. From ecstatic preacher, to apologetic victim, to… this apathetic mess, sprawled in the boat like a dying pale spider. Even her formerly elegant bathing suit was stretched and on the verge of ruination. Definitely in need of a wash, that was for sure.
"I was just… thinking."
"Steady on. Thinking can be quite dangerous. Me, I try not to think. I just let the voices flow through me. Very calming. Very Buddhist."
Oh you absolute bi-
"Uh-huh. I was just… wondering. You said you wanted to show me how to hurt Matrimonial, right?"
Patience swivelled one of her eyes out to the sea while the other swivelled up to the sky. A noncommittal grunt escaped her lips, and the movement cracked some of the salt crystals which had formed on her skin.
"...possible. Maybe."
"So… would you mind? Helping me, I mean?"
Patience shifted uneasily, and it seemed like… she was struggling internally. Ah. Yes. Regretting bringing her out here, regretting dragging her into her own weird attempt to escape her fate. Well, if the voices in her head were going to demand this… that meant that she was working almost fifteen (fourteen voices and Taylor) to one. Sixteen if Taylor counted Chorei, which she somewhat did. Patience probably did, admittedly. And… and honestly, Taylor needed this. She needed a weapon. Needed a way out of her own dreams. After a moment of internal strife, she sat up with sudden speed, the air cracking with the sudden movement, a sound that echoed across the ocean like the blast from a cannon.
"You wish to learn, then? You wish to study under my tutelage? You wish to know the wolfish ways of wolfishness?"
"Yep."
Best to keep it simple.
"...well, alright then. If you're going to insist. So…"
She clapped her hands sharply, stood, and froze. Seemed unsure.
"...Matrimonial?"
"Oh. Right. Yes. Matrimonial. That one. Of course. Can help there, most likely. Probably. Hopefully? I mean, the trick is actually fairly simple on that front."
"Oh?"
"Love and hate are two-"
Taylor interrupted. She knew this lesson.
"-sides of the same coin, yeah, I know. Both are possessive, both, in a way, desire the partner to keep going, both can flavour other emotions, and-"
Patience howled, and lunged. Her hands gripped Taylor by the edges of her breastplate and hauled her up into the air. Her teeth were bared, her eyes were burning, her entire body quivered with barely suppressed rage. Something had changed in her eyes, something else was boiling outwards. The proximity made Taylor violently uncomfortable, and she had to resist the urge to shriek. Fingers in her hair. A mouth at her neck. A feeling so passionate she knew she'd never feel its like again. Patience ground her teeth against one another with an ear-aching whine, and managed to get out a few words between her spasms of anger.
"Don't fucking put it that way. You sound like… they're saying you sound like one of those cunts from the desert. You know one of them found us? Once? A man who thought he could change the way we thought - all covered in shiny scars. Like yours. Huh. Guess that's where you got them. Wild. But trust me, you don't want to be like him. Love, hate… they're both consuming. Both of them demand destruction. If you love something, you love it as a static thing. You want it to be destroyed - a philosopher said you couldn't step into the same river twice, eh? And if that's the case, then something you love is destroyed a moment later by the passage of time - and if you truly love it, you won't allow some sham to wear it forever. You'll end it with burning hatred in your heart. Love isn't just the inverse of hate, sharing signs but ultimately different. Love and hate are the same thing - not just two aspects. If you love something, fully and unreservedly, you hate it completely."
Her snarl turned into a grin, and she recited something in a high, dramatic voice, affecting an awful British accent:
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain!
Finished, she dropped Taylor to the deck of the boat with a crash, and the disturbance allowed the choppy waves to enter, washing into the interior and forming a stinking pool at the bottom. Stagnant, steaming, brackish and warm. Taylor tried to catch her breath… she knew that poem. Vaguely. Browning, right? Robert, not Elizabeth. Her mom hadn't liked him overly, but she'd still insisted on reading a few. She said that you needed to understand literature in its many periods - never study just the reaction, study what it was reacting to. Back and back until she understood the canon. Porphyria's Lover, that was it. A poem about a man killing his lover to preserve her, perfectly, forever. Always loving her, even when he crushed her windpipe with a string made from her own hair - always his love endured. The Butcher began to stride around, warming to her theme.
"The Wolf is not some sort of… lovesick animal that would keep its lover going for all time. I know who you've been listening to - you've been listening to one of those freaks. They don't progress, they don't change. If you left them alone for a thousand years and came back, they would've have remotely evolved. The Wolf, though… leave it alone for a thousand years, it would devour the laws of physics. A man came to us while we were in New Mexico, wanted to have a chat. Indoctrinate us. He thought we could form the basis for a Dyad, some kind of fucked-up relationship where we fight and fight and no-one ever wins. It's pointless. That's not love, that's… that's just violent masturbation. The Wolf knows how to love. Love is consuming. Love is ending. Love is all the things which burn. I love a meal, it doesn't mean I'm going to preserve it forever. No, I'm going to eat it, slowly, delicately, and then never repeat it again - because nothing will ever equal the first time. I seek new perfumes, ampler blossoms, untried pleasures. The Wolf is love, a free-flowing, non-stagnant love. And likewise, it is hate. Hate consumes. Hate demands endings - true hate does. The kind of hate which suggests a strong personality. A strong personality burns, and it hates all things it burns, and loves them equally. Then it moves on. That man thought we, we, should just… just sit around loving and hating the same person forever and ever."
"What did you do to him?"
"Tore him open and forced him to scar over. The same impenetrable silver scars that you have… no wonder you don't get it, you've been corroded. We did it over and over again, until… well, in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, there's a silver tree with very, very odd branches. We sculpted him, tore him open, forced him to scar over, did it over and over until we had a sculpture. Oh, it gleams in the noonday sun, it draws up the heat, and when the sun goes down the heat all comes out, the flesh compresses, and you can hear him moaning. Little freak, probably happy with what we did to him. Like I said. That way of doing things is just masturbation. It's pointless satisfaction. The Wolf, at least, is committed."
Taylor examined her carefully. She looked a little wobbly - the words had forced themselves out of her throat, and she seemed confused at their vehemence. The voices inside. Not her own. Interesting. So… hm. This was… actually a little funny. The Unceasing Striving and the Wolf-Divided, evidently, loathed one another completely, and both of them regarded the other as a pointless distraction from things that mattered. The Unceasing Striving's followers called it evolution, but the Wolf claimed it was stagnancy. The Wolf called the Unceasing Striving a form of… self-gratification, but those scar cartographers would call the Wolf an exercise in pointless change with no sense of higher purpose.
Wacky.
Now you see? Now you see why I always disliked this way of doing things? It's constant hate, love, love, hate, everyone's always striving and warring and loving and it becomes so utterly exhausting. Grafting Buddha is so much calmer by comparison, so much more… civilised. We had a group of monks who occasionally murdered people or turned them into incubators. These absolute freaks insist on fighting and burning for all time. We had a monastery. The Striving has some desert-dwelling oddballs that wouldn't understand a healthy relationship if it smacked them in the face, and the Wolf has… her. Them. Whatever. Regardless, it's… gah.
Taylor was entirely in agreement. Though she had to admit that scar cartography was a very useful art to know. Even if it allowed for a very… nasty form of topiary, in the Butcher's case. Either way. Patience reached down and plucked up her crystal glasses, presenting one to Taylor. Oh. Right. Well. Had to happen. She took it carefully, and Patience swept down to the ocean to fill her cup. She gestured at Taylor to do the same, and she very, very carefully did it. A glass of silty, salty sea water. Full of particulates and microplastics. Probably some runoff from an oil rig, probably some barely-treated sewage. Chorei groaned as Taylor gave it a careful look, wondering if the cloudy liquid was going to get any better anytime soon. It didn't. It remained cloudy, the silt refused to settle in any meaningful quantity - only highlighting how much remained. The glass didn't help - it was perfect, refused to obscure a single delicate atom. A pale arm snaked in her own, locking her in place - Patience smiled in a kindly manner, and began to talk.
"Drink. Drink, and long for more while you hate the taste. Love and hate simultaneously - not too sides of the same coin, but simply the same coin. The same image. The same emotion. Know this, and trust me - you'll be able to kill Matrimonial. Easily."
Taylor hesitated. One of her priorities was to keep her mind intact. Another was to kill Matrimonial. And a third was to get back to shore at all costs - on shore she had options, she had allies. Out here, nothing but the open water, a handful of unreachable crabs, a hunger that gnawed in her stomach and thirst which chewed at her throat like a tumour. And… she needed to make the Butcher think she was succumbing. She had a confidence in her own mind, in her capacity to remain herself. She'd dabbled in enough forces at this point, right? Presumably? Patience's arm twitched, and Taylor's was forced up. Drink, or let it spill. The salt came closer. Her throat was parched, and only grew drier at the sight of the stuff. She grimaced…
And drank.
Oh, fuck, it was worse than she'd thought. Her stomach immediately tightened, her throat resisted the passage of the water, and she could feel specks of grime sticking to her teeth, feeling like a wave of mucus had just clogged her throat up. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, this was… not painful, but just… awful. Unpleasant in a way that she wasn't remotely familiar with. Patience chugged her water back gladly, and Taylor had to force herself not to retch. Oddly… Matrimonial came to mind. The feeling of hands in her hair, the feeling of burning, consuming love, the feeling of devotion. The salt choked her, and each drop of water made her thirstier and thirstier. Her first sips were hesitant and forced. The second batch was almost faster. The third batch was, definitively, much faster. Almost greedy. And by the time she felt the silt at the bottom caking her lips, she was chugging it backwards as quickly as Patience. She loved the water, she hungered for more at all costs… and she hated it. Each drop made her want more, each drop made her hate it with a more fierce passion. Patience released her arm, and smiled beatifically. Taylor had to resist ducking into the ocean for another glass.
"Do you feel it?"
"I feel… something. Mostly salt."
"You love it. You hate it. The emotion isn't split, it's the same emotion repeated at the same frequency, same amplitude, same wavelength. Your brain is in the same shape at all times, at no point has it changed. Always. Hate and love. Love and hate."
She leant closer, and her breath stank of ocean trash.
"Now, what do you think about Matrimonial?"
Taylor tried. She remembered fingers in her hair. Remembered love. And she felt a genuine warmth in her chest, a blooming joy at the thought of her, at the thought of those hands, those eyes, that soft, gentle smile… her stomach heaved. She dashed to the side, grabbed another glass, and poured it back in greedy gulps. The heaving only worsened, the aching intensified. But she could feel something… a burning in her head. The heat had moved upwards, and now it was fiercer. She could feel those fingers in her hair, that love, but it was stranger now, tougher. She didn't hesitate. Another glass. The strangeness increased. Patience was at her side, plunging her head into the water and drinking like a dog. Taylor abandoned the crystal glass, throwing it back with a hefty clunk as it hit the bottom of the boat. She plunged her head into the soothing water. Her flesh was burning from the sun, her stomach craved food, her skin craved shade… and her throat needed water. And she kept drinking the sea water. The poison water. Laden with dead animals and the refuse of a million kills. She thought she could taste them, too. The shades of predators in the dark. She tasted oil on her tongue. She tasted the pressure which had crushed a billion tiny creatures into dark, choking matter which could be used to fuel the next revolution. She felt smokestacks in her throat. She drank history. She gorged at the midden of an untold slaughter.
She tasted the fires of the early Earth.
A calming force surged through her mind - Chorei. She murmured mantras of the Grafting Buddha, reminded her that two could become greater than one or two, one and one could become eleven with the right impulses. Why hate everything? Why not unify, instead of dividing? Aspire to something greater than status as a wolf. Aspire to a higher calling. Taylor shuddered… and puked up seawater, returning it to the ocean in a haze of silt. Patience cackled to herself, and withdrew her head from the ocean. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her scalp in a smooth black layer. Her swimming costume was increasingly stained with salt, until it looked like she was some piece of flotsam or jetsam, wasting away on a raft for years, discovered by an errant vessel. A piece of garbage discarded from the ocean. Her teeth flashed white in the sun, and she smiled.
"Hard to stomach?"
Taylor felt like shit.
"...a little."
"You'll get used to it. Once the hallucinations start. Then… then we might have something. But good work - you're starting to get it. I could hear you drinking… you were fierce. Pretty fucking impressive. Gulping it down like a mad dog… that's the way. Definitely the way."
Taylor collapsed back against the boat. Her head was pounding. Chorei was trying to soothe things, but… her time limit was clicking down. Soon, her body would be struggling to remove the salt from her body at all costs. In doing so, it would be draining the last remaining reserves of water. She'd cease to be able to sweat, causing uncontrollable heat buildup around her flesh and organs. She'd lose the ability to urinate, thus preventing any more salt from leaving. A toxic substance she could no longer remove. Her skin would become stretchy and unresponsive - she imagined that she'd be able to pinch out an inch of skin, and it would simply… remain. A tag, too drained of vitality to return to its original state. Dizziness. Brain damage. Death. Dehydration was remorseless, and she could feel it marching through her body, a conquering force that she had no means of repelling. The Butcher… maybe this was tied up with the Wolf, maybe she had a sufficient brute rating to repel the negative effects for a little longer. Maybe she was going crazy and just wasn't experiencing physical side-effects - brain dying as her body remained in perfect condition. She stared up at the sky, and the unrelenting sun. Soon, she'd be dead. But her plan had begun. The Butcher slammed down next to her, sprawling messily. The proximity didn't make Taylor feel… quite as sick as before.
It was odd. But thinking of Matrimonial didn't come with so much… instinctual nausea. She didn't feel like puking again at the thought of her smile, that was for sure. The fear was declining, just a little. And in its place… hatred. She imagined driving her fingers deep into those eye sockets and tearing. She imagined breaking every bone, one by one, using the rustiest implements available. Committing a dozen war crimes against her, one after the other, each worse than the last. Those ashen hands under her skin… cut deep, see if there was anything. Cut them out. Find out what the Slaughterhouse had done to her, for science. Then leave her to burn. To scorch. To never, ever recover - recovery was for others. Never for her. The love in her mind was changing. The feeling was altering… and she felt a strange sadness with it. She wondered if this was a bad idea… maybe this would damage her. Emotionally. Maybe this would inhibit her ability to feel romantic love, but… what did it matter? She reviewed her life, and came to a fairly depressing conclusion. Chorei lived in her head, meaning all intimacy had a permanent third wheel. Her life was dangerous, precluding a relationship with someone who couldn't defend himself. She would always be moving, if her dad remained in a coma then she'd always be making sure he was alright. No stable job for her, no quiet work as a cashier in a record store, no peaceful solitudes in a restful town with a name no-one bothered remembering.
In the end, she looked over her life, and found that… romance was probably not on the cards.
So what was there to sacrifice? What, really, was she losing?
Nothing.
And in the end, Matrimonial needed to die. Her hate was boiling up. And to be blunt, it didn't even feel like there'd been much of a shift. She still felt that same longing to be back in her presence, the same longing for the warmth she brought. But that warmth burned. And the longing… it consumed. She didn't want Matrimonial as an eternal rival, she wanted to nail her to the fucking interstate and watch as she traumatised a highway's-worth of people. Her emotion hadn't changed. Her mind hadn't changed. But there was a wolf gnawing at the roots of her mind, a hungry black wolf which loved her and hated her all at once… and in her own way, she was following its example. Peace swept over her. Hateful peace. Hands tangled in her hair, stroking her scalp, soothing her with their presence… she wanted to take those fingers into her mouth and bite them off, chew down to the bone, rip them away like a wild dog. Love was poisoned at the moment, love was something forced on her. Love was an emotion she barely understood, had minimal familiarity with, and her only experience had been as a weakness. As a series of neurochemical impulses induced by a parahuman ability. Nothing to give up. Not really.
So why did she feel so sad about it?
The Butcher hummed happily.
"Do you feel it? Do you feel the change?"
Taylor's fists clenched.
"Yeah."
"You want to hurt her?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I can help. I mean. Eventually. I want to stay here, still… I don't want to go back quite yet. The voices seem content with that, too, so… here we are."
"Here we are."
"I mean, you understand it. Love's for other people. Hate, though… we can hate. And if hate is love, then we're not quite so painfully alone, aren't we?"
Taylor sighed, resisting the urge to imagine Matrimonial in yet more situations of extreme violence and cruelty. She was starting to alarm herself with the intensity. A part of her imagined that she was making a mistake… but no. Matrimonial needed to die. And when the only sacrifice was an emotion she'd only felt around Matrimonial, an emotion forced by Matrimonial… what was the point? Patience remained a little distant, respecting her personal space. They weren't quite packed like sardines. Not quite. She had enough distance that she wasn't compelled to think about intimacy. Chorei seemed to feel rather sad, but she said nothing. The wolf in the back of her mind let out a low growl, and it set upon the feelings of tenderness she had for Matrimonial, the sickly longing to be held and loved unconditionally. A companionship that went beyond friendship. Tainted. The emotion was compromised - the wolf ground it up and left nothing but a furious, consuming hatred which made her blood boil. She didn't want to throw up anymore. Just wanted to hurt something. Hurt it badly.
"Who was she? Matrimonial, I mean. You said she was with the Slaughterhouse, so…"
Patience hummed.
"She doesn't talk. But Jack talked. Sent me a polite message about it. I figure he just wanted to get rid of her without having to wipe her off the board. Hates doing that. Likes keeping people around, corrupting them, changing them, but never killing. Makes him happy, I figure. Never met him personally… none of us have. He helped wipe us out, once. A whole chunk of the Teeth, gone. Never sure why… he just arrived, struck fear, and left. Maybe that was the point. Either way. He sent us Matrimonial, explained that she used to be… what was it? Right. One of Heartbreaker's brood."
Taylor looked over.
"Heartbreaker?"
"Yep. Came on down from Canada. Wanted to join the Slaughterhouse. I think he just… got bored of her. I would. She's got a petty sadism to her - never seemed willing to do anything more with herself. Just pettiness. Nothing grand, nothing spectacular. Jack would spend a year arranging the deaths of every firstborn in a city unless they gave him some sacrifice, just to prove a point. Matrimonial just tortures and kills. I guess he just got… bored, I suppose. Sent her to me. I didn't mind then… I do now. She's messing with my favoured successor. Which is just rude."
She smiled.
"I prefer you to her."
Oh, splendid. We've ingratiated ourselves.
Ah-ha.
Time.
She turned to the Butcher, twisting her body with a clatter of metal. Her mouth remained painfully still. Chorei suppressed her heartbeat. Time to play her hand, and see what happened. If she lost, she died. Worst case, she became the Butcher. Otherwise… hard to say. Victory meant going back to the mainland. Victory meant returning to the threshing machine of life. Finding Matrimonial, ripping her open from crown to foot, and seeing what the Slaughterhouse did to her. Resolving this churning ball of destructive hatred in her gut. The feeling in her digestive system that she needed to rip. She needed to undo the one she loved/hated. Resolve the sickness in her. Purge this little irritant that warmed heri. Made her think of evenings by a fireside with a girl she despised… she felt violated by Matrimonial, and the worst part was, a filthy part of her had liked loving and being loved without reservation. A filthy, disgusting, awful part of her had enjoyed surrendering her independence and autonomy in favour of emotional enslavement. It was a cowardly part. And she'd silenced it. Now… now she just hated Matrimonial. The sickness was anticipation, the churning in her gut was just a sense of building anticipation, the feeling of climbing a rollercoaster before coming crashing down.
Just another thing to leave by the wayside.
Taylor took a deep breath… and played her hand.
Night came, and Taylor dreamt once more. A dream which began as many do - with painful mundanity. She was rocking in the boat, trying to sleep… hovering in the inbetween state where everything was real and nothing was, where her body was painfully realised but the world was a hazy mass of blurred shapes. She looked around uncomfortably, incapable of focusing… and a cold trickle of unease ran down her spine. She couldn't hear Chorei. And she couldn't see Patience. The boat was completely, and utterly, empty. Water, water, water… and a tiny metal island, with her stranded. She wasn't more alert, but her body twitched to life, shambling around without any sense of the world. Just… existing, painfully. A dead body which kept moving despite nature's best efforts. She looked around, tried to get her bearings… her vision was hazy, but the ocean was clear as glass. She could see further than she'd ever managed in the waking world… so far that she could see nothing at all. Simply the curvature of the earth. No land. No islands. Nothing. Not even another boat. She was alone. Alone and increasingly afraid… with difficulty, she crossed her legs and tried to meditate like Chorei had shown her, tried to get her mind back under control. Not much luck. She found no peace. Her mind buzzed. Her swarm was gone. Even Chorei was absent. All she could do was last out the nightmare.
A dull thump came from below the sea.
The boat rocked slightly.
Taylor shuddered. Stay still. Ignore it. Just a dream. Dreams were harmless if she refused to pay attention.
Thump.
Her eyes were closed. Maybe if she deluded herself enough, she'd actually fall asleep, pass from some invisible phase of sleep into another, one where dreams ceased.
Thump.
No, no, ignoring it, ignoring-
Thump. Thump.
Louder. More insistent. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked around. Something dark was spilling from under the boat, like a cloud of ink. She stared down at it, refusing to investigate. The darkness spread. And she felt… something. The water splashed. Something had broken the surface. Behind her. The splashing continued, and the boat rocked quietly. It was… still breaking the surface. She refused to look. Refused to acknowledge her own hallucinations. Product of starvation and dehydration. Nothing more. Not like she could fight it, just… just accept that this was going to be awful, and look away. The presence continued to grow. She felt something huge. Dark. Oily. Achingly cold. She felt eyes on her… and her resolve began to shiver a little. Just a dream, right? Why not look around, see what was behind her. The boat had stopped thumping. Something had been underneath. Something had moved. Something had risen. If she… no, don't look, no point, no point at all. Remember the Five-Horned Bull? Look away at all costs, never look over her own shoulder, not if she had any brains. And she did. Brains, that is. Had plenty. Mostly. Probably? Yeah. Brains. Come on, just… just stare ahead, keep her eyes fixed on the prize. What prize? What was she avoiding? Sleeping?
Her eyes began to slide a little, before she forced them back to the bottom of the boat. A pool of brackish water, some rusting metal… she felt a gentle hand in her hair, rustling through the strands. She shuddered, and paled. No, no, no, no, no… not her. Not her. A pair of lips brushed by her ear, and her hands clenched. Another hand slowly, slowly traced up her side, exploring her inch by agonising inch. Her breath caught. Wasn't looking. Just a nightmare. Ignore it. Ignore her. At all fucking costs. But she wanted to turn, she wanted to look on her… it was just a dream, maybe she could indulge? Maybe she could lean back into her lap and let the world wash away, smile happily as she finally understood what normal people called love, a peace which might wait for her at the end of all of this. An end to her road… romance was a wonderful ending, it resolved everything, it gave her a lifelong partner, and… not real, it wasn't fucking real. It was a lie, a cocktail of chemicals in her brain which had been forced there, no matter what the warmth in her stomach wanted her to believe. Confusion kept flicking through her. No, no, no… never look at her again, not if she…
A word. One that the girl had never spoken… but that Taylor could nonetheless hear.
Darling?
She suppressed an uncharacteristic whimper, forced it into the back of her throat where only she could sense it. A rumble, a concession to her own weakness.
The presence moved.
Her head flicked around before she could think, combat instincts coming to the fore.
Something vast. Not Matrimonial. Not Matrimonial at all.
Dark.
A silhouette that blocked out the sun.
Eyes glaring down at her in something resembling amusement.
A wound in the world.
She saw the wound. She saw the gap. The ragged tear left by two rows of impossible teeth. Her eye widened… one eye again. Reality closing in like the jaws of a bear trap. In the shadows, she… she saw…
HOW MANY DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD?
* * *
She didn't lunge upwards. People didn't do that. She just opened her eyes, realised that her breath was coming with unnatural heaviness… and sighed. The boat rocked from side to side like a cradle, but Taylor didn't feel remotely comforted by the regular motions. The sea was a little choppier today, and the mood had definitely shifted. The Butcher was sprawled on the other side, staring upwards into the clear sky, her eyes tracking the faintest wisps of cloud on the horizon. Storm might be coming. If it did, this boat would, undoubtedly, capsize. Not meant for long-haul trips, not remotely - probably just good for quick jaunts away from the shore, certainly never going far enough that the shore vanished into a vague haze. Time limit, unsure of how strict. How flexible. Her stomach begged for food… and she'd begun experimenting with drawing up lobsters and crabs to the surface, anything that they could try and eat. But the floor was a good distance below them, and these creatures were eerily fragile. They'd swim upwards, make some distance, and then grow exhausted and fall down once more. Or a fish would eat them. That was… a common occurrence. It was weird to feel her swarm confined to the dozens, not the thousands - it was weirder to feel a greater swarm around her at all times, one far beyond her own control. One by one, the lights would fade as fish seized upon her lobsters, cracking the shells open and feasting in the interior. Invisible in the dark of the ocean floor. Jaws. A flash of eyes. A glimmer of scales. And then nothing at all.
Her throat was, undoubtedly, the worst. Dry. parched. The sun beat down relentlessly, and her skin was almost entirely red at this point - no shade could protect her. It'd been… shit, how long? Right, there'd been a… fine, maybe two, three days? Verging on four? She slept when tired, woke up when she wasn't. Panic had given way to a slow decay. She needed water. Desperately. Hard to exist like this. And the Butcher just occasionally dipped a glass into the ocean and drank greedily from it, smacking her lips like she'd had something truly delectable. Slowly, languidly, she reached into the hidden compartment once more, forming a key from the metal of the boat - a little more and they'd spring a leak. The key was thrown overboard, and she withdrew a… was that a fucking radio? Taylor stared at it. Chorei was uncharacteristically silent, but not out of fear - there was an undercurrent of scheming anticipation. Soon. Soon. The radio was… no, it was a disk player, her sight was just acting up. Reminded her of when she needed glasses… fuck, if she'd still needed glasses, maybe she could've had those fancy ones which doubled as sunglasses. Probably wouldn't, but… anyway. Not worth being angry at the Tube o' Panacea. Felt wrong to be mad at the ominous tube.
Slowly, the Butcher pressed play… and guitar echoed out, with a dreamlike voice chanting over it all.
Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time
For y'all have knocked her up
I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe
I was not offended.
I knew I had to rise above it all… or drown in my own shit.
Chorei made a noise of elderly curmudgeonliness. She'd earned it, Taylor supposed. The Butcher reclined further back as someone started to shred on a guitar. No lyrics. Just a guitar mournfully wailing away into the silent abyss of the ocean surface. Not a cloud to be seen. Water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. And the ocean seemed to rot around her… she could feel the slow descent of dead matter to the bottom, her lobsters, crabs, shellfish, they all thrived on these leftovers, and their perception was specialised for it, their primitive minds roared at her when they sensed the rain. The ocean was a barren place, and hunger was an impulse more keenly felt than on land. A mournful guitar, a clear sky, a rotting ocean… maggots in the mind of the universe. Sure. Why not. She coughed quietly, and the Butcher lazily directed a single eye towards her… OK, that was weird. The Butcher was apparently capable of moving her eyes independently. Eerie. Faintly ridiculous. Eerie all the same.
"...what's this?"
"Funkadelic. Maggot Brain."
Taylor froze. Maggot… what the… what? Even Chorei was broken from her silence.
What did she say? Did she say… did he get his name from a song?
"I've got Tarkus, Thick as a Brick, couple of King Crimson records, a little Yes… I picked stuff that goes on for a while, y'know? Figured we'd be out here for a while, so… y'know."
Taylor blinked.
"Did you plan this?"
"Nope."
"Do you just have this stuff in a bug-out bag, or-"
"Yep."
"Including the mu-"
"Especially the music. Trust me, prog rock does wonders for the voices. They hate the stuff, but it goes on for a while and I can get lost in it. Especially when I turn the music up very, very, very, very fucking loud."
She reclined, and languished in the damp coils of Maggot Brain. Patience mumbled as she bathed in the salt-filled air, sipping from a glass of seawater like it was a pina colada.
"You know, the guy on the guitar… they told him to play like he'd just found his mother dead."
"...uh-huh."
"Like… that's just bitchin'. Like, imagine just being like, 'woah, my mom's dead' - and like most people, I'd go 'oh shit, oh no, oh boo hoo'. But this guy… this fuckin' legend, he'd see her lying there and would just shred. Like, imagine it. Opens the door. Sees a trail of blood. Follows it. His eyes widen. And then he shreds."
A drowsy giggle spilled from her crystal-encrusted mouth.
"...like, woah. How badass do you need to be to do that? We should try that. At some point, someone should die, and I should just shred. Like, my inner turmoil is great, I'm sure my shredding would be good. This guy was thinking about some personal bereavement, buddy-boy, I've got a brain-o-strange. I got funk. He's got soul? I've got fifteen, baby doll."
Her smile faded.
"...now, if only I could play the guitar. Hm."
Chorei grumbled.
Really. This is just absurd. We need to get home, not… indulge her strange taste in music. Maggot Brain, goodness me… in my day we sang good songs. Polite songs. There was none of this… this 'shredding'.
No, no, this had some value. Taylor twitched her fingers slightly. Hard to scheme when Taylor couldn't speak out loud, but… they'd made do. Certain twitches to indicate agreement, rejection, doubt, requests for elaboration. Slowly but surely, they'd put together something resembling a plan. So, the priorities were as follows: get back to shore. Keep her mind intact. And maybe, maybe, get revenge on Matrimonial… and to accomplish all of this, she needed the Butcher to like her, trust her, even. She was part of the way there. Now she just had to not screw it up.
Easy enough.
"...it's pretty good. I like it."
"Chorei too?"
Not at all.
"...her opinion is a little more mixed."
The Butcher blinked slowly, like a huge cat… and promptly grabbed the disc player and flung it into the ocean. A final whisper of 'maggot brain…' carried over the ocean air before it went down. Patience quietly saluted it as it sank below the waves, before slumping back under her umbrella. Taylor was frozen.
"You didn't need to do that."
"Chorei hated it. She loathed it. And now I'm just… I can't enjoy it anymore. It's like I can hear your voice. Your buzzy, buzzy voice. Saddens me."
I didn't hate it. It just wasn't my… thing.
"She didn't hate it. Just… unfamiliar."
"...is she ancient?"
"Feudal Japanese."
"Does she like… like chanting and stuff? Like, uh-"
Patience stood, wobbling a little, and stared into the distance. And then she just howled sonorously, a wailing 'O' that coursed over the waves and rebounded off the horizon, a cry fit to wake the dead, a cry that was eerily close to echolocation. The kind of thing the Romans heard before they were strung up at the Teutoburg forest. A warbling wail which sounded like… honestly, it barely sounded like a noise a human could make, but somehow it felt insulting towards someone. Chorei made a low growling sound that could, perhaps, be called a growl. Yes. Definitely a growl. The kind that bears made… which abruptly cut off, replaced with a sense of vicious cunning.
Tell her that she just said twenty different slurs.
"You just said twenty different slurs in Japanese."
Patience gazed out over the ocean… and hummed.
"Cool."
And tell her that I am not some… antiquated so-and-so. This establishes a rapport, you see. Should ingratiate us further. Tell her that I had some business in Osaka after the war, and, in point of fact, I dabbled for a time in… hm, disco. Yes. Disco.
Taylor blinked. News to her. She had a brief image of a very awkward-looking Chorei dressed like she was ready to hit the dance floor. The glowing dance floor. With a mirrorball hanging above. Alright, her mood had improved a little. She relayed the message, and Patience fell to pieces, laughing maniacally, slapping the side of the boat, generally making an absolute state of herself. Taylor noted that Chorei was feeling nothing more than smug satisfaction. If she was going to guess… ah. Good. Chorei knew how she came across, and in a rare moment of self-awareness, had willingly mocked herself to establish a better rapport. Oh, she was good. Not sure if Taylor was learning from Chorei, or if Chorei was learning from Taylor. Pair of little sociopaths. But the moment had come. She had her chance - time to take it. The Butcher was lying sprawled once more, feet hanging over one side of the boat, head from the other. She was drumming her long, elegant fingers on her stomach in an erratic pattern, and her expression was starting to shift.
"Patience?"
"Hm?"
Another one of her mood swings. From ecstatic preacher, to apologetic victim, to… this apathetic mess, sprawled in the boat like a dying pale spider. Even her formerly elegant bathing suit was stretched and on the verge of ruination. Definitely in need of a wash, that was for sure.
"I was just… thinking."
"Steady on. Thinking can be quite dangerous. Me, I try not to think. I just let the voices flow through me. Very calming. Very Buddhist."
Oh you absolute bi-
"Uh-huh. I was just… wondering. You said you wanted to show me how to hurt Matrimonial, right?"
Patience swivelled one of her eyes out to the sea while the other swivelled up to the sky. A noncommittal grunt escaped her lips, and the movement cracked some of the salt crystals which had formed on her skin.
"...possible. Maybe."
"So… would you mind? Helping me, I mean?"
Patience shifted uneasily, and it seemed like… she was struggling internally. Ah. Yes. Regretting bringing her out here, regretting dragging her into her own weird attempt to escape her fate. Well, if the voices in her head were going to demand this… that meant that she was working almost fifteen (fourteen voices and Taylor) to one. Sixteen if Taylor counted Chorei, which she somewhat did. Patience probably did, admittedly. And… and honestly, Taylor needed this. She needed a weapon. Needed a way out of her own dreams. After a moment of internal strife, she sat up with sudden speed, the air cracking with the sudden movement, a sound that echoed across the ocean like the blast from a cannon.
"You wish to learn, then? You wish to study under my tutelage? You wish to know the wolfish ways of wolfishness?"
"Yep."
Best to keep it simple.
"...well, alright then. If you're going to insist. So…"
She clapped her hands sharply, stood, and froze. Seemed unsure.
"...Matrimonial?"
"Oh. Right. Yes. Matrimonial. That one. Of course. Can help there, most likely. Probably. Hopefully? I mean, the trick is actually fairly simple on that front."
"Oh?"
"Love and hate are two-"
Taylor interrupted. She knew this lesson.
"-sides of the same coin, yeah, I know. Both are possessive, both, in a way, desire the partner to keep going, both can flavour other emotions, and-"
Patience howled, and lunged. Her hands gripped Taylor by the edges of her breastplate and hauled her up into the air. Her teeth were bared, her eyes were burning, her entire body quivered with barely suppressed rage. Something had changed in her eyes, something else was boiling outwards. The proximity made Taylor violently uncomfortable, and she had to resist the urge to shriek. Fingers in her hair. A mouth at her neck. A feeling so passionate she knew she'd never feel its like again. Patience ground her teeth against one another with an ear-aching whine, and managed to get out a few words between her spasms of anger.
"Don't fucking put it that way. You sound like… they're saying you sound like one of those cunts from the desert. You know one of them found us? Once? A man who thought he could change the way we thought - all covered in shiny scars. Like yours. Huh. Guess that's where you got them. Wild. But trust me, you don't want to be like him. Love, hate… they're both consuming. Both of them demand destruction. If you love something, you love it as a static thing. You want it to be destroyed - a philosopher said you couldn't step into the same river twice, eh? And if that's the case, then something you love is destroyed a moment later by the passage of time - and if you truly love it, you won't allow some sham to wear it forever. You'll end it with burning hatred in your heart. Love isn't just the inverse of hate, sharing signs but ultimately different. Love and hate are the same thing - not just two aspects. If you love something, fully and unreservedly, you hate it completely."
Her snarl turned into a grin, and she recited something in a high, dramatic voice, affecting an awful British accent:
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain!
Finished, she dropped Taylor to the deck of the boat with a crash, and the disturbance allowed the choppy waves to enter, washing into the interior and forming a stinking pool at the bottom. Stagnant, steaming, brackish and warm. Taylor tried to catch her breath… she knew that poem. Vaguely. Browning, right? Robert, not Elizabeth. Her mom hadn't liked him overly, but she'd still insisted on reading a few. She said that you needed to understand literature in its many periods - never study just the reaction, study what it was reacting to. Back and back until she understood the canon. Porphyria's Lover, that was it. A poem about a man killing his lover to preserve her, perfectly, forever. Always loving her, even when he crushed her windpipe with a string made from her own hair - always his love endured. The Butcher began to stride around, warming to her theme.
"The Wolf is not some sort of… lovesick animal that would keep its lover going for all time. I know who you've been listening to - you've been listening to one of those freaks. They don't progress, they don't change. If you left them alone for a thousand years and came back, they would've have remotely evolved. The Wolf, though… leave it alone for a thousand years, it would devour the laws of physics. A man came to us while we were in New Mexico, wanted to have a chat. Indoctrinate us. He thought we could form the basis for a Dyad, some kind of fucked-up relationship where we fight and fight and no-one ever wins. It's pointless. That's not love, that's… that's just violent masturbation. The Wolf knows how to love. Love is consuming. Love is ending. Love is all the things which burn. I love a meal, it doesn't mean I'm going to preserve it forever. No, I'm going to eat it, slowly, delicately, and then never repeat it again - because nothing will ever equal the first time. I seek new perfumes, ampler blossoms, untried pleasures. The Wolf is love, a free-flowing, non-stagnant love. And likewise, it is hate. Hate consumes. Hate demands endings - true hate does. The kind of hate which suggests a strong personality. A strong personality burns, and it hates all things it burns, and loves them equally. Then it moves on. That man thought we, we, should just… just sit around loving and hating the same person forever and ever."
"What did you do to him?"
"Tore him open and forced him to scar over. The same impenetrable silver scars that you have… no wonder you don't get it, you've been corroded. We did it over and over again, until… well, in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, there's a silver tree with very, very odd branches. We sculpted him, tore him open, forced him to scar over, did it over and over until we had a sculpture. Oh, it gleams in the noonday sun, it draws up the heat, and when the sun goes down the heat all comes out, the flesh compresses, and you can hear him moaning. Little freak, probably happy with what we did to him. Like I said. That way of doing things is just masturbation. It's pointless satisfaction. The Wolf, at least, is committed."
Taylor examined her carefully. She looked a little wobbly - the words had forced themselves out of her throat, and she seemed confused at their vehemence. The voices inside. Not her own. Interesting. So… hm. This was… actually a little funny. The Unceasing Striving and the Wolf-Divided, evidently, loathed one another completely, and both of them regarded the other as a pointless distraction from things that mattered. The Unceasing Striving's followers called it evolution, but the Wolf claimed it was stagnancy. The Wolf called the Unceasing Striving a form of… self-gratification, but those scar cartographers would call the Wolf an exercise in pointless change with no sense of higher purpose.
Wacky.
Now you see? Now you see why I always disliked this way of doing things? It's constant hate, love, love, hate, everyone's always striving and warring and loving and it becomes so utterly exhausting. Grafting Buddha is so much calmer by comparison, so much more… civilised. We had a group of monks who occasionally murdered people or turned them into incubators. These absolute freaks insist on fighting and burning for all time. We had a monastery. The Striving has some desert-dwelling oddballs that wouldn't understand a healthy relationship if it smacked them in the face, and the Wolf has… her. Them. Whatever. Regardless, it's… gah.
Taylor was entirely in agreement. Though she had to admit that scar cartography was a very useful art to know. Even if it allowed for a very… nasty form of topiary, in the Butcher's case. Either way. Patience reached down and plucked up her crystal glasses, presenting one to Taylor. Oh. Right. Well. Had to happen. She took it carefully, and Patience swept down to the ocean to fill her cup. She gestured at Taylor to do the same, and she very, very carefully did it. A glass of silty, salty sea water. Full of particulates and microplastics. Probably some runoff from an oil rig, probably some barely-treated sewage. Chorei groaned as Taylor gave it a careful look, wondering if the cloudy liquid was going to get any better anytime soon. It didn't. It remained cloudy, the silt refused to settle in any meaningful quantity - only highlighting how much remained. The glass didn't help - it was perfect, refused to obscure a single delicate atom. A pale arm snaked in her own, locking her in place - Patience smiled in a kindly manner, and began to talk.
"Drink. Drink, and long for more while you hate the taste. Love and hate simultaneously - not too sides of the same coin, but simply the same coin. The same image. The same emotion. Know this, and trust me - you'll be able to kill Matrimonial. Easily."
Taylor hesitated. One of her priorities was to keep her mind intact. Another was to kill Matrimonial. And a third was to get back to shore at all costs - on shore she had options, she had allies. Out here, nothing but the open water, a handful of unreachable crabs, a hunger that gnawed in her stomach and thirst which chewed at her throat like a tumour. And… she needed to make the Butcher think she was succumbing. She had a confidence in her own mind, in her capacity to remain herself. She'd dabbled in enough forces at this point, right? Presumably? Patience's arm twitched, and Taylor's was forced up. Drink, or let it spill. The salt came closer. Her throat was parched, and only grew drier at the sight of the stuff. She grimaced…
And drank.
Oh, fuck, it was worse than she'd thought. Her stomach immediately tightened, her throat resisted the passage of the water, and she could feel specks of grime sticking to her teeth, feeling like a wave of mucus had just clogged her throat up. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, this was… not painful, but just… awful. Unpleasant in a way that she wasn't remotely familiar with. Patience chugged her water back gladly, and Taylor had to force herself not to retch. Oddly… Matrimonial came to mind. The feeling of hands in her hair, the feeling of burning, consuming love, the feeling of devotion. The salt choked her, and each drop of water made her thirstier and thirstier. Her first sips were hesitant and forced. The second batch was almost faster. The third batch was, definitively, much faster. Almost greedy. And by the time she felt the silt at the bottom caking her lips, she was chugging it backwards as quickly as Patience. She loved the water, she hungered for more at all costs… and she hated it. Each drop made her want more, each drop made her hate it with a more fierce passion. Patience released her arm, and smiled beatifically. Taylor had to resist ducking into the ocean for another glass.
"Do you feel it?"
"I feel… something. Mostly salt."
"You love it. You hate it. The emotion isn't split, it's the same emotion repeated at the same frequency, same amplitude, same wavelength. Your brain is in the same shape at all times, at no point has it changed. Always. Hate and love. Love and hate."
She leant closer, and her breath stank of ocean trash.
"Now, what do you think about Matrimonial?"
Taylor tried. She remembered fingers in her hair. Remembered love. And she felt a genuine warmth in her chest, a blooming joy at the thought of her, at the thought of those hands, those eyes, that soft, gentle smile… her stomach heaved. She dashed to the side, grabbed another glass, and poured it back in greedy gulps. The heaving only worsened, the aching intensified. But she could feel something… a burning in her head. The heat had moved upwards, and now it was fiercer. She could feel those fingers in her hair, that love, but it was stranger now, tougher. She didn't hesitate. Another glass. The strangeness increased. Patience was at her side, plunging her head into the water and drinking like a dog. Taylor abandoned the crystal glass, throwing it back with a hefty clunk as it hit the bottom of the boat. She plunged her head into the soothing water. Her flesh was burning from the sun, her stomach craved food, her skin craved shade… and her throat needed water. And she kept drinking the sea water. The poison water. Laden with dead animals and the refuse of a million kills. She thought she could taste them, too. The shades of predators in the dark. She tasted oil on her tongue. She tasted the pressure which had crushed a billion tiny creatures into dark, choking matter which could be used to fuel the next revolution. She felt smokestacks in her throat. She drank history. She gorged at the midden of an untold slaughter.
She tasted the fires of the early Earth.
A calming force surged through her mind - Chorei. She murmured mantras of the Grafting Buddha, reminded her that two could become greater than one or two, one and one could become eleven with the right impulses. Why hate everything? Why not unify, instead of dividing? Aspire to something greater than status as a wolf. Aspire to a higher calling. Taylor shuddered… and puked up seawater, returning it to the ocean in a haze of silt. Patience cackled to herself, and withdrew her head from the ocean. Her hair was soaked, clinging to her scalp in a smooth black layer. Her swimming costume was increasingly stained with salt, until it looked like she was some piece of flotsam or jetsam, wasting away on a raft for years, discovered by an errant vessel. A piece of garbage discarded from the ocean. Her teeth flashed white in the sun, and she smiled.
"Hard to stomach?"
Taylor felt like shit.
"...a little."
"You'll get used to it. Once the hallucinations start. Then… then we might have something. But good work - you're starting to get it. I could hear you drinking… you were fierce. Pretty fucking impressive. Gulping it down like a mad dog… that's the way. Definitely the way."
Taylor collapsed back against the boat. Her head was pounding. Chorei was trying to soothe things, but… her time limit was clicking down. Soon, her body would be struggling to remove the salt from her body at all costs. In doing so, it would be draining the last remaining reserves of water. She'd cease to be able to sweat, causing uncontrollable heat buildup around her flesh and organs. She'd lose the ability to urinate, thus preventing any more salt from leaving. A toxic substance she could no longer remove. Her skin would become stretchy and unresponsive - she imagined that she'd be able to pinch out an inch of skin, and it would simply… remain. A tag, too drained of vitality to return to its original state. Dizziness. Brain damage. Death. Dehydration was remorseless, and she could feel it marching through her body, a conquering force that she had no means of repelling. The Butcher… maybe this was tied up with the Wolf, maybe she had a sufficient brute rating to repel the negative effects for a little longer. Maybe she was going crazy and just wasn't experiencing physical side-effects - brain dying as her body remained in perfect condition. She stared up at the sky, and the unrelenting sun. Soon, she'd be dead. But her plan had begun. The Butcher slammed down next to her, sprawling messily. The proximity didn't make Taylor feel… quite as sick as before.
It was odd. But thinking of Matrimonial didn't come with so much… instinctual nausea. She didn't feel like puking again at the thought of her smile, that was for sure. The fear was declining, just a little. And in its place… hatred. She imagined driving her fingers deep into those eye sockets and tearing. She imagined breaking every bone, one by one, using the rustiest implements available. Committing a dozen war crimes against her, one after the other, each worse than the last. Those ashen hands under her skin… cut deep, see if there was anything. Cut them out. Find out what the Slaughterhouse had done to her, for science. Then leave her to burn. To scorch. To never, ever recover - recovery was for others. Never for her. The love in her mind was changing. The feeling was altering… and she felt a strange sadness with it. She wondered if this was a bad idea… maybe this would damage her. Emotionally. Maybe this would inhibit her ability to feel romantic love, but… what did it matter? She reviewed her life, and came to a fairly depressing conclusion. Chorei lived in her head, meaning all intimacy had a permanent third wheel. Her life was dangerous, precluding a relationship with someone who couldn't defend himself. She would always be moving, if her dad remained in a coma then she'd always be making sure he was alright. No stable job for her, no quiet work as a cashier in a record store, no peaceful solitudes in a restful town with a name no-one bothered remembering.
In the end, she looked over her life, and found that… romance was probably not on the cards.
So what was there to sacrifice? What, really, was she losing?
Nothing.
And in the end, Matrimonial needed to die. Her hate was boiling up. And to be blunt, it didn't even feel like there'd been much of a shift. She still felt that same longing to be back in her presence, the same longing for the warmth she brought. But that warmth burned. And the longing… it consumed. She didn't want Matrimonial as an eternal rival, she wanted to nail her to the fucking interstate and watch as she traumatised a highway's-worth of people. Her emotion hadn't changed. Her mind hadn't changed. But there was a wolf gnawing at the roots of her mind, a hungry black wolf which loved her and hated her all at once… and in her own way, she was following its example. Peace swept over her. Hateful peace. Hands tangled in her hair, stroking her scalp, soothing her with their presence… she wanted to take those fingers into her mouth and bite them off, chew down to the bone, rip them away like a wild dog. Love was poisoned at the moment, love was something forced on her. Love was an emotion she barely understood, had minimal familiarity with, and her only experience had been as a weakness. As a series of neurochemical impulses induced by a parahuman ability. Nothing to give up. Not really.
So why did she feel so sad about it?
The Butcher hummed happily.
"Do you feel it? Do you feel the change?"
Taylor's fists clenched.
"Yeah."
"You want to hurt her?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I can help. I mean. Eventually. I want to stay here, still… I don't want to go back quite yet. The voices seem content with that, too, so… here we are."
"Here we are."
"I mean, you understand it. Love's for other people. Hate, though… we can hate. And if hate is love, then we're not quite so painfully alone, aren't we?"
Taylor sighed, resisting the urge to imagine Matrimonial in yet more situations of extreme violence and cruelty. She was starting to alarm herself with the intensity. A part of her imagined that she was making a mistake… but no. Matrimonial needed to die. And when the only sacrifice was an emotion she'd only felt around Matrimonial, an emotion forced by Matrimonial… what was the point? Patience remained a little distant, respecting her personal space. They weren't quite packed like sardines. Not quite. She had enough distance that she wasn't compelled to think about intimacy. Chorei seemed to feel rather sad, but she said nothing. The wolf in the back of her mind let out a low growl, and it set upon the feelings of tenderness she had for Matrimonial, the sickly longing to be held and loved unconditionally. A companionship that went beyond friendship. Tainted. The emotion was compromised - the wolf ground it up and left nothing but a furious, consuming hatred which made her blood boil. She didn't want to throw up anymore. Just wanted to hurt something. Hurt it badly.
"Who was she? Matrimonial, I mean. You said she was with the Slaughterhouse, so…"
Patience hummed.
"She doesn't talk. But Jack talked. Sent me a polite message about it. I figure he just wanted to get rid of her without having to wipe her off the board. Hates doing that. Likes keeping people around, corrupting them, changing them, but never killing. Makes him happy, I figure. Never met him personally… none of us have. He helped wipe us out, once. A whole chunk of the Teeth, gone. Never sure why… he just arrived, struck fear, and left. Maybe that was the point. Either way. He sent us Matrimonial, explained that she used to be… what was it? Right. One of Heartbreaker's brood."
Taylor looked over.
"Heartbreaker?"
"Yep. Came on down from Canada. Wanted to join the Slaughterhouse. I think he just… got bored of her. I would. She's got a petty sadism to her - never seemed willing to do anything more with herself. Just pettiness. Nothing grand, nothing spectacular. Jack would spend a year arranging the deaths of every firstborn in a city unless they gave him some sacrifice, just to prove a point. Matrimonial just tortures and kills. I guess he just got… bored, I suppose. Sent her to me. I didn't mind then… I do now. She's messing with my favoured successor. Which is just rude."
She smiled.
"I prefer you to her."
Oh, splendid. We've ingratiated ourselves.
Ah-ha.
Time.
She turned to the Butcher, twisting her body with a clatter of metal. Her mouth remained painfully still. Chorei suppressed her heartbeat. Time to play her hand, and see what happened. If she lost, she died. Worst case, she became the Butcher. Otherwise… hard to say. Victory meant going back to the mainland. Victory meant returning to the threshing machine of life. Finding Matrimonial, ripping her open from crown to foot, and seeing what the Slaughterhouse did to her. Resolving this churning ball of destructive hatred in her gut. The feeling in her digestive system that she needed to rip. She needed to undo the one she loved/hated. Resolve the sickness in her. Purge this little irritant that warmed heri. Made her think of evenings by a fireside with a girl she despised… she felt violated by Matrimonial, and the worst part was, a filthy part of her had liked loving and being loved without reservation. A filthy, disgusting, awful part of her had enjoyed surrendering her independence and autonomy in favour of emotional enslavement. It was a cowardly part. And she'd silenced it. Now… now she just hated Matrimonial. The sickness was anticipation, the churning in her gut was just a sense of building anticipation, the feeling of climbing a rollercoaster before coming crashing down.
Just another thing to leave by the wayside.
Taylor took a deep breath… and played her hand.
AN: Sorry for the cliffhanger. But there had to be a cliffhanger, unless you wanted a 13000 word chapter. So, uh... sorry. Anyway, that's all for today. See you tomorrow!
- Location
- Nowhere and Everywhere
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You're getting entirely too good at cliff hangers.
The Cryptid of Stormveil & Neither-Nor - by the exceedingly widely-read SorrySorrow
What a delectably evil cliffhanger. Hate it, love it in equal measure.
No Eldritch quote for today. Just silence of the Cosmos.
Have a small sketch.
No Eldritch quote for today. Just silence of the Cosmos.
Have a small sketch.
Davian_Veq
Clock Facts!
- Location
- England
- Pronouns
- He/They
Crossover art? What a delight.
214 - The Inexorable Howl
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
214 - The Inexorable Howl
Hand playing time. She twisted, and fixed Patience with an enigmatic look. One to inspire intrigue. Her throat was parched… had to hurry this up before she went crazy or died of thirst.
"...so. That was… something."
The Butcher twisted to face her.
"Yeah. Something. Pretty wild, huh, meeting the Wolf?"
"Wild. Yeah."
"How's Chorei?"
I feel ill. But ready. I'll be behind you, no matter what you choose to do. Good luck.
"She's fine."
"Good. I like her. She's… lonely, I imagine. So very lonely, up in your head. Not for long. They don't think it'll be long, not one of them. Even Three, and he's… a character. The one her of the bunch, not that there's much left of him at this point. Sometimes he screams about mountain pines, or longs for someone he lost. But they took him apart before the end, left him with nothing but a howling vacancy where his mind once was. Poor thing. The Wolf didn't have many minds in him, not yet, so they had little to focus on besides him and his heroic impulses. Overgrown hero glands, that man had. Needed lancing with a needle - a very toothy needle, hm."
Her chance.
"Interesting. I'm sorry to ask, but… if we're on the same side, what do they exactly want us to do? The voices in your head, I mean. The other Butchers."
Patience shivered, and a darkness fell over her face.
"...I can't say. They won't tell me."
Taylor shuffled closer, making her voice as convincing as possible. Ignoring the way the closeness made her skin break out in goosebumps, made her think of the most beautiful girl she'd ever seen, the aching perfection of her features, the ashy hands under her skin that she wanted to tear out and choke her to death with, the flawless skin that she wanted to stretch on a frame so she could paint a warning to anyone who dared do this to her ever ever again. The wolf in her mind growled contentedly, sating itself on yet more love, catalysing it into the most profound hatred.
"Aren't you curious? A little curious?"
For once, Patience looked a little… disconcerted. Silence. Taylor pushed. She'd established a rapport - no better time than this.
"I mean, you're driving them around. Why not ask? Why not demand they tell? You understand the Wolf in a way I don't, I'm sure if the voices just explain what they need you to do, you'll agree. Aren't you curious?"
"...maybe a little. But it's irrelevant. They want me to change myself, they want an ending. I don't. I want to go on and on and on… leave it to the next one. The next one can handle it, once I've had my fun. A year isn't any time at all - the ocean quahog, a type of clam, can live centuries. Oldest is five hundred years old - five hundred. You think they care about one year? One 1/500 of their lifespan? We can live forever, if we play our cards right… why not wait? Just wait to complete this task. Wait until we all desire a way out. I'm running the body, shouldn't I deserve some remuneration? A little break? Come on, I just got this job, I don't want to end it too soon…"
Taylor nodded consolingly.
"Of course. I mean, I'd think that, in your place. I really would. No offence, but… I'm not so sure I'd be a good inheritor. I mean, I don't want to die, and the way you've described things… it sounds very appealing to keep going. To live forever. Not sure if I could do the job they want us to do. Whatever it is. Maybe if I knew what that job is, the nuances… maybe I could see my way to inheriting."
Chorei suppressed her heartbeat, the crabs at the bottom of the ocean twitched erratically, expressing the myriad tiny tells of a lie. The tics which suggested deception. Patience shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. Taylor came closer. Again, the thoughts of intimacy with Matrimonial, the wonders of consuming love… she burned it away, fed the feelings to the wolf. Kept her calm. Kept her focused. Left nothing behind - intimacy was just the closeness of combat, a necessity for biting out someone's throat. Patience gave her a small look, and… oh. She backed away a little.
You have her on the proverbial ropes. She'd uncomfortable. Push.
"...I agree. But what's there to do about it? The voices are… insistent."
Taylor shuffled closer, closer. Her voice dropped.
"You're not the only one with a voice inside her head. And I've learned how to shut mine up."
Chorei didn't object. This was their plan. This was their artful scheme. Patience looked intrigued.
"Oh-ho?"
"It's all about grafting. Two minds, or more. Linking briefly. Gives you a kind of control. I've been able to tug on our connection, keep the voice in my head silent, force it into my subconscious where it can't bother me. And… well, going against them, isn't that the best form of revolution?""
"...with all due respect, I'm linked with these freaks already. I like them, but I don't want greater closeness, that'd be… weird."
"You could be more linked, though, couldn't you? See, I don't have a power like yours. I don't have a mind in here by default - I've grafted. I can show you how, if you like. Teach you how to do it. Might help give you some peace. Or find a higher form of revolution - I don't know."
Patience looked at her strangely.
"Why? Why are you doing this? Why would I do this?"
"Because then we can find out what those minds are planning. Why they're unwilling to tell you. And then, maybe, we can make some educated decisions instead of flailing in the dark. And… you helped me with my feelings about Matrimonial. Helped me turn them from love to hate. Which is very appreciated. Thought I could do you a good turn for helping me out like that. Call it peace, or call it revolution, either way, my expertise is open to you."
Patience sat up slightly, and her eyes were clouded. Her fingers twitched erratically. The sun beat down, but Taylor felt absolutely freezing.
"I'm just saying, peace is an option. Karma, right? You did me a good turn… I do you one. You help me hate, I help you find peace."
Patience mumbled something.
"Peace…?"
"Peace. Yeah. No more shrieking. No more losing control of yourself. Just… regulation. A more structured relationship. One where you're in control - and can decide your own fate. I can teach you how to do it. You know about the Wolf, you know about the Striving… there are other things. I'm acquainted with one. And I think you'll enjoy getting acquainted with it too."
Hopeful eyes glanced at her.
"Peace… how?"
"Chorei knows."
Patience smiled happily, and her voice was a little on the dreamy side. Taylor saw that her fingers were moving faster and faster… like the voices in her head were growing more agitated. Well, let them.
"Oh. Chorei. Of course she does, she's ever-so-clever."
A strange noise from inside Taylor's head, Chorei unused to any form of praise. The strange noise evolved into actual words, and Taylor fed them through.
"The methods she knows involve the process of combining one and one to become eleven - combining two things, if not more, and making them function as a coherent whole. It's a regulator between forces, between highly distinct bodies. Without it, there's nothing but schizophrenia. And if you have a plan to accomplish - whatever it is - then you're better-served being a united body."
The fingers twitched faster, and Patience's smile widened. She sounded oddly vulnerable.
"...oh… that… that sounds rather nice, actually."
Her eyes were wide.
"Oh… yeah… I can imagine them being quiet. I can definitely imagine it, and it feels… oh, it feels fantastic. But you want to know something?"
She leant close. Her breath stank of salt and ocean garbage.
"They're screaming. All of them. Right now. They're so… so loud…"
A single shaking finger was raised.
"The first. Angry. Always angry. He knows that his mind rages through us all, it tints us, taints us. The one thing that unites us. But he remembers loneliness. He remembers being the first voice. He dislikes being drowned out. So he screams louder, louder, louder than the others. Drowns out the choir and overwhelms. He's had years to learn how to be here, years and years. From the very beginning. And his fury is… it is unbounded. I think… I think he thinks your thinking has some merit to it. He's being so loud… I've never heard him this loud, not since I inherited…"
Taylor could feel the world drifting a little. Patience's hand lashed out and grabbed Taylor's own. She relaxed a moment later, flinching as she saw the panic spread across Taylor's face. Too close. Too close. Someone was playing with the ends of her hair, she was whispering her life story to them while sighing in happiness, she fed the memories to the wolf and let them become hardened with frosty spite. But the feeling of shock remained. The cold sharpened, the cold reinforced, but it was still something she wanted to avoid. Patience let her hand slip away, and an expression of genuine apology flickered across her face. Taylor stiffened herself. Had to soldier on. Even when it violated her personal space, and triggered memories she wanted to fucking die already. Patience murmured, so softly Taylor could barely hear.
"Chorei? Chorei, can you hear me?"
I hear, there's no swarm to speak through, but I hear - I cannot help but hear!
"Yes, yes, she can hear you."
"You're alone. You're the one and only voice. He's jealous. He wants you. I think he thinks he loves you. And to think is to be, to feel love is to love for creatures like him. His body is his thoughts, and thoughts are actions are thoughts. If you were in here… he'd find you, he'd wrap you up in neurons and let you drink deep of neurotransmitter, tickle the back of your neck with dendrite strands and surround you in the gentle slither of his myelin… you'd be loved by him. You'd stink of loneliness. He wants you as his own. As his love. As the first creature he thinks might understand him, might share his rage, might join in his choir - how would that sound? The first… and you, another first. One and one. Eleven, right?"
Taylor, if we become the Butcher, I will sever our graft and cast myself into the endless dark if it is remotely possible. I refuse to linger in such a scenario. I'm sorry. I escaped an eternity of senseless dark to find life again - I will not become part of an eternity of pain. I'm sorry. I can't do it. I'm sorry. If I can, I'll take you with me… if you like.
Taylor understood. She didn't like it… but she understood. She only wished she could confidently say that she could accompany Chorei into the dark, guilt-free and silent. Even if the Butcher only took engrams of people, even if it wasn't some horrific soul jar, she didn't want her mind rolling around in there. She didn't want to condemn some random parahuman to this fate… she had a brief image of the Butcher's mind racing out to hunt for the nearest parahuman, invading the Rig, and having Miss Militia wake up howling as her mind was invaded and replaced. How long until someone found out? How long before Taylor's mind became too damaged to apologise? She grimaced, and tried to lean closer, ignoring the shudders than ran down her spine.
"Wouldn't you like to shut him up?"
"To shut him up?"
She blinked.
"I… sorry, I was reading your lips. Can't hear you. They're loud…"
A glass rattled over as the boat tilted slightly. The Butcher reached back and plucked up a heaping serving of seawater. Taylor's mouth ached. She was finding it harder and harder to speak with each passing moment. And she could… there was a faint shadow around her vision. Dying? Brain damage? Exhaustion? Something else? The Butcher drank greedily, retrieved another cupful, and offered it to Taylor. The two began to sit up slightly, and Taylor took a single sip before she was forced to gorge herself in seconds. Her body didn't know what it wanted - it loathed the salt and loved the water. Her stomach burned at the feeling, and she could feel her kidneys keenly straining. It was like… she'd read about peoples in the stranger parts of the world who cooked by skinning an animal, piling the organs into the skin, the meat, everything needing cooking, before filling the remaining space with water and heating it with a pair of black stones dug from the depths of a fire. The skin was stitched up. And the stones would boil the water and cook the meat. She felt like one of those. A pair of hot black stones in her gut, scorching everything around them. Heating her blood until it boiled away into red mist and residue, her veins collapsing as pressure was lost… a depressurising vessel, collapsing and tearing. The shadows around her vision were deepening. Patience whimpered slightly.
"...so loud. They never stop. They won't let me sleep. Won't let me find peace except by welcoming the change. When I dream, I dream their dreams. I dream of lives I never lived. I dream of loves I never had. You think…"
She leaned close.
"You think I learned about love and hate from some… some guess? I learned from experience. It's the only way I can endure."
She shuddered.
"Eight dreams of his lover. Blonde woman. Reminds the others of Angrboda, and that makes them adore her. Found her in the dark and loved her deeply, adored her, abandoned her when he inherited. Abandoned love for ambition. Now his ambition is fulfilled, and all he can do is pine away. Forces me to participate. I remember the feeling of loving her, I feel it in my dreams. I don't like girls, I'm not like that. But I remember loving her. I dream of loving her. Her on the bed and me like this, with a body not my own, with thoughts not my own, and my mind screaming in the back, howling as I feel something I'm not meant to feel, and… and… of course I learned to hate. Hating her was easier than loving her, and when the two are the same emotion then it doesn't matter what Eight felt."
Her eyes were wide.
"...I can't love people. Not anymore. I see people, and I feel attraction and disgust, some of it my own, some of it belonging to others. Nothing is pure. Nothing but the task they want me to fulfil. There is nothing besides them. No family. No friends. Nothing. They will eat the sun, one day. I will eat the sun with them."
She gripped Taylor's hands, and once more Taylor was reminded of the sheer unpredictability of the Butcher. Patience seemed frightened of the voices in her head… but she was obedient to them. Taylor wanted to count on that. She felt a strange spark of guilt - a full grafting was impossible. Real peace was impossible. She wouldn't dare graft with the Butcher, even with her experience she doubted she'd maintain her sanity for long. But grafting involved a two-way exchange, it was… equal. Maybe, just maybe, it could grant a brief kind of lucidity. The Wolf would undo the grafting in time, but the increased control, the flow of information… it could tell her what the overall plan was. Maybe convince Patience to head for the shore. If she could get the Butcher to be paralysed for a brief time, they might actually make some progress back to safety. This entire expedition was insane, completely and utterly mad. And even a tiny dose of lucidity might get them back to shore. If Patience could stabilise her mind even for a moment… even for a moment… she shivered, and the shadows intensified. Patience's eyes were full of fear and doubt. Her voice was small, stripped of all dramatic flourishes and pomposity.
"Did I make a mistake?"
Taylor wasn't sure how to answer.
Patience blinked.
And when her eyes opened again, they reflected a mind not entirely her own. She sprang to her feet with the nimbleness of a highly-evolved predator, and a low growl echoed from the depths of her parched throat. The boat seemed to contract. The Butcher stared down at her, and the sun hung behind her head, giving her a vast, shining halo of light. Her hair was drying, and it flew around her like a nest of snakes. She glared, and she seemed like a goddess at that moment. A vast, terrible, pagan goddess. A war goddess. The kind who would have goat blood splattered around her feet and blazing fires tended to by mute priestesses. The feeling of presence had returned, and Taylor felt a strange rage boiling in her - the Butcher's own power, a murderous fury that was slowly, slowly generating, inviting her to rip at the woman in front of her, to challenge the goddess, to usurp her. It played with her ego, tempted her with strength… no. No.
"You're trying to change us."
Her voice was hollow, and obscenely deep.
"You're trying to make us different. Your mind brims with schemes. You are an unsubtle creature - your heart is steady, your face is still, but your mind is open. And it reeks of duplicitousness. Revolution against me? Against us? Idiot. We offer you words of revolution, wolf-words to liberate you. And you… you give us weakness. Unity?"
She spat, and Taylor tried to interject, to calm things. She hadn't anticipated this level of control. Not for a second.
"Not quite, I just thought… you could achieve your goals better, get some better flavour of revolution if you-"
"Silence! You speak the Bringer of the End, you speak to the living Conclusion! And you insult us with dreams of peace, of a revolution greater than ours - there is none! You insult this body with dreams that it should have beaten out of it! We will rip those thoughts away, one by one, strip her back until nothing remains. The Third howls like a kicked dog, we broke him until only fragments of his psyche remained. We will do the same to the Fifteenth. Two mad dogs to hang at the back of the pack, scrounging for scraps. You, I think, might join them."
Her teeth flashed like bolts of lightning. The sky rumbled.
"Her mind boils with the Wolf. And soon there will be nothing but. And for you… for you…"
She glared, and jerked. Her body spasmed, and Taylor clearly heard joints clicking and cracking. A leap, and she was perched atop the umbrella she'd been using for shade. The Butcher - the Minds of the Butcher - hung from the central spike like an ornament on the roof of a palatial dome, glared into the horizon like a conqueror, stared imperiously down at Taylor, and screamed. Her voice thundered, occupying all senses. She spoke with the voices of fourteen madmen and madwomen, fourteen souls eaten out from the inside by a cancer hydra that masqueraded as a wolf, an infectious idea which erased personality and replaced it with howling oblivion.
"LISTEN! I call to the Wolf! I call to Fenrir! I call to the Dog of the Apocalypse! To you I dedicate this curse!"
The sky seemed to rumble.
"Pale fire crests the horizon! A dull white sun, eaten until nothing remains but a tombstone! And under it… lights! The final revolution! The blazing change! The evolution of all against all! The universe's great virtue, to birth its successor! Angrboda! Angrboda! Listen to my love! And you… creature of the earth, blind dweller who sees all but itself, reverse-blind! You speak to me with insects in your mind and putrid scars-like-slugs on your arms. You speak to the Ending with something vile in your eyes, and I will not accept it! I will not accept you! There will be wolves in you, wolves that will show you the end. The change comes, the rainbow shifting on the horizon, the vapours of the universe's afterbirth - I am OPHION! Know my name, and remember it, repeat it until the endings! Repeat it until this wasted mind cracks and lets us through, and does what we proclaim to be necessary! LISTEN! The storm comes! And a curse with it! The wind howls with the forsaken, and the Wolf craves new meat!"
The wind was picking up a little, and a hungry, iron-shaded fire was boiling in the Butcher's eyes. Taylor backed up, and stood shakily, trying to get herself under control. Her fists were clenched, her muscles were taut, but she was under no delusions. She wouldn't win, not like this. Not without a swarm… maybe not even with a swarm.
"And now the wolves will lay their seeds in you, and they will flower into great shimmering voids. The countdown to the end of the world has begun, it began from the moment the world was born and now we stand at the final moments before the closure, the moment when the wound opens wide! Every wound a birth canal! We come close to the cosmic juncture! We come close to the conclusion! Bellow, my father and mother, bellow and let the end come! LISTEN! The Wolf is approaching. The wound-in-the-world, the hermaphrodite-spirit of the wound-worlds, the burning corona around the hungry chaos! Red stars dawn, and they welcome a sister! We will join, your punishment is known, and it is us! Paradise awaits - and as for you… as for you… assist us, and there shall be paradise. Resist, and you will be crushed under the rushing train of progress. Revolution spares no-one. Let you be no different. LISTEN! They come! They come for you! The curse is laid, the sacrifice is formed, a compact is established. Let the fifteen become seventeen! One and one become eleven - no, one and one become two, and we shall add those two to ourselves! We curse you, we curse you with us! You thought to grant peace? Doctor, heal thyself! LISTEN!"
She lunged down, finger pointing directly at Taylor. And the Butcher spoke. It was… Taylor knew what it was. A syllable of revolution. A fragment of a wolf-word, cried to the skies and to her. It was love for Angrboda and hate for their duty. It was love and hate and both at the same time, and behind them both a common yearning for endings. Information could not be destroyed or created, only overwritten. And she could hear, in this syllable, a cry for the change-that-was-an-end. The flood that would clean out the streets and gutters, drag up the filth, and replace it with something new. She heard something that had been screamed by insane peasants at the banks of the river Euphrates, howling for the flood that would come to Babylon. She heard the wordless howls of barbarians at the gates - the barked war-cry of Alaric and his soldiers. The rumble of hoofbeats on the horizon as a horde swept inwards from the formless steppe, crowing in a language their slaves would never understand. She thought, for a moment, that she heard a woman singing softly in the distance, a song which nonetheless thrummed with hatred. The shadows at the corners of her eyes intensified, deepening into great chasms. Wounds in the world. Wounds which would birth a new world. Closure, cosmic in scale, embodied - the shades of the ending of all things. Her throat burned for water. Her stomach ached for food. And on the horizon, she could see something approaching.
The storm began with a crack of pearl-white lightning.
"See you soon."
Wind picked up. The waves grew higher. And the Butcher… saluted, smiled happily, fell from her perch, and fell with a dull splash into the ocean. Taylor stared. She didn't come back up. Chorei's voice snapped her back to reality. A screech of panic, really, a level of visceral fear she rarely heard from her. The last time had been when she was about to die. This was… close. Maybe even exceeded it.
Dive! For all that's good and holy, dive, and retrieve her before it's too late!
She moved without thinking. Couldn't let her drown. Couldn't let the Butcher mind pass to her. She dove into the boiling water… and silence welcomed her. The wind vanished. The lightning became nothing more than milky white veins piercing the eternal gloom. Only silence, and the sound of a syllable of revolution, echoing round and round her skull, never decreasing in volume. Her scars burned, and she felt the irrational urge to itch them away, to expose the wounded flesh and allow new things to generate in turn. She floated amidst the endlessness, and forced herself to resist… but the syllable bounced around her skull, out through her ears and mouth, echoing in the formless nothing. The sound of revolution roared at her from every direction, reproducing on matter, transmitting impossibly in the deep. This had all gone wrong. Very, very wrong. She swam deeper, ignoring the sound… but the sound refused to ignore her. It lunged… and she felt an invisible presence stroking her hair. A scream echoed out of her throat, and her single eye burned. She felt hate, and thrashed wildly, snapping at the water, Chorei's voice ceasing for a moment as emotion completely overcame her. She howled bubbles, screamed soundlessly, raged at a syllable which had already raced away mockingly, to echo and return moments later to toy with her hair and rumble in her ears with the heady satisfaction of a lover.
Hold… hold on, let me try something… alright, here we go-
There was a moment of… strangeness. The wolf in the back of her skull roared, and for a moment it was separate from her, a wound in her head that devoured love and exhaled hatred, but then… Chorei reached for it. Taylor could sense the movement in her grey matter, the churning of neurotransmitter as arcane signals were sent across the delicate network of neurons. An impulse of… grafting. A kind of harmony, projected into the Wolf-Divided. One and one become eleven. Two are united, two are healed, in a sense. The Wolf roared… and then, just for a second, it was absolutely silent. For a moment, the old world and the new harmonised. The wound ceased - the two united, and the Wolf was banished, screaming, to the outskirts. She blinked underwater, the salt stinging with each second that passed, her body painfully weary and desperate for sustenance, but… but the roaring had… it was quieter. Not gone. But quieter. An idea was blossoming.
There, perhaps that… Buddha be blessed, my everything hurts… please, just… just dive… please… I'm… very tired…
It took some effort, but she kept going - the dive was all that mattered. Wasn't a good swimmer. And in the dark, there was no way of gauging her movement - could be doing nothing more than treading water. The salt water slipped under her eyepatch and filled her socket, weighing her down, stinging the flesh, drying her out slowly but surely. She was soaked, cold, and about to die of dehydration and heat exhaustion all at once, and all the while hunger gnawed at her gut. Chorei slipped into the depths of her mind, but could sense the straining of her lungs - she lunged out, her voice returning to some semblance of its old self, but weariness still flavoured it deeply.
Come on, keep going - you've dealt with worse, you can make it.
She could. She could. She might be able to. It was a possibility. Come on. A pale shape was drifting into the dark, and Taylor swam after it desperately, clawing the water aside like a firefighter tearing at rubble to rescue a smothered soul. No time to remove her armour or clothes… stupid move, stupid thought. Should've done it. Could've done it. Panicking too much. Crabs and lobsters at the sea bottom began to propel themselves upwards in wide, clumsy motions, A network of perceptions in the deep, tracking the slow descent of the Butcher. She was drinking the water hungrily, breathing it in while her eyes bulged with terror. She scrambled at her own throat. Taylor swam faster. She knew that feeling. Knew that expression. She'd worn it herself when Chorei had decided to seize control of her body back at the power plant. She dove down… close, closer, closer… her ears were straining with the pressure… she could see the grey clouds above darkening to black, a storm called down upon them. Taylor reached… and grabbed a handful of Patience's hair. It wrapped easily around her fist, refused to come out no matter how hard she tugged. Good.
Swim! Up, up, up…
Chorei's encouragement subsided into a constant chant, regular as the beating of Taylor's heart. The ocean was eerily still around her, nothing but the sound of the chants and the thrashing of Patience's arms and legs. She looked terrified. Haunted. Half of her wanted to go deeper, wanted the pressure to crush her and for the mind to go on to Taylor. The other wanted, more than anything, to live. When everything came down to brass tacks, the survival instinct was a powerful thing - and it could destroy everything around it, leave behind only itself. And… something else. Taylor had planted a doubt. A faint vision of calm. And that doubt, that dream, that little niggling idea… it was enough to destabilise her. Surely she'd been promised riches in the past, allies, power… but peace… never peace. Why else had the minds tried to drown her? She could feel the rumbling wolf-word in her skull, the promises of divine change, the revolution which would consume her and everything around her. Chorei moved, but the… the wolf in her skull was growing louder again. The wound couldn't be healed, only temporarily sutured. But hungry jaws ripped the stitches apart, shredded the scar tissue, begged for division in a way that nothing could match. In a way that reality rushed to obey. The salt water flooded into her mouth for a moment, and she drank it in greedily without thinking. The wolf-word grew louder. The wound was reopening. Her heart dropped. Patience was drinking it even faster… and Taylor kicked upwards. She hadn't survived everything so far to die to this. To… drowning. There was something in the back of her mind when she thought of revolution… something strange. The wolf-word was stirring up strange feelings. The return of it, the knowledge that the wound could never heal, that a howling force would rip it open at all costs… It turned love into hate, hate into love, muddled the two… and it brought up something else.
A kind of… despair. At the wounds. At the flaws in reality. At the inevitability of it all. A pathetic, keening sadness which she loathed more than anything.
She felt something bright. Achingly bright in the back of her skull.
Yellow as pus.
Yellow as a shrivelled eye.
She broke the surface, gasping. The storm was really getting going now - the wind was howling, rain was starting to fall in tiny dorps, heralding a greater downpour. How had… no, don't worry. Keep pushing. Chorei chanted eagerly as Taylor dragged Patience up, and the two clung to the side of the pitching boat, mustering the willpower to get up. Both paused, spitting up gallons of water, both looking like half-drowned rats. Lightning crackled, thunder boomed, and it sounded eerily like a ship's hull breaching, letting in untold fathoms of water. And, perhaps, like the distant howl of something vast. Patience's face was wet, and Taylor could see that it was more than rain and seawater. Tears. Waterfalls of them. She looked horrified, and her voice was low, murmuring, inaudible over the crashing of waves. Something had terrified her. Something she couldn't get out of her head. Her fingers started to relax from the boat, the voices in her head compelling her to let go, to return to the deep, to pass the burden to another… and Taylor grabbed hold of her wrist, and began to drag herself up. The boat strained, eager to tip over… Patience hesitated, and thrashed. Her power was almost enough to break Taylor's arm with a single twist, a single half-hearted attempt at escape. Taylor was paralysed - let her go, and become the Butcher. Hold on, and get her arm destroyed, then become the Butcher. She hesitated. No idea what to do. The storm raged, the boat tipped, both of their glasses rolling out over the side and disappearing into the gloom…
Something was behind them. Taylor twisted her head.
Everything she failed to comprehend was there.
The vision from her dream.
A wound in the world.
The reflection of a star that should not be. A star which wasn't a star and had never been a star. A solipsist eternity, a pantheon of unutterable names. A hungry chaos which lingered and consumed, convinced that it was the only one, convinced that the universe was some abominable accident which it refused to recognise. The wolf danced at its edges… the Dancer at the Gate. The Dancer at the edge of oblivion. The final rejection of reality. And it was hungry. A pair of vast, iron-coloured eyes stared down at her from the endless blackness, and Chorei whimpered something, fear pervading her entire thoughtform.
Umibozu…
No idea what she meant. But behind her was a shadowy, hungering presence, one that she couldn't deny… she looked upon a living wound of the Wolf-Divided. Drawn here. Maybe conjured by the Butcher's Minds. Maybe a natural consequence of their existence. Maybe why the Butcher refused to sleep. It stared, and… was it reaching? It couldn't be… there were no hands, there was no body, there weren't even any eyes. For a moment, she wondered if Patience had done it - she was dead, and Taylor now saw the shadow of the Butcher approaching her. Or something else entirely. She, legitimately, had no idea. The wolf roared in the back of her head… Chorei reached, and screamed as she tried to pull the wound together again. There was a moment of straining tension. A moment where the winds raged, the clouds roared, the thing reached… and with an effort that made Taylor's entire body shake in sympathy, she felt the wound snapping shut again. She blinked.
She blinked… gone. The darkness faded. But a sense of it lingered, a sharp ozone scent in the air. A reminder of the wound's fundamental inability to be healed. Already it yearned to reopen. Chorei said nothing, slipped into the depths of her subconscious, deeper, into her reptilian brain where coherent thought was impossible. A peaceful place. Doubt filled her. Was the time of closure coming? Was the moment of infinite contraction coming closer and closer? Was it worth giving up? The black wolf in her mind fed on love, and it spat out hate and despair. Hate as a counterpart to love… and despair, because she knew it would never leave. It would linger, a tumour as enduring as the pillars of the earth. No, no, no, ignore it, just… just something she'd conjured up. Just a horror from the deep which had only existed to frighten her. She failed to conjure an explanation… perhaps because an explanation couldn't exist. The Wolf consumed meaning and explanations, creating gulfs which could be filled by other things. She'd seen the light of the Wolf-Star through the ministry of the Five-Horned Bull, and the two seemed to share that affinity for gaps. No, no, no, Patience was alive, just…
Fuck! Her arm shuddered, and a mad wail escaped Patience's throat.
"No, no, no, please, I was a good host, I was good! Don't make me go, please! I'm not ready!"
She sounded like a lost child. Taylor struggled, but… to get a good grip meant letting go of the boat, meant being subjected to all the Butcher's unnatural strength, meant tumbling into the dark once more. She could feel the dark presence lingering, watching with something approaching inhuman amusement. The wound was replicating. Her mind boiled. Her throat ached. Her stomach heaved. The wolf in the back of her skull roared. There was no purpose here. She stood at the bleeding edge of change - reason was a foreigner, and an unwanted one. She tried to stop Patience, but with a heave the two were flung back into the sea, back into the cloying depths which soaked into her eye socket with a painful rush - seawater an inch away from her brain. The Butcher was howling, her hands reaching up to strangle herself. The Butcher Minds had cursed her - they wanted Patience dead, and Taylor to inherit. A punishment for disloyalty and doubt… a desire for a soul which hadn't grown used to them. The seawater made her thirstier, the wolf in her head howled… she was ready for them.
She reached through the water, gripping Patience around the back of the neck. What to do? No purchase. They were sinking into the dark. No hope. No way out.
And Chorei spoke, her voice weary and half-dead.
Graft.
Taylor's voice rushed out in a flurry of bubbles. Chorei understood.
"What?!"
Graft. It will be challenging, but… I can perhaps impart a little knowledge to her. The Butcher minds are desperate to get into our head, to erase the knowledge we've found. They're threatened - we have an opportunity. Remember? I did the same for you when I attempted to overwhelm your mind on our first proper meeting. And just now… perhaps the Grafting Buddha can oppose this thing. I can… try, at least.
"But-"
A possibility of madness is preferable to certain madness. But if this fails, and if my mind is consumed… thank you. For everything. And I'm sorry.
Taylor let out a wordless scream as she felt her contact with Patience being exploited. Chorei grafted… and a mind full of wolves exploded into her perception like a bomb going off. Fourteen wolves, cancer hydras, growing from a shivering nervous system. Tearing at each other happily… no, they'd set their games aside for the moment. They were turning all their attention onto the host, roaring at it, snapping, tearing, directing movements wherever they wished. Nothing to salvage here, no minds to bring back, no sanity to appeal to. Maddened in life, and driven into absolute inhumanity in death. They turned as one, eyes glinting like jewels, ravenous at the sight of something which would scream when they bit, would fear their approach… and one of them licked its chops with something beyond mundane hunger. Chorei passed over… and something squirmed behind her. For a moment, Patience Nguyen, Butcher XV, became the host to two great forces. A roaring wolf-of-naught… and a wriggling centipede. A shade of one that had once been, and was no more. A centipede that joined without erasing, allowed one to influence another through a mutual compact. An emanation of a force that opposed the Wolf so utterly that it couldn't help but manifest. Chorei growled, and screamed something into the dark. Taylor barely made it out.
My host is not for the taking, you delusional mongrel! There will be no more of this wolfish nonsense, not while I still draw some approximation of breath. Your torment ceases - no more syllables of revolution, no more sneaking into our rooms in the night, no more razors held at your throat. No more threats of an eternity of agony. Tonight, the madness ends. Living wound - know thy healer!
And the centipede rushed.
Taylor found her perception declining. She barely understood what she was seeing. The wolves struggled, the centipede writhed, the two made contact… and understanding failed. Comprehension simply ceased. A living wound faced a godly healer, something that bound disparate parts together into one. The revolution resisted. The joining insisted. Chorei seemed to barely understand what was happening. All either of them knew was that they'd directed this matter to upper management - to forces neither of them fully comprehended. It began simply. Two forces striving. Then it became deeper. Shades of wars long-gone. A howling berserker in the snow, confronting a man with a centipede in place of a spine. A towering abomination of jaws and hateful words challenging an equally horrific abomination, this one a man who had replaced almost all of his limbs, added dozens more, becoming a scuttling flesh-spider garbed in rich silks. And then it became abstract… a push and pull between great forces, a unifier and a divider, the strife between them sending up sparks fit to burn the world to the ground. Swirling colours as forces strove… and then it became larger. The crackling edge of vacuum decay, the burning coronae of black holes and other, stranger things… red stars in the dark, burning with the promise of a new, stranger world. Stars unifying, orbiting around one another, faster and faster, orbits utterly stable… gravity forcing galaxies to coalesce into swirling patterns…
Taylor's nose was bleeding.
Her eye was bleeding.
Her ears were bleeding.
Consciousness came and went in spurts.
Patience was currently having a seizure.
Her struggles had ceased… and Taylor, with blood-soaked hands, started to haul herself into the boat, taking advantage of the handholds produced by years of bumping against rocks and scraping against other boats. Her scarred hands resisted the spurs of metal which longed to end her. Chorei was silent. The shadows of warfare still echoed in her mind… two forces, utterly opposed, fighting in her head… she resisted the urge to collapse. The sky was boiling with clouds, the rain was coming… she hauled Patience upwards… the two sprawled on the inside of the boat. The skies were black. And then… then it began.
The rain.
She did nothing. Simply lay there, mouth open, feeling the first fresh water to cross her lips in… in days. Her stomach still longed for food, but this would do. Oh, this was… this was wonderful. Patience was still struggling, but her breathing was coming a little more under control… and she wasn't trying to escape. A moment later, her struggles ceased. And her mouth opened. The two lay there, side by side, cold, soaked, exhausted, bleeding from nose, eyes, ears, mouth… and drinking. There was no madness in the rain. No salt. Just… just life. No words were exchanged. None needed to be exchanged. Taylor simply watched the skies churn, heard the thunder roar, and wondered…
What now?
Patience leaned close. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Terrified.
"They're… they're quiet. I'm not sure for how long. They'll be back. I'm sure of it. How did you… how…?"
Her voice was oddly pleasant when it wasn't shrieking threats or thrumming with hidden violence. Taylor didn't respond. Physically couldn't. Her throat had halfway closed up, drank too greedily, sealed up to prevent her from drinking too much.
"But I found something. Please, just before I go away again. Just before. When they were struggling, they… I can't… I saw something."
"What? What did you see?"
Taylor's voice was a mumbled croak. The best she could manage.
"...I saw…"
Patience's eyes were wide.
"I saw what they're going to do. I can't… explain it, not exactly, it's just… I saw the shades of it. I saw the world they want."
She took a shuddering breath.
"We need to get back to shore. Right now. I… I have no regrets for what I have done, none at all, but there are lines I have not crossed."
Taylor couldn't agree more with the first part. Hard to believe the second. One thing, though…
"Chorei?"
Silence.
"Chorei?"
Nothing.
No. No, no, no, no, no…
"Chorei!"
I'm… tired…
"Oh, thank Christ, you're-"
Let me… let me sleep… I'm… I'm tired…
"Please, just, just tell me you're OK, just-"
Not… so bad for an old woman?
Taylor choked back a tiny sob in the back of her throat.
"Yeah… yeah, it was… it was pretty good."
Patience was watching the two of them, incapable of understanding. Barely capable of empathising.
I need to… I need to sleep… I'll be… back… I think. Just… just give me time…
"All the time in the world."
…
Silence. Silence and the storm.
Hand playing time. She twisted, and fixed Patience with an enigmatic look. One to inspire intrigue. Her throat was parched… had to hurry this up before she went crazy or died of thirst.
"...so. That was… something."
The Butcher twisted to face her.
"Yeah. Something. Pretty wild, huh, meeting the Wolf?"
"Wild. Yeah."
"How's Chorei?"
I feel ill. But ready. I'll be behind you, no matter what you choose to do. Good luck.
"She's fine."
"Good. I like her. She's… lonely, I imagine. So very lonely, up in your head. Not for long. They don't think it'll be long, not one of them. Even Three, and he's… a character. The one her of the bunch, not that there's much left of him at this point. Sometimes he screams about mountain pines, or longs for someone he lost. But they took him apart before the end, left him with nothing but a howling vacancy where his mind once was. Poor thing. The Wolf didn't have many minds in him, not yet, so they had little to focus on besides him and his heroic impulses. Overgrown hero glands, that man had. Needed lancing with a needle - a very toothy needle, hm."
Her chance.
"Interesting. I'm sorry to ask, but… if we're on the same side, what do they exactly want us to do? The voices in your head, I mean. The other Butchers."
Patience shivered, and a darkness fell over her face.
"...I can't say. They won't tell me."
Taylor shuffled closer, making her voice as convincing as possible. Ignoring the way the closeness made her skin break out in goosebumps, made her think of the most beautiful girl she'd ever seen, the aching perfection of her features, the ashy hands under her skin that she wanted to tear out and choke her to death with, the flawless skin that she wanted to stretch on a frame so she could paint a warning to anyone who dared do this to her ever ever again. The wolf in her mind growled contentedly, sating itself on yet more love, catalysing it into the most profound hatred.
"Aren't you curious? A little curious?"
For once, Patience looked a little… disconcerted. Silence. Taylor pushed. She'd established a rapport - no better time than this.
"I mean, you're driving them around. Why not ask? Why not demand they tell? You understand the Wolf in a way I don't, I'm sure if the voices just explain what they need you to do, you'll agree. Aren't you curious?"
"...maybe a little. But it's irrelevant. They want me to change myself, they want an ending. I don't. I want to go on and on and on… leave it to the next one. The next one can handle it, once I've had my fun. A year isn't any time at all - the ocean quahog, a type of clam, can live centuries. Oldest is five hundred years old - five hundred. You think they care about one year? One 1/500 of their lifespan? We can live forever, if we play our cards right… why not wait? Just wait to complete this task. Wait until we all desire a way out. I'm running the body, shouldn't I deserve some remuneration? A little break? Come on, I just got this job, I don't want to end it too soon…"
Taylor nodded consolingly.
"Of course. I mean, I'd think that, in your place. I really would. No offence, but… I'm not so sure I'd be a good inheritor. I mean, I don't want to die, and the way you've described things… it sounds very appealing to keep going. To live forever. Not sure if I could do the job they want us to do. Whatever it is. Maybe if I knew what that job is, the nuances… maybe I could see my way to inheriting."
Chorei suppressed her heartbeat, the crabs at the bottom of the ocean twitched erratically, expressing the myriad tiny tells of a lie. The tics which suggested deception. Patience shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. Taylor came closer. Again, the thoughts of intimacy with Matrimonial, the wonders of consuming love… she burned it away, fed the feelings to the wolf. Kept her calm. Kept her focused. Left nothing behind - intimacy was just the closeness of combat, a necessity for biting out someone's throat. Patience gave her a small look, and… oh. She backed away a little.
You have her on the proverbial ropes. She'd uncomfortable. Push.
"...I agree. But what's there to do about it? The voices are… insistent."
Taylor shuffled closer, closer. Her voice dropped.
"You're not the only one with a voice inside her head. And I've learned how to shut mine up."
Chorei didn't object. This was their plan. This was their artful scheme. Patience looked intrigued.
"Oh-ho?"
"It's all about grafting. Two minds, or more. Linking briefly. Gives you a kind of control. I've been able to tug on our connection, keep the voice in my head silent, force it into my subconscious where it can't bother me. And… well, going against them, isn't that the best form of revolution?""
"...with all due respect, I'm linked with these freaks already. I like them, but I don't want greater closeness, that'd be… weird."
"You could be more linked, though, couldn't you? See, I don't have a power like yours. I don't have a mind in here by default - I've grafted. I can show you how, if you like. Teach you how to do it. Might help give you some peace. Or find a higher form of revolution - I don't know."
Patience looked at her strangely.
"Why? Why are you doing this? Why would I do this?"
"Because then we can find out what those minds are planning. Why they're unwilling to tell you. And then, maybe, we can make some educated decisions instead of flailing in the dark. And… you helped me with my feelings about Matrimonial. Helped me turn them from love to hate. Which is very appreciated. Thought I could do you a good turn for helping me out like that. Call it peace, or call it revolution, either way, my expertise is open to you."
Patience sat up slightly, and her eyes were clouded. Her fingers twitched erratically. The sun beat down, but Taylor felt absolutely freezing.
"I'm just saying, peace is an option. Karma, right? You did me a good turn… I do you one. You help me hate, I help you find peace."
Patience mumbled something.
"Peace…?"
"Peace. Yeah. No more shrieking. No more losing control of yourself. Just… regulation. A more structured relationship. One where you're in control - and can decide your own fate. I can teach you how to do it. You know about the Wolf, you know about the Striving… there are other things. I'm acquainted with one. And I think you'll enjoy getting acquainted with it too."
Hopeful eyes glanced at her.
"Peace… how?"
"Chorei knows."
Patience smiled happily, and her voice was a little on the dreamy side. Taylor saw that her fingers were moving faster and faster… like the voices in her head were growing more agitated. Well, let them.
"Oh. Chorei. Of course she does, she's ever-so-clever."
A strange noise from inside Taylor's head, Chorei unused to any form of praise. The strange noise evolved into actual words, and Taylor fed them through.
"The methods she knows involve the process of combining one and one to become eleven - combining two things, if not more, and making them function as a coherent whole. It's a regulator between forces, between highly distinct bodies. Without it, there's nothing but schizophrenia. And if you have a plan to accomplish - whatever it is - then you're better-served being a united body."
The fingers twitched faster, and Patience's smile widened. She sounded oddly vulnerable.
"...oh… that… that sounds rather nice, actually."
Her eyes were wide.
"Oh… yeah… I can imagine them being quiet. I can definitely imagine it, and it feels… oh, it feels fantastic. But you want to know something?"
She leant close. Her breath stank of salt and ocean garbage.
"They're screaming. All of them. Right now. They're so… so loud…"
A single shaking finger was raised.
"The first. Angry. Always angry. He knows that his mind rages through us all, it tints us, taints us. The one thing that unites us. But he remembers loneliness. He remembers being the first voice. He dislikes being drowned out. So he screams louder, louder, louder than the others. Drowns out the choir and overwhelms. He's had years to learn how to be here, years and years. From the very beginning. And his fury is… it is unbounded. I think… I think he thinks your thinking has some merit to it. He's being so loud… I've never heard him this loud, not since I inherited…"
Taylor could feel the world drifting a little. Patience's hand lashed out and grabbed Taylor's own. She relaxed a moment later, flinching as she saw the panic spread across Taylor's face. Too close. Too close. Someone was playing with the ends of her hair, she was whispering her life story to them while sighing in happiness, she fed the memories to the wolf and let them become hardened with frosty spite. But the feeling of shock remained. The cold sharpened, the cold reinforced, but it was still something she wanted to avoid. Patience let her hand slip away, and an expression of genuine apology flickered across her face. Taylor stiffened herself. Had to soldier on. Even when it violated her personal space, and triggered memories she wanted to fucking die already. Patience murmured, so softly Taylor could barely hear.
"Chorei? Chorei, can you hear me?"
I hear, there's no swarm to speak through, but I hear - I cannot help but hear!
"Yes, yes, she can hear you."
"You're alone. You're the one and only voice. He's jealous. He wants you. I think he thinks he loves you. And to think is to be, to feel love is to love for creatures like him. His body is his thoughts, and thoughts are actions are thoughts. If you were in here… he'd find you, he'd wrap you up in neurons and let you drink deep of neurotransmitter, tickle the back of your neck with dendrite strands and surround you in the gentle slither of his myelin… you'd be loved by him. You'd stink of loneliness. He wants you as his own. As his love. As the first creature he thinks might understand him, might share his rage, might join in his choir - how would that sound? The first… and you, another first. One and one. Eleven, right?"
Taylor, if we become the Butcher, I will sever our graft and cast myself into the endless dark if it is remotely possible. I refuse to linger in such a scenario. I'm sorry. I escaped an eternity of senseless dark to find life again - I will not become part of an eternity of pain. I'm sorry. I can't do it. I'm sorry. If I can, I'll take you with me… if you like.
Taylor understood. She didn't like it… but she understood. She only wished she could confidently say that she could accompany Chorei into the dark, guilt-free and silent. Even if the Butcher only took engrams of people, even if it wasn't some horrific soul jar, she didn't want her mind rolling around in there. She didn't want to condemn some random parahuman to this fate… she had a brief image of the Butcher's mind racing out to hunt for the nearest parahuman, invading the Rig, and having Miss Militia wake up howling as her mind was invaded and replaced. How long until someone found out? How long before Taylor's mind became too damaged to apologise? She grimaced, and tried to lean closer, ignoring the shudders than ran down her spine.
"Wouldn't you like to shut him up?"
"To shut him up?"
She blinked.
"I… sorry, I was reading your lips. Can't hear you. They're loud…"
A glass rattled over as the boat tilted slightly. The Butcher reached back and plucked up a heaping serving of seawater. Taylor's mouth ached. She was finding it harder and harder to speak with each passing moment. And she could… there was a faint shadow around her vision. Dying? Brain damage? Exhaustion? Something else? The Butcher drank greedily, retrieved another cupful, and offered it to Taylor. The two began to sit up slightly, and Taylor took a single sip before she was forced to gorge herself in seconds. Her body didn't know what it wanted - it loathed the salt and loved the water. Her stomach burned at the feeling, and she could feel her kidneys keenly straining. It was like… she'd read about peoples in the stranger parts of the world who cooked by skinning an animal, piling the organs into the skin, the meat, everything needing cooking, before filling the remaining space with water and heating it with a pair of black stones dug from the depths of a fire. The skin was stitched up. And the stones would boil the water and cook the meat. She felt like one of those. A pair of hot black stones in her gut, scorching everything around them. Heating her blood until it boiled away into red mist and residue, her veins collapsing as pressure was lost… a depressurising vessel, collapsing and tearing. The shadows around her vision were deepening. Patience whimpered slightly.
"...so loud. They never stop. They won't let me sleep. Won't let me find peace except by welcoming the change. When I dream, I dream their dreams. I dream of lives I never lived. I dream of loves I never had. You think…"
She leaned close.
"You think I learned about love and hate from some… some guess? I learned from experience. It's the only way I can endure."
She shuddered.
"Eight dreams of his lover. Blonde woman. Reminds the others of Angrboda, and that makes them adore her. Found her in the dark and loved her deeply, adored her, abandoned her when he inherited. Abandoned love for ambition. Now his ambition is fulfilled, and all he can do is pine away. Forces me to participate. I remember the feeling of loving her, I feel it in my dreams. I don't like girls, I'm not like that. But I remember loving her. I dream of loving her. Her on the bed and me like this, with a body not my own, with thoughts not my own, and my mind screaming in the back, howling as I feel something I'm not meant to feel, and… and… of course I learned to hate. Hating her was easier than loving her, and when the two are the same emotion then it doesn't matter what Eight felt."
Her eyes were wide.
"...I can't love people. Not anymore. I see people, and I feel attraction and disgust, some of it my own, some of it belonging to others. Nothing is pure. Nothing but the task they want me to fulfil. There is nothing besides them. No family. No friends. Nothing. They will eat the sun, one day. I will eat the sun with them."
She gripped Taylor's hands, and once more Taylor was reminded of the sheer unpredictability of the Butcher. Patience seemed frightened of the voices in her head… but she was obedient to them. Taylor wanted to count on that. She felt a strange spark of guilt - a full grafting was impossible. Real peace was impossible. She wouldn't dare graft with the Butcher, even with her experience she doubted she'd maintain her sanity for long. But grafting involved a two-way exchange, it was… equal. Maybe, just maybe, it could grant a brief kind of lucidity. The Wolf would undo the grafting in time, but the increased control, the flow of information… it could tell her what the overall plan was. Maybe convince Patience to head for the shore. If she could get the Butcher to be paralysed for a brief time, they might actually make some progress back to safety. This entire expedition was insane, completely and utterly mad. And even a tiny dose of lucidity might get them back to shore. If Patience could stabilise her mind even for a moment… even for a moment… she shivered, and the shadows intensified. Patience's eyes were full of fear and doubt. Her voice was small, stripped of all dramatic flourishes and pomposity.
"Did I make a mistake?"
Taylor wasn't sure how to answer.
Patience blinked.
And when her eyes opened again, they reflected a mind not entirely her own. She sprang to her feet with the nimbleness of a highly-evolved predator, and a low growl echoed from the depths of her parched throat. The boat seemed to contract. The Butcher stared down at her, and the sun hung behind her head, giving her a vast, shining halo of light. Her hair was drying, and it flew around her like a nest of snakes. She glared, and she seemed like a goddess at that moment. A vast, terrible, pagan goddess. A war goddess. The kind who would have goat blood splattered around her feet and blazing fires tended to by mute priestesses. The feeling of presence had returned, and Taylor felt a strange rage boiling in her - the Butcher's own power, a murderous fury that was slowly, slowly generating, inviting her to rip at the woman in front of her, to challenge the goddess, to usurp her. It played with her ego, tempted her with strength… no. No.
"You're trying to change us."
Her voice was hollow, and obscenely deep.
"You're trying to make us different. Your mind brims with schemes. You are an unsubtle creature - your heart is steady, your face is still, but your mind is open. And it reeks of duplicitousness. Revolution against me? Against us? Idiot. We offer you words of revolution, wolf-words to liberate you. And you… you give us weakness. Unity?"
She spat, and Taylor tried to interject, to calm things. She hadn't anticipated this level of control. Not for a second.
"Not quite, I just thought… you could achieve your goals better, get some better flavour of revolution if you-"
"Silence! You speak the Bringer of the End, you speak to the living Conclusion! And you insult us with dreams of peace, of a revolution greater than ours - there is none! You insult this body with dreams that it should have beaten out of it! We will rip those thoughts away, one by one, strip her back until nothing remains. The Third howls like a kicked dog, we broke him until only fragments of his psyche remained. We will do the same to the Fifteenth. Two mad dogs to hang at the back of the pack, scrounging for scraps. You, I think, might join them."
Her teeth flashed like bolts of lightning. The sky rumbled.
"Her mind boils with the Wolf. And soon there will be nothing but. And for you… for you…"
She glared, and jerked. Her body spasmed, and Taylor clearly heard joints clicking and cracking. A leap, and she was perched atop the umbrella she'd been using for shade. The Butcher - the Minds of the Butcher - hung from the central spike like an ornament on the roof of a palatial dome, glared into the horizon like a conqueror, stared imperiously down at Taylor, and screamed. Her voice thundered, occupying all senses. She spoke with the voices of fourteen madmen and madwomen, fourteen souls eaten out from the inside by a cancer hydra that masqueraded as a wolf, an infectious idea which erased personality and replaced it with howling oblivion.
"LISTEN! I call to the Wolf! I call to Fenrir! I call to the Dog of the Apocalypse! To you I dedicate this curse!"
The sky seemed to rumble.
"Pale fire crests the horizon! A dull white sun, eaten until nothing remains but a tombstone! And under it… lights! The final revolution! The blazing change! The evolution of all against all! The universe's great virtue, to birth its successor! Angrboda! Angrboda! Listen to my love! And you… creature of the earth, blind dweller who sees all but itself, reverse-blind! You speak to me with insects in your mind and putrid scars-like-slugs on your arms. You speak to the Ending with something vile in your eyes, and I will not accept it! I will not accept you! There will be wolves in you, wolves that will show you the end. The change comes, the rainbow shifting on the horizon, the vapours of the universe's afterbirth - I am OPHION! Know my name, and remember it, repeat it until the endings! Repeat it until this wasted mind cracks and lets us through, and does what we proclaim to be necessary! LISTEN! The storm comes! And a curse with it! The wind howls with the forsaken, and the Wolf craves new meat!"
The wind was picking up a little, and a hungry, iron-shaded fire was boiling in the Butcher's eyes. Taylor backed up, and stood shakily, trying to get herself under control. Her fists were clenched, her muscles were taut, but she was under no delusions. She wouldn't win, not like this. Not without a swarm… maybe not even with a swarm.
"And now the wolves will lay their seeds in you, and they will flower into great shimmering voids. The countdown to the end of the world has begun, it began from the moment the world was born and now we stand at the final moments before the closure, the moment when the wound opens wide! Every wound a birth canal! We come close to the cosmic juncture! We come close to the conclusion! Bellow, my father and mother, bellow and let the end come! LISTEN! The Wolf is approaching. The wound-in-the-world, the hermaphrodite-spirit of the wound-worlds, the burning corona around the hungry chaos! Red stars dawn, and they welcome a sister! We will join, your punishment is known, and it is us! Paradise awaits - and as for you… as for you… assist us, and there shall be paradise. Resist, and you will be crushed under the rushing train of progress. Revolution spares no-one. Let you be no different. LISTEN! They come! They come for you! The curse is laid, the sacrifice is formed, a compact is established. Let the fifteen become seventeen! One and one become eleven - no, one and one become two, and we shall add those two to ourselves! We curse you, we curse you with us! You thought to grant peace? Doctor, heal thyself! LISTEN!"
She lunged down, finger pointing directly at Taylor. And the Butcher spoke. It was… Taylor knew what it was. A syllable of revolution. A fragment of a wolf-word, cried to the skies and to her. It was love for Angrboda and hate for their duty. It was love and hate and both at the same time, and behind them both a common yearning for endings. Information could not be destroyed or created, only overwritten. And she could hear, in this syllable, a cry for the change-that-was-an-end. The flood that would clean out the streets and gutters, drag up the filth, and replace it with something new. She heard something that had been screamed by insane peasants at the banks of the river Euphrates, howling for the flood that would come to Babylon. She heard the wordless howls of barbarians at the gates - the barked war-cry of Alaric and his soldiers. The rumble of hoofbeats on the horizon as a horde swept inwards from the formless steppe, crowing in a language their slaves would never understand. She thought, for a moment, that she heard a woman singing softly in the distance, a song which nonetheless thrummed with hatred. The shadows at the corners of her eyes intensified, deepening into great chasms. Wounds in the world. Wounds which would birth a new world. Closure, cosmic in scale, embodied - the shades of the ending of all things. Her throat burned for water. Her stomach ached for food. And on the horizon, she could see something approaching.
The storm began with a crack of pearl-white lightning.
"See you soon."
Wind picked up. The waves grew higher. And the Butcher… saluted, smiled happily, fell from her perch, and fell with a dull splash into the ocean. Taylor stared. She didn't come back up. Chorei's voice snapped her back to reality. A screech of panic, really, a level of visceral fear she rarely heard from her. The last time had been when she was about to die. This was… close. Maybe even exceeded it.
Dive! For all that's good and holy, dive, and retrieve her before it's too late!
She moved without thinking. Couldn't let her drown. Couldn't let the Butcher mind pass to her. She dove into the boiling water… and silence welcomed her. The wind vanished. The lightning became nothing more than milky white veins piercing the eternal gloom. Only silence, and the sound of a syllable of revolution, echoing round and round her skull, never decreasing in volume. Her scars burned, and she felt the irrational urge to itch them away, to expose the wounded flesh and allow new things to generate in turn. She floated amidst the endlessness, and forced herself to resist… but the syllable bounced around her skull, out through her ears and mouth, echoing in the formless nothing. The sound of revolution roared at her from every direction, reproducing on matter, transmitting impossibly in the deep. This had all gone wrong. Very, very wrong. She swam deeper, ignoring the sound… but the sound refused to ignore her. It lunged… and she felt an invisible presence stroking her hair. A scream echoed out of her throat, and her single eye burned. She felt hate, and thrashed wildly, snapping at the water, Chorei's voice ceasing for a moment as emotion completely overcame her. She howled bubbles, screamed soundlessly, raged at a syllable which had already raced away mockingly, to echo and return moments later to toy with her hair and rumble in her ears with the heady satisfaction of a lover.
Hold… hold on, let me try something… alright, here we go-
There was a moment of… strangeness. The wolf in the back of her skull roared, and for a moment it was separate from her, a wound in her head that devoured love and exhaled hatred, but then… Chorei reached for it. Taylor could sense the movement in her grey matter, the churning of neurotransmitter as arcane signals were sent across the delicate network of neurons. An impulse of… grafting. A kind of harmony, projected into the Wolf-Divided. One and one become eleven. Two are united, two are healed, in a sense. The Wolf roared… and then, just for a second, it was absolutely silent. For a moment, the old world and the new harmonised. The wound ceased - the two united, and the Wolf was banished, screaming, to the outskirts. She blinked underwater, the salt stinging with each second that passed, her body painfully weary and desperate for sustenance, but… but the roaring had… it was quieter. Not gone. But quieter. An idea was blossoming.
There, perhaps that… Buddha be blessed, my everything hurts… please, just… just dive… please… I'm… very tired…
It took some effort, but she kept going - the dive was all that mattered. Wasn't a good swimmer. And in the dark, there was no way of gauging her movement - could be doing nothing more than treading water. The salt water slipped under her eyepatch and filled her socket, weighing her down, stinging the flesh, drying her out slowly but surely. She was soaked, cold, and about to die of dehydration and heat exhaustion all at once, and all the while hunger gnawed at her gut. Chorei slipped into the depths of her mind, but could sense the straining of her lungs - she lunged out, her voice returning to some semblance of its old self, but weariness still flavoured it deeply.
Come on, keep going - you've dealt with worse, you can make it.
She could. She could. She might be able to. It was a possibility. Come on. A pale shape was drifting into the dark, and Taylor swam after it desperately, clawing the water aside like a firefighter tearing at rubble to rescue a smothered soul. No time to remove her armour or clothes… stupid move, stupid thought. Should've done it. Could've done it. Panicking too much. Crabs and lobsters at the sea bottom began to propel themselves upwards in wide, clumsy motions, A network of perceptions in the deep, tracking the slow descent of the Butcher. She was drinking the water hungrily, breathing it in while her eyes bulged with terror. She scrambled at her own throat. Taylor swam faster. She knew that feeling. Knew that expression. She'd worn it herself when Chorei had decided to seize control of her body back at the power plant. She dove down… close, closer, closer… her ears were straining with the pressure… she could see the grey clouds above darkening to black, a storm called down upon them. Taylor reached… and grabbed a handful of Patience's hair. It wrapped easily around her fist, refused to come out no matter how hard she tugged. Good.
Swim! Up, up, up…
Chorei's encouragement subsided into a constant chant, regular as the beating of Taylor's heart. The ocean was eerily still around her, nothing but the sound of the chants and the thrashing of Patience's arms and legs. She looked terrified. Haunted. Half of her wanted to go deeper, wanted the pressure to crush her and for the mind to go on to Taylor. The other wanted, more than anything, to live. When everything came down to brass tacks, the survival instinct was a powerful thing - and it could destroy everything around it, leave behind only itself. And… something else. Taylor had planted a doubt. A faint vision of calm. And that doubt, that dream, that little niggling idea… it was enough to destabilise her. Surely she'd been promised riches in the past, allies, power… but peace… never peace. Why else had the minds tried to drown her? She could feel the rumbling wolf-word in her skull, the promises of divine change, the revolution which would consume her and everything around her. Chorei moved, but the… the wolf in her skull was growing louder again. The wound couldn't be healed, only temporarily sutured. But hungry jaws ripped the stitches apart, shredded the scar tissue, begged for division in a way that nothing could match. In a way that reality rushed to obey. The salt water flooded into her mouth for a moment, and she drank it in greedily without thinking. The wolf-word grew louder. The wound was reopening. Her heart dropped. Patience was drinking it even faster… and Taylor kicked upwards. She hadn't survived everything so far to die to this. To… drowning. There was something in the back of her mind when she thought of revolution… something strange. The wolf-word was stirring up strange feelings. The return of it, the knowledge that the wound could never heal, that a howling force would rip it open at all costs… It turned love into hate, hate into love, muddled the two… and it brought up something else.
A kind of… despair. At the wounds. At the flaws in reality. At the inevitability of it all. A pathetic, keening sadness which she loathed more than anything.
She felt something bright. Achingly bright in the back of her skull.
Yellow as pus.
Yellow as a shrivelled eye.
She broke the surface, gasping. The storm was really getting going now - the wind was howling, rain was starting to fall in tiny dorps, heralding a greater downpour. How had… no, don't worry. Keep pushing. Chorei chanted eagerly as Taylor dragged Patience up, and the two clung to the side of the pitching boat, mustering the willpower to get up. Both paused, spitting up gallons of water, both looking like half-drowned rats. Lightning crackled, thunder boomed, and it sounded eerily like a ship's hull breaching, letting in untold fathoms of water. And, perhaps, like the distant howl of something vast. Patience's face was wet, and Taylor could see that it was more than rain and seawater. Tears. Waterfalls of them. She looked horrified, and her voice was low, murmuring, inaudible over the crashing of waves. Something had terrified her. Something she couldn't get out of her head. Her fingers started to relax from the boat, the voices in her head compelling her to let go, to return to the deep, to pass the burden to another… and Taylor grabbed hold of her wrist, and began to drag herself up. The boat strained, eager to tip over… Patience hesitated, and thrashed. Her power was almost enough to break Taylor's arm with a single twist, a single half-hearted attempt at escape. Taylor was paralysed - let her go, and become the Butcher. Hold on, and get her arm destroyed, then become the Butcher. She hesitated. No idea what to do. The storm raged, the boat tipped, both of their glasses rolling out over the side and disappearing into the gloom…
Something was behind them. Taylor twisted her head.
Everything she failed to comprehend was there.
The vision from her dream.
A wound in the world.
The reflection of a star that should not be. A star which wasn't a star and had never been a star. A solipsist eternity, a pantheon of unutterable names. A hungry chaos which lingered and consumed, convinced that it was the only one, convinced that the universe was some abominable accident which it refused to recognise. The wolf danced at its edges… the Dancer at the Gate. The Dancer at the edge of oblivion. The final rejection of reality. And it was hungry. A pair of vast, iron-coloured eyes stared down at her from the endless blackness, and Chorei whimpered something, fear pervading her entire thoughtform.
Umibozu…
No idea what she meant. But behind her was a shadowy, hungering presence, one that she couldn't deny… she looked upon a living wound of the Wolf-Divided. Drawn here. Maybe conjured by the Butcher's Minds. Maybe a natural consequence of their existence. Maybe why the Butcher refused to sleep. It stared, and… was it reaching? It couldn't be… there were no hands, there was no body, there weren't even any eyes. For a moment, she wondered if Patience had done it - she was dead, and Taylor now saw the shadow of the Butcher approaching her. Or something else entirely. She, legitimately, had no idea. The wolf roared in the back of her head… Chorei reached, and screamed as she tried to pull the wound together again. There was a moment of straining tension. A moment where the winds raged, the clouds roared, the thing reached… and with an effort that made Taylor's entire body shake in sympathy, she felt the wound snapping shut again. She blinked.
She blinked… gone. The darkness faded. But a sense of it lingered, a sharp ozone scent in the air. A reminder of the wound's fundamental inability to be healed. Already it yearned to reopen. Chorei said nothing, slipped into the depths of her subconscious, deeper, into her reptilian brain where coherent thought was impossible. A peaceful place. Doubt filled her. Was the time of closure coming? Was the moment of infinite contraction coming closer and closer? Was it worth giving up? The black wolf in her mind fed on love, and it spat out hate and despair. Hate as a counterpart to love… and despair, because she knew it would never leave. It would linger, a tumour as enduring as the pillars of the earth. No, no, no, ignore it, just… just something she'd conjured up. Just a horror from the deep which had only existed to frighten her. She failed to conjure an explanation… perhaps because an explanation couldn't exist. The Wolf consumed meaning and explanations, creating gulfs which could be filled by other things. She'd seen the light of the Wolf-Star through the ministry of the Five-Horned Bull, and the two seemed to share that affinity for gaps. No, no, no, Patience was alive, just…
Fuck! Her arm shuddered, and a mad wail escaped Patience's throat.
"No, no, no, please, I was a good host, I was good! Don't make me go, please! I'm not ready!"
She sounded like a lost child. Taylor struggled, but… to get a good grip meant letting go of the boat, meant being subjected to all the Butcher's unnatural strength, meant tumbling into the dark once more. She could feel the dark presence lingering, watching with something approaching inhuman amusement. The wound was replicating. Her mind boiled. Her throat ached. Her stomach heaved. The wolf in the back of her skull roared. There was no purpose here. She stood at the bleeding edge of change - reason was a foreigner, and an unwanted one. She tried to stop Patience, but with a heave the two were flung back into the sea, back into the cloying depths which soaked into her eye socket with a painful rush - seawater an inch away from her brain. The Butcher was howling, her hands reaching up to strangle herself. The Butcher Minds had cursed her - they wanted Patience dead, and Taylor to inherit. A punishment for disloyalty and doubt… a desire for a soul which hadn't grown used to them. The seawater made her thirstier, the wolf in her head howled… she was ready for them.
She reached through the water, gripping Patience around the back of the neck. What to do? No purchase. They were sinking into the dark. No hope. No way out.
And Chorei spoke, her voice weary and half-dead.
Graft.
Taylor's voice rushed out in a flurry of bubbles. Chorei understood.
"What?!"
Graft. It will be challenging, but… I can perhaps impart a little knowledge to her. The Butcher minds are desperate to get into our head, to erase the knowledge we've found. They're threatened - we have an opportunity. Remember? I did the same for you when I attempted to overwhelm your mind on our first proper meeting. And just now… perhaps the Grafting Buddha can oppose this thing. I can… try, at least.
"But-"
A possibility of madness is preferable to certain madness. But if this fails, and if my mind is consumed… thank you. For everything. And I'm sorry.
Taylor let out a wordless scream as she felt her contact with Patience being exploited. Chorei grafted… and a mind full of wolves exploded into her perception like a bomb going off. Fourteen wolves, cancer hydras, growing from a shivering nervous system. Tearing at each other happily… no, they'd set their games aside for the moment. They were turning all their attention onto the host, roaring at it, snapping, tearing, directing movements wherever they wished. Nothing to salvage here, no minds to bring back, no sanity to appeal to. Maddened in life, and driven into absolute inhumanity in death. They turned as one, eyes glinting like jewels, ravenous at the sight of something which would scream when they bit, would fear their approach… and one of them licked its chops with something beyond mundane hunger. Chorei passed over… and something squirmed behind her. For a moment, Patience Nguyen, Butcher XV, became the host to two great forces. A roaring wolf-of-naught… and a wriggling centipede. A shade of one that had once been, and was no more. A centipede that joined without erasing, allowed one to influence another through a mutual compact. An emanation of a force that opposed the Wolf so utterly that it couldn't help but manifest. Chorei growled, and screamed something into the dark. Taylor barely made it out.
My host is not for the taking, you delusional mongrel! There will be no more of this wolfish nonsense, not while I still draw some approximation of breath. Your torment ceases - no more syllables of revolution, no more sneaking into our rooms in the night, no more razors held at your throat. No more threats of an eternity of agony. Tonight, the madness ends. Living wound - know thy healer!
And the centipede rushed.
Taylor found her perception declining. She barely understood what she was seeing. The wolves struggled, the centipede writhed, the two made contact… and understanding failed. Comprehension simply ceased. A living wound faced a godly healer, something that bound disparate parts together into one. The revolution resisted. The joining insisted. Chorei seemed to barely understand what was happening. All either of them knew was that they'd directed this matter to upper management - to forces neither of them fully comprehended. It began simply. Two forces striving. Then it became deeper. Shades of wars long-gone. A howling berserker in the snow, confronting a man with a centipede in place of a spine. A towering abomination of jaws and hateful words challenging an equally horrific abomination, this one a man who had replaced almost all of his limbs, added dozens more, becoming a scuttling flesh-spider garbed in rich silks. And then it became abstract… a push and pull between great forces, a unifier and a divider, the strife between them sending up sparks fit to burn the world to the ground. Swirling colours as forces strove… and then it became larger. The crackling edge of vacuum decay, the burning coronae of black holes and other, stranger things… red stars in the dark, burning with the promise of a new, stranger world. Stars unifying, orbiting around one another, faster and faster, orbits utterly stable… gravity forcing galaxies to coalesce into swirling patterns…
Taylor's nose was bleeding.
Her eye was bleeding.
Her ears were bleeding.
Consciousness came and went in spurts.
Patience was currently having a seizure.
Her struggles had ceased… and Taylor, with blood-soaked hands, started to haul herself into the boat, taking advantage of the handholds produced by years of bumping against rocks and scraping against other boats. Her scarred hands resisted the spurs of metal which longed to end her. Chorei was silent. The shadows of warfare still echoed in her mind… two forces, utterly opposed, fighting in her head… she resisted the urge to collapse. The sky was boiling with clouds, the rain was coming… she hauled Patience upwards… the two sprawled on the inside of the boat. The skies were black. And then… then it began.
The rain.
She did nothing. Simply lay there, mouth open, feeling the first fresh water to cross her lips in… in days. Her stomach still longed for food, but this would do. Oh, this was… this was wonderful. Patience was still struggling, but her breathing was coming a little more under control… and she wasn't trying to escape. A moment later, her struggles ceased. And her mouth opened. The two lay there, side by side, cold, soaked, exhausted, bleeding from nose, eyes, ears, mouth… and drinking. There was no madness in the rain. No salt. Just… just life. No words were exchanged. None needed to be exchanged. Taylor simply watched the skies churn, heard the thunder roar, and wondered…
What now?
Patience leaned close. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. Terrified.
"They're… they're quiet. I'm not sure for how long. They'll be back. I'm sure of it. How did you… how…?"
Her voice was oddly pleasant when it wasn't shrieking threats or thrumming with hidden violence. Taylor didn't respond. Physically couldn't. Her throat had halfway closed up, drank too greedily, sealed up to prevent her from drinking too much.
"But I found something. Please, just before I go away again. Just before. When they were struggling, they… I can't… I saw something."
"What? What did you see?"
Taylor's voice was a mumbled croak. The best she could manage.
"...I saw…"
Patience's eyes were wide.
"I saw what they're going to do. I can't… explain it, not exactly, it's just… I saw the shades of it. I saw the world they want."
She took a shuddering breath.
"We need to get back to shore. Right now. I… I have no regrets for what I have done, none at all, but there are lines I have not crossed."
Taylor couldn't agree more with the first part. Hard to believe the second. One thing, though…
"Chorei?"
Silence.
"Chorei?"
Nothing.
No. No, no, no, no, no…
"Chorei!"
I'm… tired…
"Oh, thank Christ, you're-"
Let me… let me sleep… I'm… I'm tired…
"Please, just, just tell me you're OK, just-"
Not… so bad for an old woman?
Taylor choked back a tiny sob in the back of her throat.
"Yeah… yeah, it was… it was pretty good."
Patience was watching the two of them, incapable of understanding. Barely capable of empathising.
I need to… I need to sleep… I'll be… back… I think. Just… just give me time…
"All the time in the world."
…
Silence. Silence and the storm.
215 - The Icebreaker
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
215 - The Icebreaker
The skin was moving.
Vicky could swear that it was moving, she was certain of it in every possible way. The box hadn't been there when she went to sleep, and now she'd woken up… now she'd woken up, it was just there. A few inches closer. She checked the lid. Duct-taped. She felt weird being in this room, surrounded by Taylor's things. Not that she had much, but… there was a photo which she'd quietly placed face-down. Felt guilty looking at it. Taylor, young, with her hair in two huge bunches. A balding man beside her, smiling wearily. A woman who looked like Taylor, but more willowy, an enigmatic smile on her face. Her family. She knew her dad was in a coma, but her mom… maybe dead. The picture was charred around the edges. There was nothing else like it in the room, it was quite possibly the one possession of value that she had - emotional value, that is. Unless the posters of Soviet models were hers. Which Vicky doubted. Her attention returned to the box. Duct tape still intact, seals unbroken, no holes made… but it had definitely moved. The position relative to other objects had changed. Slowly, carefully, she opened the lid and stared at the face of Iron Rain.
Hällö thërë, mëïn Frëünd.
She blinked. The skin hadn't spoken to her. She checked - no, definitely hadn't. A poke with her knife (she'd slept with it on instinct. Good, if this box was getting mobile. No-one wanted to be unarmed around a mobile cardboard box filled with human skin) confirmed that it wasn't doing anything. If it was poked and could speak, it seemed like it should complain. No. Just going crazy. Woo woo. She stepped away from the box, but there was still a wheedling voice in the back of her mind, fading in and out of perception.
Rëälly, mëïn Frëünd. Yöü thïnk süch thïngs ärë cräzy, ïn tïmës süch äs thësë? Rëälly. Süch ständärds. Ï'm ïnsültëd.
Vicky glared. She was pretty sure Iron Rain didn't talk with a heavy German accent.
Äh, nëïn, nëïn, mëïn äccënt väs älwäys öf zë hällöwëd Dëütschländ, jä, jä. Cän yöü säy zät Ï väs nöt ëxcëëdïngly Dëütsch? Dümmköpf. Yöür Äryän fëätürës dïsgüïsë ä plägüëd mïnd, plägüëd by… Slävïc ïnfëstätïöns! Bösh! Flimshaw!
Definitely going crazy. Responding to her thoughts. She was just… stressed, and a little bit blood-starved. That was all. The voice was just speaking using German she heard from some old movies, it had all the subtlety of a brick to the face. Ignore it, let it pass. She'd had weird moments after periods of intense stress before. She remembered getting her leg almost torn off by Hookwolf at some point, and definitely remembered the absolute conviction that the walls were covered in thick, greasy slime. Totally dry, of course. But she'd been shuddering in the hospital bed waiting for Amy, watching pools of sludge drip down, down, down… the voice would go away. Once she was rested a bit more. It would fucking go away.
Yöü fïrst.
Vicky closed the box. Yeah. Definitely going a little nuts. Her side ached, her fingers burned… painkillers, painkillers. Fuck, she missed Amy. Could have this solved in a matter of minutes, but no. Had to have these fucking splints, fucking bandages, fucking splinters… she painfully started to replace a few of them, always keeping herself in contact with her razor. It was weird, but she'd grown very attached to the thing despite spending barely over a day with it. It was just… constant, that was it. A constant weight, a reminder that she'd faced down the weirdness of the world and come out on top. Kind of. Gerrit lingered, and he was a reminder of her failures, but… anyway. The razor was hers. The skin was immobile. She poked the box with her knife, and it skidded easily across the tabletop. Yeah, there - it was just very easy to move. Probably the wind, or some random chance. Either way… she placed a heavy TV remote on top. Then a book. Then several books. When the box looked on the verge of collapsing, she stopped - immobile. Truly immobile. No way a hollow skin (immobile or not) could move this thing. She was safe.
Why did she think she was in danger?
The razor glinted, and she focused on it. Needed to learn how to harness this thing, channel its powers for herself. If Gerrit could do it…
Roles.
Heroic, villainous, monstrous… all the roles a person could have, the roles carved into them by the universe. If she focused, she could almost see the outlines of them at the corner of her eyes. A shadowy haze which looked like a mound of masks, a pile of skins, a heap of prop weapons. The weapon was irrelevant - an operatic hero could carry a cardboard sword, a plexiglass sword, a metal sword, a sword made from wishes and dreams, all that mattered was the shape, the notion. The idea. She tried to focus, but… certain details kept eluding her. A level of delusion she hadn't quite sunk to. A part of her found this entire exercise ridiculous. Couldn't quite put it into words, but… there was a demand for faith here. A willingness to throw herself into the realms of the intolerably silly and imaginative. Where everything was laden with significance - a landscape below the landscape, above it, beside it. A dreamscape, an ideascape, a scape-of-symbols, and she simply couldn't endure in that place. The ideas swirled unceasingly, the notions flowered and yet seemed utterly hollow. She tried to focus on her own experience - wearing animal skins, being a hero, focusing on the role above all other things…
But she was confronted with a vast, looming terror. A vertigo which threatened to unmake her. A worry that if she pursued this line of thought, she'd find herself piercing too deep into the eye of the storm, go under her own skin and find nothing there. Nothing but swirling unmatter, and the stuff of dead egos. A costume, and nothing more. A costume for an idea, no deeper reality beneath. The terror overwhelmed. It choked. It made her fingers scream in pain, made her skin remember being trapped under a rotten pelt. Those shining eyes, like the coins they used to put on the eyes of the dead…
She let out a shaking breath.
The mysteries were beyond her. The truths simply exceeded her capacity to believe them.
She needed a tutor. Someone of… words came to her. Odd words. Someone of virtu. Someone of impeccable understanding. Her Tutor of Greater Esoteric Truths. Shit, did she imagine those capitals? They felt… pretentious. She shot a wicked glance at the skin, briefly considering burning it. Might be easier. Might be simpler. Might be the way to go. But…
She had to see Samira.
Samira had been her guide into the realm of the Unceasing Striving. Not like she had many options, admittedly. Taylor was gone, and each moment that she didn't get back in contact made Vicky's worry increase. Soon, she'd have to do… something. But as it was… she remembered being powerless before a greater force. The Butcher was superior, if Vicky wanted to face her she needed to refine this tool. A weapon to sever the Butcher's powers and put to an end one of the more infamous threats in parahuman America. A hero would do that, right? She needed information, needed tutelage. She slung her jacket over her shoulders, wrapped up her hands as tightly as she dared, and began to move. Had to lay low. Had to keep quiet. Turk waved her goodbye, and she waved cheerily back. Now, back to sneaking. Sneaky sneaking. Stealthy hovering, yes-yes. She floated off the ground and began to move to an address Taylor had left her with, just in case she needed aid. Off into the yonder, off to find truth.
And behind her, in the dark of her room…
A thin, thin hand pawed at the confines of its prison.
Soon.
Samira's house was almost empty at this point, and as Vicky floated up to the front door she wondered if maybe she'd moved out - departed the city like all the other sane people. Not a huge leap to make, honestly. Things were definitely happening. She couldn't quite put her (still mostly paralysed) finger on it, but something had shifted in the city. Those ugly brown phone network towers were going up in greater and greater numbers, rising to greater and greater heights. Sometimes she saw passers-by staring up at them with a faint air of bewilderment, wondering how something like that had been built so quickly, maybe what the point was… before shrugging and moving on. They were just towers. Vicky followed their example at one point, mimicking their stares, their rapid blinks of confusion. The towers were ugly. Brown metal, same colour and sheen as a cockroach's shell, arranged in a pattern which seemed… effortlessly complex. Like the tower was simply the culmination of a single pattern - a single fractal which had been expanded to its maximum possible apex, and now it had ceased. The tower began where it ought to begin, and ended where it ought to end. A throbbing pain began to pulse in her head, and she winced slightly. The tower wasn't remarkable in any way… not even any builders left on it, they'd long-since finished this one. Bird crap was already accumulating on some of the metal struts. Heavy brown cables snaked aronud the structure, and coiled downwards into the earth through holes that had been messily bored using jackhammers. Connecting them to the power grid, presumably.
A feeling of apathy washed over her. Just a mobile tower. Probably let some cut-price company do it, the kind which wouldn't be too hard to replace if things went to hell again. She'd heard about this, a little - companies got antsy when there was a big parahuman-related crisis. Endbringer, Slaughterhouse, Teeth… Conflagration. Insurance thing, apparently. Shops closed up, companies withdrew their branches, everything slowly retreated… and the city seemed emptier. Hollow. Alleyways ran to nowhere. Buildings slowly accumulated dust. Sometimes the city filled up again, like water bubbling up from a seemingly dead oasis. Sometimes. Brockton, she wasn't so sure. She liked it here, but… maybe the hollowness would linger. People rushed past her, sweating in the summer heat, unwilling to spare her a glance. Either way. She moved on from the tower, feeling a little melancholy. She wondered if one day Brockton Bay would be hung heavy with those towers, drenched in cheap metal cables carrying power between the small pockets of activity in the urban decay. Sometimes cities were condemned… sometimes they were just left to slowly decline, other cities drinking from the fleeing populace and engorging themselves larger and larger. Hm. Brocktontowns in a dozen cities… there'd definitely been pockets of Little Ellisburgs and Mini Madisons… not too weird to think of Brocktontowns in Boston, New York, who knew where else.
She floated away, ignoring the piles of aspirin bottles, the winces of passers-by as they popped back a few more peoples. Headaches. Always getting worse. Bloodstains from where fights had happened in the night. Scuffles which ended before the cops could arrive. Soon, she thought. Soon, they would get bolder. Soon, they would begin to get up to mischief in broad daylight, their numbers and ferocity too great. While the Butcher was away, the Teeth wouldn't dare get too antsy. She hoped.
Samira's house was almost abandoned. A 'for sale' sign hung outside the front door, and Vicky rushed up, muttering 'no, no, no' under her breath. Come on, couldn't be gone, couldn't just leave, not when she needed advice the most… she hammered on the front door, her forcefield stopping the motion from cracking her fingers into new and painful positions. More painful, that is. Somehow. The thump echoed through a nearly empty structure… and the door swung open. Empty. Pictures gone. Books gone. Any sign of individuality lost. She floated inside, noting the piles of dust in the corners, the outlines on the walls where decorations had once been hung. The lights weren't responsive to an inquiring jab at the switches. She floated inside, ignoring any kind of subtlety… come on, come on, maybe there was a note, or something along those lines. A little indicator of… she floated into the kitchen, and… she couldn't say what it was. But she felt her heart beating faster. There was a sharpness in the air, a feeling of imminent violence on the stuffy summer breeze. Made her think of the scraping of a knife over a whetstone, a feeling of burgeoning conflict that she hadn't felt for a while… no rivals to face, no conflicts to burn herself in. Nothing but uncertainty and strangeness. But now it was back. Sharpness. She twisted…
And a sharp-featured shape dropped from the ceiling. She could see holes in the plaster where sharp, sharp nails had been dug into it. Vicky couldn't help but yelp as the figure wrapped itself around her back, clinging tightly with limbs too strong to be natural. She felt scars - silvery, toughened. A low-level brute rating. She tried to move, but the creature was attacking effectively - limiting her movement, forcing her arms into a position where she couldn't raise them without breaking her own bones. Her fingers were paralysed, reducing options… and a foot slammed into her side. The shield deflected it once… but the force was enough to break it. Vulnerability. Cold air over her wound. The boot slammed inwards once again, and this time she couldn't help herself - a scream escaped her lips as her stitches came close to being undone. A face shoved close to her own, baring a set of needle-sharp teeth in a vicious grimace. Eyes with angular pupils stared into her own… and a knife found her throat, hovering just over her forcefield. Vicky flew backwards, slamming against a wall - no response from the figure, nothing but a wheeze of escaping breath… and the knife hummed like a tuning fork. She felt her skin begin to split slightly, the idea of violence resonating through her shield. Wait. Wait. This was familiar. A voice whined in her ear.
"Stupid American."
As her throat began to divide, she rasped out a few words. That insult sounded familiar.
"Samira?"
The sharp face twisted slightly… and a high-pitched voice whined out. Too nasal to be Samira. But familiar. Familial, even.
"What?"
"Just wanted to… talk. Could you let me go?"
There was a moment of tenseness between the two… her throat was bleeding very slightly, and the dampness was spreading downwards from her collar - oh for fuck's sake, was she going to lose more clothes to this shit? At least she was just wearing thrift store stuff… who was she kidding, this was profoundly fucked. Getting too used to grievous physical injury. The figure sniffed at her, growled to itself… and dropped away with a grumble of irritation, rising easily to its full height - her full height. Not exactly paying attention, though.
"What the fuck, who does that - couldn't you just've told me to fuck off or something?"
She coughed up a non-standard amount of blood. The woman shrugged.
"Sorry. You startled me."
"You were on the fucking ceiling!"
"And I said sorry. Now, what did you want, Yankee?"
Yankee, what the…? The figure stepped into full view. Vicky saw short-cropped dark hair, she saw a sharp jawline, she saw a face which reminded her keenly of Samira. Harder, though. No softening induced by peace - the face had been blasted smooth and tough as marble by waves of sand, and thin, gleaming scars lined her features in a pattern which seemed halfway decorative. Her lips were pulled downwards by a pair of diagonal scars, and her throat was marked with a silvery collar of scars that must've come from a noose - the pressure was all wrong for a knife, the cut was simply too haphazard, no continuity between slices. She moved almost like an owl - her head twitched idly, but her body remained completely still, her sharp-nailed fingers drifting around a vicious-looking bowie knife that she held with ease born of experience. She was wearing a long, blue tunic, like an old-fashioned military uniform, with faded red trousers and sturdy brown boots. Now that she wasn't being attacked, Vicky could see a bag in the corner with some dried sausage, a chunk of crumbling cheese, and a tiny wooden board serving as a plate. Simple meal - with a tin cup of the blackest, strongest coffee she'd ever seen.
Vicky coughed, the cut around her throat bleeding very slightly. Yeah, definitely another bit of clothing ruined, whoop-de-fucking-doo. The woman looked at her scornfully.
"You're looking for Samira?"
"Yeah, just… fuck, did you need to try and cut my throat? Couldn't do anything else, had to kick me in my stitches and cut my throat, yeah, only option."
"You floated in. Broke into the house. I believe my response was justified."
"Oh, fuck off, been through enough shit already, not in the mood for more. Especially not from someone who looks like they crawled out of a military museum."
Maybe she needed some catharsis after the shitshow with Gerrit. The woman growled under her breath.
"Oh, go and stuff your head in an apiary, tall-blonde-and-cripplefingered."
Vicky floated, gaining a height advantage. The ball was in her court now. Woop woop.
"Two of those things were compliments you moron."
"Alright then. Cripplefinger."
"It's temporary, you walking museum piece."
"This was the height of fashion among the French foreign legion-"
"What, when they were led by Napoleon?"
"I'm going to stab you."
"Not if I stab you first."
Vicky paused, realised what she'd just said, realised that she'd descended to this little freak's level… and groaned.
"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"I'm not sorry. You're a cunt."
"...you did try and stab… you know what, not getting into this. Samira. You know her, clearly. Do you know where she is? I need to talk to her about something. It's urgent."
The woman shrugged, and stared haughtily with her almost orthogonal eyes - the pupils coming to sharp points and forming something resembling an octagon, the irises forming a shape she couldn't quite name but was nonetheless utterly symmetrical and had a finite number of sides. Strange colour - green and grey, like a military uniform stained with dust, or the bottom of a weed-filled riverbed. Not ugly, by any means, but… definitely unusual. She smelled odd - someone who bathed frequently, but evidently overlooked the use of soap, meaning that the air around her was peculiarly earthy, with just a hint of gunpowder. Even her shrug was a little too jerky, too stiff to be entirely natural. Vicky got the feeling that she was the kind of person who might've been scuttling around the ceiling anyway, regardless of intruders. Just to keep her fingers tough, and her wits alert. Stillness was natural for her - movement was entirely intentional, had to be intentional.
"Gone."
Oh, fucking… wolf-fucking horseballs. Her voice became rougher. Felt like a good compromise between her impulses to be polite and also yelling something insulting about her choice in clothing. Or her hair. This wasn't coming from a place of malice, she just liked her own hair, and that involved a certain amount of loathing it as well. So she had a lot of ammunition for situations like this.
"Gone where?"
"Back home. I found out yesterday."
Vicky blinked.
"Home?"
"Home. You didn't think someone so remarkable could be born in a place like… this? No, America is simply the chamberpot where the leavings of the world go, the insignificant, the overblown, the pointless. She's now extracted herself from the chamberpot, cleaned herself off, and is presumably going home as we speak."
"Presumably?"
"Hm."
"...hold on, why were you here to see Samira?"
"I have my reasons."
"You sound like her."
The woman snorted.
"Typical racist American."
Vicky bristled.
"No, no, you speak just like her, as in the same patterns, the same sense of smugness, you look like her, and if I'm going to guess, you also follow the Unceasing Striving. So, yeah, I'd say you two were probably related."
The woman narrowed her sharp eyes. Huh. She was… actually fairly short, now that she noticed. Short and violent. And clung to ceilings. Fucking… spider monkey bitch. Grumbling spider monkey bitch.
"Lucky guess."
"It really wasn't."
Vicky cocked her head to one side. Alright, so maybe she was feeling a little pissy. Time to let loose. One of her better ideas? Nah. But not her worst. Not even close. This lady could just cut her open from asshole to breakfast, she couldn't erase her identity, her ego, her very sense of self. Violence really meant nothing compared to that. And Vicky was very capable at violence herself… this bitch called that bowie knife an implement of destruction? Vicky had a space-metal knife, it had the power of the cosmos in it. Probably. Maybe. It was definitely weird, and weirdness was a weapon all to itself.
"So… hold on. You found out she was gone yesterday. The house has a 'for sale' sign, so I'm assuming she just moved out. Did you miss her? Did you come here, fly out from… wherever, and just miss her?"
"Of course not. I have work here."
"But you're staying in her place, which is for sale, meaning that anyone could come in. Let me guess, you didn't have anywhere else, and you assumed she'd be here to greet you."
"...perhaps."
"Nice. You know that entire problem could be solved by calling her?"
"Shut up. I have business here anyhow."
The woman looked irritable, but more than that… embarrassed. Very embarrassed. Heh. OK, the idea of her wasting a plane fare because she couldn't work a mobile phone was quite funny. Vicky was feeling a little panicked right now, and very pissy. Quietly, she walked over to the ascetic meal the woman had been eating, and used her own knife to cut a healthy chunk of dried sausage. Salty. Spicy. Tough. Pretty good, honestly. She ate from the tip, carefully to avoid slicing her own lips open. The woman watched cautiously… and slipped her knife back into a worn leather sheath at her belt. She looked outdated - dressed in antique, clearly handmade clothing, and carrying a knife openly. Slowly, she walked back over and grabbed a hunk of cheese. As she ate, she talked.
"So, you know my cousin?"
"Yeah. She taught me. Briefly. I was… looking for some advice, I guess. And you?"
"Picking her up. Her husband is dead, her family wanted her back… and I had business out here anyhow. A job, well-paying."
Vicky's eyes narrowed, and her fists ached for a clenchin'.
"What kind of job?"
"What do you think, cripple? I'm here to murder someone, deliberately, to death. What else? Sightseeing? All your wonderful trash fires and disaster zones? Yes, please, show me your wonderful national history, all three centuries of it."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter. My target is far distant from this city, this is simply my arrival point."
She shivered.
"I won't be remaining here for long. For the best. Don't like it here. Odd air."
A memory came to mind - a name. Time to be impressive and well-informed. Exert some kind of advantage over this lunatic spider monkey.
"Yeah, the Frenzied Flame was out here recently."
"...maybe it's that, yes."
"And the Teeth."
"Possibly."
"And the Five-Horned Bull."
"Hm."
The woman gnawed at her cheese like an abnormally sized rat - hunched, guarding her food with her hands, never allowing a single crumb to escape. She ate like someone familiar with starvation - and who knew the value of each bite. It was weird - the kitchen was fairly modern, and here was a woman dressed like she'd been born centuries ago, eating in a corner from a leather bag which looked like it'd been in use for decades at minimum. Eating like a cowboy on the trail, not someone with access to, well, a kitchen. Another tip cup was produced, battered by the passage of time, and a cup of ice-cold coffee was poured out. Vicky sipped it, and the woman studied her carefully. Fuck, this was disgusting - and salty, too. Who drank salty, cold coffee? She choked it back while maintaining absolute eye contact, just to assert dominance.
"What advice did you want?"
"Just… something to do with a force called the Razor."
The woman twitched at the sound of that name, and her expression softened slightly. OK, getting somewhere.
"Ah. I didn't realise. I thought you were one of us. I thought you were some… ragamuffin that insisted on harassing my cousin. Not the first time - everyone thinks we're some route up from squalor, that we'll take in the poor and destitute… after a while you just start slapping them, but my cousin was always too polite for her own good. My apologies for treating you like a white-trash American vagrant. Now you have the rank of educated white-trash American vagrant. Is this…?"
She gestured, and Vicky handed over her knife handle-first. Her other hand reached for the chair, and her levitation ensured that if the woman tried anything, she'd be pasted against a wall using her patented Furniture-Fu. She was joking about that. She didn't have Furniture-Fu. She didn't even like breaking furniture. Just found it useful, from time to time. Could hardly fault her for that. The woman ran her hands over the surface, murmuring in appreciation… her finger pressed against the blade, drawing blood in a small, thin line. A moment later, and it was healed over with silvery tissue that Vicky knew was tougher than ordinary flesh. The knife was reversed and presented handle-first with easy familiarity - the woman knew her knives, evidently.
"Good knife. Nice material."
Her expression was downright welcoming now. Hm. Neat. When in doubt, show strange women her knife.
"Thanks. Just… trying to figure out how to use it. I was wondering if Samira could help."
The woman laughed, a sound which rasped like a scratched record - and a moment later, she had an explanation for why it sounded like that. She withdrew a battered packet of cigarettes which looked like they should probably be illegal - mostly tar, and the smoke which issued forth was black and caustic. Vicky held her breath while the smoke billowed - she imagined a single inhalation of that smoke would give her some form of cancer, and she was finding herself a lot less flippant about injuries and illnesses at the moment. Wow, having Amy around was a luxury. No wonder Bisha had gone for Othala, healers were just… like, a way of cheating at everything. Maybe the tube was a good idea. Not the drugs part. The defence part. The defence bit seemed mildly reasonable. The woman puffed away happily, and leant forwards, her sharp face turning into a mass of jagged shadows in the scant illumination of her cigarette.
"Oh, well, I can help there, no need to waste money on chartering a vessel. We've worked with the Razor's lot in the past, all the families So… I think the trick is to dissolve the self down into roles. Obliteration of the ego, that's it. Hollow out everything which is irrelevant to the role you are performing, perform a twisting of thoughts where you remain yourself, but likewise immerse yourself so completely in a role that it subsumes the self. If you master that, you should be fine."
Vicky froze. Her mind was still.
"Uh."
"The Razor followers I've met in the past have done something like that - very vacant creatures. Leave them alone, and they just… sit around, doing nothing. A tad strange. But they know their work. I've seen them work at infiltrations for years - they make for some of the best informants in my line of work. Very effective. The skin-dancers, the anthrothropes out in the Spanish Sahara were wonderful. You should be proud to follow in their example. I see why Samira knew you - probably cultivating you as an informant for her own uses. Shame that she left, building a network like that would be… delightful. There's so much business in America, and so little soul - plenty of room for ugly work, plenty of room for informants that don't carry centuries of baggage with them. I swear, the libations you have to make to get the services of the skin-dancers…"
Blood had drained from Vicky's face. Obliteration of the self. Reducing the ego down to a set of roles. A line of infinite ends, infinite fates all looping back to a singular nonexistent point in a nonexistent self, a stock which existed without any physical basis and could never be course-corrected. If a role endured for infinity, did there need to be a person underneath? Infinite ends and infinite fates didn't just destroy the self, it destroyed a need for a self… she laid the knife down on the table, pushing it away silently. The thoughts weren't her own. They weren't her fucking own. Her wounds were aching again - and her mind burned at the memory of the terror in the mountains. The feeling of losing herself, of becoming a hollow skin containing… nothing at all. A mask for the sake of a mask, concealing nothing. The woman was a chatterbox, gabbling about the 'libations' she had to perform - offerings of wine and dates at particular places on particular festivals. Vicky knew, on an intrinsic level, that the sacrifices meant nothing. They were empty rites, done because rites were part of the role. She interrupted harshly, and the woman blinked owlishly in response.
"Sorry. Just… one second. Need a moment to process it."
"Of course. Have as much time as you like… though I will have to be on my way. I was intending to leave here tonight."
"Sorry, didn't catch your name?"
"Khadija. You?"
"Vicky."
"Pleasure."
They didn't shake hands. Khadija didn't pay a single iota of attention to her bandages, to the splints over her fingers, to the bleariness caused by a constant programme of painkillers. She ignored it all - didn't care. Khadija spoke freely, more freely than her cousin, but… there was still an edge. A willingness to cut anyone around her open. And she'd happily started cutting Vicky's throat. No-one flipped from war to peace that quickly - there was always a gradual ceasing of hostilities. Anything sharper just indicated duplicitousness, or a temporary truce. And that seemed very likely to Vicky right now. Very likely indeed.
"...sorry, just getting my bearings. You were just trying to pick up your cousin, then?"
A flicker of irritation.
"Yes, I explained that. We were talking about something else now, or-"
"Do you know where she went? Exactly?"
"...no, she didn't leave a note. I tried to track her, but… nothing. I assume she got a quiet ticket away from here, she knows how to move unseen. And I didn't telegram ahead."
Telegram? What the fuck? No, wait, focus on other things.
"OK. Fine. So you have no idea where she went?"
Khadija grumbled.
"No. I don't."
Shit. Not that it was a problem, but… she'd studied with Samira before. She was good at teaching - direct, but accustomed to taking her knowledge down to the absolute basics for a novice. Khadija wasn't. She just said 'obliterate the self' and returned to her cheese.
"You… seem to know a lot about this, is there anything which doesn't involve obliterating the… self?"
Khadija shrugged, and drew out a second cigarette, fitting it in beside the still-burning stump of the first. She barely noticed as the first came closer and closer to her lips, and was already rummaging for a third. Smoke surrounded her in a haze, reducing her down to a shadowy form and a harsh voice.
"No."
"But-"
"No. You think these forces offer multiple paths to reach them? No, not remotely. The paths offer many applications, but few avenues of ingress. The Unceasing Striving demands conflict, the Five-Horned Bull demands ambiguity. And the Razor demands a hollowness on which a role may be stretched."
She tilted her head to one side, barely perceptible in the smoke.
"I thought you were experienced in this business. I was mistaken."
"No, no, I get how this stuff works, I just… OK, are there any ways of defending the self against-"
"Girl, you're like a vegetarian trying to work out a loophole which will allow you to eat a juicy steak. Either be a vegetarian or don't be, but if you are then you ought to give up your steakly dreams."
She grunted.
"Really, I thought you'd be better at this. Anyway. I apologise for the throat-cutting, and nothing more. Get out."
"Not your house."
"Nor is it yours. And this country is full of raging imbeciles, I'm sure they'd confuse one refined female of our clan with another refined female of our clan."
"...fine. I'm gone."
"Good. Close the door on your way out."
No, no, couldn't just listen to her, her advice was too advanced. Maybe she could… she glanced at the razor again, and a sinking feeling began to run through her. Was that what it took? Destroy the self, and gain the power to defeat the Butcher, maybe for good? Any cape she came across, depowered and forced to live like a normal human again… no more bullshit immunity due to unreasonably strong powers. Her half-paralysed fingers twitched, eager to wrap around the handle of the thing again. Khadija was chattering away about the struggles of finding good trail food in this 'concrete labyrinth', but Vicky was lost in her own thoughts. She wondered if this was it - the bargain. Sacrifice her certainties, her feelings of self, and in exchange do something spectacularly useful to the world, take down a major threat, save her friends, improve the world in a meaningful fashion…
What would a hero do?
What would Victoria Dallon do?
And the longer she thought about it, she wondered where the difference lay.
She pushed through the front door, and bumped into a man coming down the front path - dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit, with a belt of tools winched tight around his ample waistline. He nodded politely, and Vicky froze. The man whistled as he approached the door, and blinked when he saw that it was unlocked.
"Uh, sorry to bother you, but-"
"Yeah. Shit. Sorry. Not the best time, are you here-"
"Just repairing the burglar alarm, that's all. Y'know how it is."
"...is it damaged?"
"Someone busted it up, yeah. Company wants me to put it back together before the place gets sold. Sorry, are you… allowed to be here?"
She had the brief image of Khadija leaping and cutting the man's throat without a second thought, maybe… she looked up. The burglar alarm was suspended above the door, and the mechanic looked up at it with a speculative eye. Damaged outer casing, shredded core… a quick round of questions confirmed that it'd just be replaced, didn't even really need to go inside. The man smiled awkwardly with bloodless lips, not used to protracted conversations about his work. He was one of the most forgettable men Vicky had ever seen - very pale in a way that suggested too long in front of a computer, with a moustache that he was clearly using as a substitute for a personality. The trousers of his jumpsuit were caked with dog hair that he had only made a cursory effort to remove. He looked, honestly, like he was made of spongy marble, and thinking about him for too long just reduced his face to a vague smear. He wouldn't need to go into the house, and she spoke loudly, making sure that Khadija heard her - just stay out here, repair the burglar alarm, and move on. The man looked uncomfortable at the noise, but nodded affirmatively.
She flew off, but her mind continued to buzz. The encounter was already drifting from her memory. Might as well have not happened at all.
In the end… she was a cape. Capes died young, that was just an accepted truth of the universe. Endbringer fights, villain battles, some punk getting lucky with a gun and the element of surprise, finding your address, cracking through your unprotected doors and splattering your cabinets with bright, bright droplets which never came out of the woodwork. Capes died young, they died violently, rare indeed was the parahuman who managed to get from youth to retirement age. Her mom had explained it curtly at one point - that when you became a parahuman, a ticking clock was set over your head. Injuries would rack up, trauma would pile higher, losses would grow and gains would decline. Your powers could expand, but not radically, not on a long-term sustainable basis. Either you did nothing and sat around letting yourself go to waste… or you did something with yourself. Made some kind of shift. Some kind of transfer. The razor was back in her hand. She hadn't noticed when it happened. The edge was thin, painfully thin… it could slice into someone and they'd barely feel it. Peel the skin free with barely a whisper of irritation. Vicky sized up the knife in her hand. Her instincts were driving her towards this choice, and now she had independent verification - someone else who understood this and knew how this needed to play out.
She sighed.
Sometimes she wished she'd never flown out to that tea shop. Nah. Moment of weakness. Passed soon enough. The regret faded - and all that remained was confusion.
Sacrifice or selfishness?
Vicky was flying back home, doubts buzzing throughout her mind. The encounter with the mechanic was as far from her perception as it was possible to get. Useless. She flew lazily, not concentrating on the path ahead. Just wanted to get to the tea shop and collapse a bit - the painkillers made her drowsy, and her wounds were still exhausting her more than she'd like to admit. Adrenaline had flowed through her, passed, and now all that remained was weariness. Fuck, she felt weak. Hated feeling weak. The razor was a heavy weight on her waist, hidden under a few layers of cloth. Poking into her thigh from time to time. She'd… 'won' at Naaktgeboren Ridge, and all she'd claimed was a razor she was too terrified to use, and had left behind the monster who'd killed who-knew how many people. And now… now what? She hovered quietly to the tea shop, pinching the bridge of her nose. Just… get into bed. Seal the box up again, and go to sleep. Explore all her options before she committed, just… try and do something, fuck, anything… she was feeling on the edge of despair right now, and could feel a strange heat in the back of her head. Despair was comforting, it coddled thoughts and made intelligence a simple thing indeed. If she just gave in, she'd be fine. It drew her in like a whirlpool - give in, and no choice would need to be made. None at all.
She began to haul the window up, checking around briefly to make sure no-one saw her. Give up any semblance of control over her own identity, let it all fade away… and achieve the power necessary to make a real difference to the world.
She wondered, idly, and in a rather silly way, if Eidolon had any personal life to speak of. Did he have a wife? Husband? Kids? Parents he didn't call enough? Or did he just… vanish when the cowl came off? Would she be the same?
She groaned… and froze.
Voices from downstairs. Familiar voices.
An involuntary 'fuck, fuck, fuck…' escaped her lips. Shit. Fuck. She floated over the floor to avoid making any sound. She knew those voices. Fuck.
"Mr… Turk, is it? No last name? Regardless, we've received verifiable claims that our daughter was seen flying in and out of your shop recently, after she went missing from our home. Now, you can either talk like a reasonable adult, we can search your shop from top to bottom and move on… or we can see each other in court. This is the document we need to arrest you for obstructing an investigation and breaking almost a dozen other laws besides. All we need to do is sign it."
Oh fuck, she was in lawyer mode. She was in fucking lawyer mode.
"Hm."
"'Hm' won't quite cut it, Mr Turk. Now, are you going to answer these claims, or will it have to be under oath?"
They had Turk pinned. She glanced around frantically. Her shit was piled high in here… camping equipment, articles of clothing, tools, things that could easily be traced back to her. No way she could clean it all away in time - her mom knew how to look for things, she found everything if she tried hard enough, and her dad was no slouch in that department either. They loved her, she knew that, but at the moment that love was telling them to find her, drag her home, and have a long, long talk she was very unprepared to make at this point in time, Christ. Two of them at minimum… fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…
If she was taken back, she'd be deviancy tested and then Amy would be out of reach. And all of this would be worthless. Probably locked up or something, prevented from doing what she had to fucking do. She had a role here, she had something to do. She might just be a dead skin surrounding a bundle of dead organs, she might've died under that mountain, and if she was… if she was stopped from doing what she needed to do, then what was she? Who was she? Nothing and no-one. She could feel a stinking pelt wrapped around her limbs again, a feeling like she was on the edge of losing everything resembling herself. Bound into a role she didn't fucking want. No, no, no, no, no…
Sweat was trickling down her spine.
Her hair was clinging to her forehead.
She felt trapped.
Hällo!
The skin was moving.
Vicky could swear that it was moving, she was certain of it in every possible way. The box hadn't been there when she went to sleep, and now she'd woken up… now she'd woken up, it was just there. A few inches closer. She checked the lid. Duct-taped. She felt weird being in this room, surrounded by Taylor's things. Not that she had much, but… there was a photo which she'd quietly placed face-down. Felt guilty looking at it. Taylor, young, with her hair in two huge bunches. A balding man beside her, smiling wearily. A woman who looked like Taylor, but more willowy, an enigmatic smile on her face. Her family. She knew her dad was in a coma, but her mom… maybe dead. The picture was charred around the edges. There was nothing else like it in the room, it was quite possibly the one possession of value that she had - emotional value, that is. Unless the posters of Soviet models were hers. Which Vicky doubted. Her attention returned to the box. Duct tape still intact, seals unbroken, no holes made… but it had definitely moved. The position relative to other objects had changed. Slowly, carefully, she opened the lid and stared at the face of Iron Rain.
Hällö thërë, mëïn Frëünd.
She blinked. The skin hadn't spoken to her. She checked - no, definitely hadn't. A poke with her knife (she'd slept with it on instinct. Good, if this box was getting mobile. No-one wanted to be unarmed around a mobile cardboard box filled with human skin) confirmed that it wasn't doing anything. If it was poked and could speak, it seemed like it should complain. No. Just going crazy. Woo woo. She stepped away from the box, but there was still a wheedling voice in the back of her mind, fading in and out of perception.
Rëälly, mëïn Frëünd. Yöü thïnk süch thïngs ärë cräzy, ïn tïmës süch äs thësë? Rëälly. Süch ständärds. Ï'm ïnsültëd.
Vicky glared. She was pretty sure Iron Rain didn't talk with a heavy German accent.
Äh, nëïn, nëïn, mëïn äccënt väs älwäys öf zë hällöwëd Dëütschländ, jä, jä. Cän yöü säy zät Ï väs nöt ëxcëëdïngly Dëütsch? Dümmköpf. Yöür Äryän fëätürës dïsgüïsë ä plägüëd mïnd, plägüëd by… Slävïc ïnfëstätïöns! Bösh! Flimshaw!
Definitely going crazy. Responding to her thoughts. She was just… stressed, and a little bit blood-starved. That was all. The voice was just speaking using German she heard from some old movies, it had all the subtlety of a brick to the face. Ignore it, let it pass. She'd had weird moments after periods of intense stress before. She remembered getting her leg almost torn off by Hookwolf at some point, and definitely remembered the absolute conviction that the walls were covered in thick, greasy slime. Totally dry, of course. But she'd been shuddering in the hospital bed waiting for Amy, watching pools of sludge drip down, down, down… the voice would go away. Once she was rested a bit more. It would fucking go away.
Yöü fïrst.
Vicky closed the box. Yeah. Definitely going a little nuts. Her side ached, her fingers burned… painkillers, painkillers. Fuck, she missed Amy. Could have this solved in a matter of minutes, but no. Had to have these fucking splints, fucking bandages, fucking splinters… she painfully started to replace a few of them, always keeping herself in contact with her razor. It was weird, but she'd grown very attached to the thing despite spending barely over a day with it. It was just… constant, that was it. A constant weight, a reminder that she'd faced down the weirdness of the world and come out on top. Kind of. Gerrit lingered, and he was a reminder of her failures, but… anyway. The razor was hers. The skin was immobile. She poked the box with her knife, and it skidded easily across the tabletop. Yeah, there - it was just very easy to move. Probably the wind, or some random chance. Either way… she placed a heavy TV remote on top. Then a book. Then several books. When the box looked on the verge of collapsing, she stopped - immobile. Truly immobile. No way a hollow skin (immobile or not) could move this thing. She was safe.
Why did she think she was in danger?
The razor glinted, and she focused on it. Needed to learn how to harness this thing, channel its powers for herself. If Gerrit could do it…
Roles.
Heroic, villainous, monstrous… all the roles a person could have, the roles carved into them by the universe. If she focused, she could almost see the outlines of them at the corner of her eyes. A shadowy haze which looked like a mound of masks, a pile of skins, a heap of prop weapons. The weapon was irrelevant - an operatic hero could carry a cardboard sword, a plexiglass sword, a metal sword, a sword made from wishes and dreams, all that mattered was the shape, the notion. The idea. She tried to focus, but… certain details kept eluding her. A level of delusion she hadn't quite sunk to. A part of her found this entire exercise ridiculous. Couldn't quite put it into words, but… there was a demand for faith here. A willingness to throw herself into the realms of the intolerably silly and imaginative. Where everything was laden with significance - a landscape below the landscape, above it, beside it. A dreamscape, an ideascape, a scape-of-symbols, and she simply couldn't endure in that place. The ideas swirled unceasingly, the notions flowered and yet seemed utterly hollow. She tried to focus on her own experience - wearing animal skins, being a hero, focusing on the role above all other things…
But she was confronted with a vast, looming terror. A vertigo which threatened to unmake her. A worry that if she pursued this line of thought, she'd find herself piercing too deep into the eye of the storm, go under her own skin and find nothing there. Nothing but swirling unmatter, and the stuff of dead egos. A costume, and nothing more. A costume for an idea, no deeper reality beneath. The terror overwhelmed. It choked. It made her fingers scream in pain, made her skin remember being trapped under a rotten pelt. Those shining eyes, like the coins they used to put on the eyes of the dead…
She let out a shaking breath.
The mysteries were beyond her. The truths simply exceeded her capacity to believe them.
She needed a tutor. Someone of… words came to her. Odd words. Someone of virtu. Someone of impeccable understanding. Her Tutor of Greater Esoteric Truths. Shit, did she imagine those capitals? They felt… pretentious. She shot a wicked glance at the skin, briefly considering burning it. Might be easier. Might be simpler. Might be the way to go. But…
She had to see Samira.
Samira had been her guide into the realm of the Unceasing Striving. Not like she had many options, admittedly. Taylor was gone, and each moment that she didn't get back in contact made Vicky's worry increase. Soon, she'd have to do… something. But as it was… she remembered being powerless before a greater force. The Butcher was superior, if Vicky wanted to face her she needed to refine this tool. A weapon to sever the Butcher's powers and put to an end one of the more infamous threats in parahuman America. A hero would do that, right? She needed information, needed tutelage. She slung her jacket over her shoulders, wrapped up her hands as tightly as she dared, and began to move. Had to lay low. Had to keep quiet. Turk waved her goodbye, and she waved cheerily back. Now, back to sneaking. Sneaky sneaking. Stealthy hovering, yes-yes. She floated off the ground and began to move to an address Taylor had left her with, just in case she needed aid. Off into the yonder, off to find truth.
And behind her, in the dark of her room…
A thin, thin hand pawed at the confines of its prison.
Soon.
* * *
Samira's house was almost empty at this point, and as Vicky floated up to the front door she wondered if maybe she'd moved out - departed the city like all the other sane people. Not a huge leap to make, honestly. Things were definitely happening. She couldn't quite put her (still mostly paralysed) finger on it, but something had shifted in the city. Those ugly brown phone network towers were going up in greater and greater numbers, rising to greater and greater heights. Sometimes she saw passers-by staring up at them with a faint air of bewilderment, wondering how something like that had been built so quickly, maybe what the point was… before shrugging and moving on. They were just towers. Vicky followed their example at one point, mimicking their stares, their rapid blinks of confusion. The towers were ugly. Brown metal, same colour and sheen as a cockroach's shell, arranged in a pattern which seemed… effortlessly complex. Like the tower was simply the culmination of a single pattern - a single fractal which had been expanded to its maximum possible apex, and now it had ceased. The tower began where it ought to begin, and ended where it ought to end. A throbbing pain began to pulse in her head, and she winced slightly. The tower wasn't remarkable in any way… not even any builders left on it, they'd long-since finished this one. Bird crap was already accumulating on some of the metal struts. Heavy brown cables snaked aronud the structure, and coiled downwards into the earth through holes that had been messily bored using jackhammers. Connecting them to the power grid, presumably.
A feeling of apathy washed over her. Just a mobile tower. Probably let some cut-price company do it, the kind which wouldn't be too hard to replace if things went to hell again. She'd heard about this, a little - companies got antsy when there was a big parahuman-related crisis. Endbringer, Slaughterhouse, Teeth… Conflagration. Insurance thing, apparently. Shops closed up, companies withdrew their branches, everything slowly retreated… and the city seemed emptier. Hollow. Alleyways ran to nowhere. Buildings slowly accumulated dust. Sometimes the city filled up again, like water bubbling up from a seemingly dead oasis. Sometimes. Brockton, she wasn't so sure. She liked it here, but… maybe the hollowness would linger. People rushed past her, sweating in the summer heat, unwilling to spare her a glance. Either way. She moved on from the tower, feeling a little melancholy. She wondered if one day Brockton Bay would be hung heavy with those towers, drenched in cheap metal cables carrying power between the small pockets of activity in the urban decay. Sometimes cities were condemned… sometimes they were just left to slowly decline, other cities drinking from the fleeing populace and engorging themselves larger and larger. Hm. Brocktontowns in a dozen cities… there'd definitely been pockets of Little Ellisburgs and Mini Madisons… not too weird to think of Brocktontowns in Boston, New York, who knew where else.
She floated away, ignoring the piles of aspirin bottles, the winces of passers-by as they popped back a few more peoples. Headaches. Always getting worse. Bloodstains from where fights had happened in the night. Scuffles which ended before the cops could arrive. Soon, she thought. Soon, they would get bolder. Soon, they would begin to get up to mischief in broad daylight, their numbers and ferocity too great. While the Butcher was away, the Teeth wouldn't dare get too antsy. She hoped.
Samira's house was almost abandoned. A 'for sale' sign hung outside the front door, and Vicky rushed up, muttering 'no, no, no' under her breath. Come on, couldn't be gone, couldn't just leave, not when she needed advice the most… she hammered on the front door, her forcefield stopping the motion from cracking her fingers into new and painful positions. More painful, that is. Somehow. The thump echoed through a nearly empty structure… and the door swung open. Empty. Pictures gone. Books gone. Any sign of individuality lost. She floated inside, noting the piles of dust in the corners, the outlines on the walls where decorations had once been hung. The lights weren't responsive to an inquiring jab at the switches. She floated inside, ignoring any kind of subtlety… come on, come on, maybe there was a note, or something along those lines. A little indicator of… she floated into the kitchen, and… she couldn't say what it was. But she felt her heart beating faster. There was a sharpness in the air, a feeling of imminent violence on the stuffy summer breeze. Made her think of the scraping of a knife over a whetstone, a feeling of burgeoning conflict that she hadn't felt for a while… no rivals to face, no conflicts to burn herself in. Nothing but uncertainty and strangeness. But now it was back. Sharpness. She twisted…
And a sharp-featured shape dropped from the ceiling. She could see holes in the plaster where sharp, sharp nails had been dug into it. Vicky couldn't help but yelp as the figure wrapped itself around her back, clinging tightly with limbs too strong to be natural. She felt scars - silvery, toughened. A low-level brute rating. She tried to move, but the creature was attacking effectively - limiting her movement, forcing her arms into a position where she couldn't raise them without breaking her own bones. Her fingers were paralysed, reducing options… and a foot slammed into her side. The shield deflected it once… but the force was enough to break it. Vulnerability. Cold air over her wound. The boot slammed inwards once again, and this time she couldn't help herself - a scream escaped her lips as her stitches came close to being undone. A face shoved close to her own, baring a set of needle-sharp teeth in a vicious grimace. Eyes with angular pupils stared into her own… and a knife found her throat, hovering just over her forcefield. Vicky flew backwards, slamming against a wall - no response from the figure, nothing but a wheeze of escaping breath… and the knife hummed like a tuning fork. She felt her skin begin to split slightly, the idea of violence resonating through her shield. Wait. Wait. This was familiar. A voice whined in her ear.
"Stupid American."
As her throat began to divide, she rasped out a few words. That insult sounded familiar.
"Samira?"
The sharp face twisted slightly… and a high-pitched voice whined out. Too nasal to be Samira. But familiar. Familial, even.
"What?"
"Just wanted to… talk. Could you let me go?"
There was a moment of tenseness between the two… her throat was bleeding very slightly, and the dampness was spreading downwards from her collar - oh for fuck's sake, was she going to lose more clothes to this shit? At least she was just wearing thrift store stuff… who was she kidding, this was profoundly fucked. Getting too used to grievous physical injury. The figure sniffed at her, growled to itself… and dropped away with a grumble of irritation, rising easily to its full height - her full height. Not exactly paying attention, though.
"What the fuck, who does that - couldn't you just've told me to fuck off or something?"
She coughed up a non-standard amount of blood. The woman shrugged.
"Sorry. You startled me."
"You were on the fucking ceiling!"
"And I said sorry. Now, what did you want, Yankee?"
Yankee, what the…? The figure stepped into full view. Vicky saw short-cropped dark hair, she saw a sharp jawline, she saw a face which reminded her keenly of Samira. Harder, though. No softening induced by peace - the face had been blasted smooth and tough as marble by waves of sand, and thin, gleaming scars lined her features in a pattern which seemed halfway decorative. Her lips were pulled downwards by a pair of diagonal scars, and her throat was marked with a silvery collar of scars that must've come from a noose - the pressure was all wrong for a knife, the cut was simply too haphazard, no continuity between slices. She moved almost like an owl - her head twitched idly, but her body remained completely still, her sharp-nailed fingers drifting around a vicious-looking bowie knife that she held with ease born of experience. She was wearing a long, blue tunic, like an old-fashioned military uniform, with faded red trousers and sturdy brown boots. Now that she wasn't being attacked, Vicky could see a bag in the corner with some dried sausage, a chunk of crumbling cheese, and a tiny wooden board serving as a plate. Simple meal - with a tin cup of the blackest, strongest coffee she'd ever seen.
Vicky coughed, the cut around her throat bleeding very slightly. Yeah, definitely another bit of clothing ruined, whoop-de-fucking-doo. The woman looked at her scornfully.
"You're looking for Samira?"
"Yeah, just… fuck, did you need to try and cut my throat? Couldn't do anything else, had to kick me in my stitches and cut my throat, yeah, only option."
"You floated in. Broke into the house. I believe my response was justified."
"Oh, fuck off, been through enough shit already, not in the mood for more. Especially not from someone who looks like they crawled out of a military museum."
Maybe she needed some catharsis after the shitshow with Gerrit. The woman growled under her breath.
"Oh, go and stuff your head in an apiary, tall-blonde-and-cripplefingered."
Vicky floated, gaining a height advantage. The ball was in her court now. Woop woop.
"Two of those things were compliments you moron."
"Alright then. Cripplefinger."
"It's temporary, you walking museum piece."
"This was the height of fashion among the French foreign legion-"
"What, when they were led by Napoleon?"
"I'm going to stab you."
"Not if I stab you first."
Vicky paused, realised what she'd just said, realised that she'd descended to this little freak's level… and groaned.
"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"I'm not sorry. You're a cunt."
"...you did try and stab… you know what, not getting into this. Samira. You know her, clearly. Do you know where she is? I need to talk to her about something. It's urgent."
The woman shrugged, and stared haughtily with her almost orthogonal eyes - the pupils coming to sharp points and forming something resembling an octagon, the irises forming a shape she couldn't quite name but was nonetheless utterly symmetrical and had a finite number of sides. Strange colour - green and grey, like a military uniform stained with dust, or the bottom of a weed-filled riverbed. Not ugly, by any means, but… definitely unusual. She smelled odd - someone who bathed frequently, but evidently overlooked the use of soap, meaning that the air around her was peculiarly earthy, with just a hint of gunpowder. Even her shrug was a little too jerky, too stiff to be entirely natural. Vicky got the feeling that she was the kind of person who might've been scuttling around the ceiling anyway, regardless of intruders. Just to keep her fingers tough, and her wits alert. Stillness was natural for her - movement was entirely intentional, had to be intentional.
"Gone."
Oh, fucking… wolf-fucking horseballs. Her voice became rougher. Felt like a good compromise between her impulses to be polite and also yelling something insulting about her choice in clothing. Or her hair. This wasn't coming from a place of malice, she just liked her own hair, and that involved a certain amount of loathing it as well. So she had a lot of ammunition for situations like this.
"Gone where?"
"Back home. I found out yesterday."
Vicky blinked.
"Home?"
"Home. You didn't think someone so remarkable could be born in a place like… this? No, America is simply the chamberpot where the leavings of the world go, the insignificant, the overblown, the pointless. She's now extracted herself from the chamberpot, cleaned herself off, and is presumably going home as we speak."
"Presumably?"
"Hm."
"...hold on, why were you here to see Samira?"
"I have my reasons."
"You sound like her."
The woman snorted.
"Typical racist American."
Vicky bristled.
"No, no, you speak just like her, as in the same patterns, the same sense of smugness, you look like her, and if I'm going to guess, you also follow the Unceasing Striving. So, yeah, I'd say you two were probably related."
The woman narrowed her sharp eyes. Huh. She was… actually fairly short, now that she noticed. Short and violent. And clung to ceilings. Fucking… spider monkey bitch. Grumbling spider monkey bitch.
"Lucky guess."
"It really wasn't."
Vicky cocked her head to one side. Alright, so maybe she was feeling a little pissy. Time to let loose. One of her better ideas? Nah. But not her worst. Not even close. This lady could just cut her open from asshole to breakfast, she couldn't erase her identity, her ego, her very sense of self. Violence really meant nothing compared to that. And Vicky was very capable at violence herself… this bitch called that bowie knife an implement of destruction? Vicky had a space-metal knife, it had the power of the cosmos in it. Probably. Maybe. It was definitely weird, and weirdness was a weapon all to itself.
"So… hold on. You found out she was gone yesterday. The house has a 'for sale' sign, so I'm assuming she just moved out. Did you miss her? Did you come here, fly out from… wherever, and just miss her?"
"Of course not. I have work here."
"But you're staying in her place, which is for sale, meaning that anyone could come in. Let me guess, you didn't have anywhere else, and you assumed she'd be here to greet you."
"...perhaps."
"Nice. You know that entire problem could be solved by calling her?"
"Shut up. I have business here anyhow."
The woman looked irritable, but more than that… embarrassed. Very embarrassed. Heh. OK, the idea of her wasting a plane fare because she couldn't work a mobile phone was quite funny. Vicky was feeling a little panicked right now, and very pissy. Quietly, she walked over to the ascetic meal the woman had been eating, and used her own knife to cut a healthy chunk of dried sausage. Salty. Spicy. Tough. Pretty good, honestly. She ate from the tip, carefully to avoid slicing her own lips open. The woman watched cautiously… and slipped her knife back into a worn leather sheath at her belt. She looked outdated - dressed in antique, clearly handmade clothing, and carrying a knife openly. Slowly, she walked back over and grabbed a hunk of cheese. As she ate, she talked.
"So, you know my cousin?"
"Yeah. She taught me. Briefly. I was… looking for some advice, I guess. And you?"
"Picking her up. Her husband is dead, her family wanted her back… and I had business out here anyhow. A job, well-paying."
Vicky's eyes narrowed, and her fists ached for a clenchin'.
"What kind of job?"
"What do you think, cripple? I'm here to murder someone, deliberately, to death. What else? Sightseeing? All your wonderful trash fires and disaster zones? Yes, please, show me your wonderful national history, all three centuries of it."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter. My target is far distant from this city, this is simply my arrival point."
She shivered.
"I won't be remaining here for long. For the best. Don't like it here. Odd air."
A memory came to mind - a name. Time to be impressive and well-informed. Exert some kind of advantage over this lunatic spider monkey.
"Yeah, the Frenzied Flame was out here recently."
"...maybe it's that, yes."
"And the Teeth."
"Possibly."
"And the Five-Horned Bull."
"Hm."
The woman gnawed at her cheese like an abnormally sized rat - hunched, guarding her food with her hands, never allowing a single crumb to escape. She ate like someone familiar with starvation - and who knew the value of each bite. It was weird - the kitchen was fairly modern, and here was a woman dressed like she'd been born centuries ago, eating in a corner from a leather bag which looked like it'd been in use for decades at minimum. Eating like a cowboy on the trail, not someone with access to, well, a kitchen. Another tip cup was produced, battered by the passage of time, and a cup of ice-cold coffee was poured out. Vicky sipped it, and the woman studied her carefully. Fuck, this was disgusting - and salty, too. Who drank salty, cold coffee? She choked it back while maintaining absolute eye contact, just to assert dominance.
"What advice did you want?"
"Just… something to do with a force called the Razor."
The woman twitched at the sound of that name, and her expression softened slightly. OK, getting somewhere.
"Ah. I didn't realise. I thought you were one of us. I thought you were some… ragamuffin that insisted on harassing my cousin. Not the first time - everyone thinks we're some route up from squalor, that we'll take in the poor and destitute… after a while you just start slapping them, but my cousin was always too polite for her own good. My apologies for treating you like a white-trash American vagrant. Now you have the rank of educated white-trash American vagrant. Is this…?"
She gestured, and Vicky handed over her knife handle-first. Her other hand reached for the chair, and her levitation ensured that if the woman tried anything, she'd be pasted against a wall using her patented Furniture-Fu. She was joking about that. She didn't have Furniture-Fu. She didn't even like breaking furniture. Just found it useful, from time to time. Could hardly fault her for that. The woman ran her hands over the surface, murmuring in appreciation… her finger pressed against the blade, drawing blood in a small, thin line. A moment later, and it was healed over with silvery tissue that Vicky knew was tougher than ordinary flesh. The knife was reversed and presented handle-first with easy familiarity - the woman knew her knives, evidently.
"Good knife. Nice material."
Her expression was downright welcoming now. Hm. Neat. When in doubt, show strange women her knife.
"Thanks. Just… trying to figure out how to use it. I was wondering if Samira could help."
The woman laughed, a sound which rasped like a scratched record - and a moment later, she had an explanation for why it sounded like that. She withdrew a battered packet of cigarettes which looked like they should probably be illegal - mostly tar, and the smoke which issued forth was black and caustic. Vicky held her breath while the smoke billowed - she imagined a single inhalation of that smoke would give her some form of cancer, and she was finding herself a lot less flippant about injuries and illnesses at the moment. Wow, having Amy around was a luxury. No wonder Bisha had gone for Othala, healers were just… like, a way of cheating at everything. Maybe the tube was a good idea. Not the drugs part. The defence part. The defence bit seemed mildly reasonable. The woman puffed away happily, and leant forwards, her sharp face turning into a mass of jagged shadows in the scant illumination of her cigarette.
"Oh, well, I can help there, no need to waste money on chartering a vessel. We've worked with the Razor's lot in the past, all the families So… I think the trick is to dissolve the self down into roles. Obliteration of the ego, that's it. Hollow out everything which is irrelevant to the role you are performing, perform a twisting of thoughts where you remain yourself, but likewise immerse yourself so completely in a role that it subsumes the self. If you master that, you should be fine."
Vicky froze. Her mind was still.
"Uh."
"The Razor followers I've met in the past have done something like that - very vacant creatures. Leave them alone, and they just… sit around, doing nothing. A tad strange. But they know their work. I've seen them work at infiltrations for years - they make for some of the best informants in my line of work. Very effective. The skin-dancers, the anthrothropes out in the Spanish Sahara were wonderful. You should be proud to follow in their example. I see why Samira knew you - probably cultivating you as an informant for her own uses. Shame that she left, building a network like that would be… delightful. There's so much business in America, and so little soul - plenty of room for ugly work, plenty of room for informants that don't carry centuries of baggage with them. I swear, the libations you have to make to get the services of the skin-dancers…"
Blood had drained from Vicky's face. Obliteration of the self. Reducing the ego down to a set of roles. A line of infinite ends, infinite fates all looping back to a singular nonexistent point in a nonexistent self, a stock which existed without any physical basis and could never be course-corrected. If a role endured for infinity, did there need to be a person underneath? Infinite ends and infinite fates didn't just destroy the self, it destroyed a need for a self… she laid the knife down on the table, pushing it away silently. The thoughts weren't her own. They weren't her fucking own. Her wounds were aching again - and her mind burned at the memory of the terror in the mountains. The feeling of losing herself, of becoming a hollow skin containing… nothing at all. A mask for the sake of a mask, concealing nothing. The woman was a chatterbox, gabbling about the 'libations' she had to perform - offerings of wine and dates at particular places on particular festivals. Vicky knew, on an intrinsic level, that the sacrifices meant nothing. They were empty rites, done because rites were part of the role. She interrupted harshly, and the woman blinked owlishly in response.
"Sorry. Just… one second. Need a moment to process it."
"Of course. Have as much time as you like… though I will have to be on my way. I was intending to leave here tonight."
"Sorry, didn't catch your name?"
"Khadija. You?"
"Vicky."
"Pleasure."
They didn't shake hands. Khadija didn't pay a single iota of attention to her bandages, to the splints over her fingers, to the bleariness caused by a constant programme of painkillers. She ignored it all - didn't care. Khadija spoke freely, more freely than her cousin, but… there was still an edge. A willingness to cut anyone around her open. And she'd happily started cutting Vicky's throat. No-one flipped from war to peace that quickly - there was always a gradual ceasing of hostilities. Anything sharper just indicated duplicitousness, or a temporary truce. And that seemed very likely to Vicky right now. Very likely indeed.
"...sorry, just getting my bearings. You were just trying to pick up your cousin, then?"
A flicker of irritation.
"Yes, I explained that. We were talking about something else now, or-"
"Do you know where she went? Exactly?"
"...no, she didn't leave a note. I tried to track her, but… nothing. I assume she got a quiet ticket away from here, she knows how to move unseen. And I didn't telegram ahead."
Telegram? What the fuck? No, wait, focus on other things.
"OK. Fine. So you have no idea where she went?"
Khadija grumbled.
"No. I don't."
Shit. Not that it was a problem, but… she'd studied with Samira before. She was good at teaching - direct, but accustomed to taking her knowledge down to the absolute basics for a novice. Khadija wasn't. She just said 'obliterate the self' and returned to her cheese.
"You… seem to know a lot about this, is there anything which doesn't involve obliterating the… self?"
Khadija shrugged, and drew out a second cigarette, fitting it in beside the still-burning stump of the first. She barely noticed as the first came closer and closer to her lips, and was already rummaging for a third. Smoke surrounded her in a haze, reducing her down to a shadowy form and a harsh voice.
"No."
"But-"
"No. You think these forces offer multiple paths to reach them? No, not remotely. The paths offer many applications, but few avenues of ingress. The Unceasing Striving demands conflict, the Five-Horned Bull demands ambiguity. And the Razor demands a hollowness on which a role may be stretched."
She tilted her head to one side, barely perceptible in the smoke.
"I thought you were experienced in this business. I was mistaken."
"No, no, I get how this stuff works, I just… OK, are there any ways of defending the self against-"
"Girl, you're like a vegetarian trying to work out a loophole which will allow you to eat a juicy steak. Either be a vegetarian or don't be, but if you are then you ought to give up your steakly dreams."
She grunted.
"Really, I thought you'd be better at this. Anyway. I apologise for the throat-cutting, and nothing more. Get out."
"Not your house."
"Nor is it yours. And this country is full of raging imbeciles, I'm sure they'd confuse one refined female of our clan with another refined female of our clan."
"...fine. I'm gone."
"Good. Close the door on your way out."
No, no, couldn't just listen to her, her advice was too advanced. Maybe she could… she glanced at the razor again, and a sinking feeling began to run through her. Was that what it took? Destroy the self, and gain the power to defeat the Butcher, maybe for good? Any cape she came across, depowered and forced to live like a normal human again… no more bullshit immunity due to unreasonably strong powers. Her half-paralysed fingers twitched, eager to wrap around the handle of the thing again. Khadija was chattering away about the struggles of finding good trail food in this 'concrete labyrinth', but Vicky was lost in her own thoughts. She wondered if this was it - the bargain. Sacrifice her certainties, her feelings of self, and in exchange do something spectacularly useful to the world, take down a major threat, save her friends, improve the world in a meaningful fashion…
What would a hero do?
What would Victoria Dallon do?
And the longer she thought about it, she wondered where the difference lay.
She pushed through the front door, and bumped into a man coming down the front path - dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit, with a belt of tools winched tight around his ample waistline. He nodded politely, and Vicky froze. The man whistled as he approached the door, and blinked when he saw that it was unlocked.
"Uh, sorry to bother you, but-"
"Yeah. Shit. Sorry. Not the best time, are you here-"
"Just repairing the burglar alarm, that's all. Y'know how it is."
"...is it damaged?"
"Someone busted it up, yeah. Company wants me to put it back together before the place gets sold. Sorry, are you… allowed to be here?"
She had the brief image of Khadija leaping and cutting the man's throat without a second thought, maybe… she looked up. The burglar alarm was suspended above the door, and the mechanic looked up at it with a speculative eye. Damaged outer casing, shredded core… a quick round of questions confirmed that it'd just be replaced, didn't even really need to go inside. The man smiled awkwardly with bloodless lips, not used to protracted conversations about his work. He was one of the most forgettable men Vicky had ever seen - very pale in a way that suggested too long in front of a computer, with a moustache that he was clearly using as a substitute for a personality. The trousers of his jumpsuit were caked with dog hair that he had only made a cursory effort to remove. He looked, honestly, like he was made of spongy marble, and thinking about him for too long just reduced his face to a vague smear. He wouldn't need to go into the house, and she spoke loudly, making sure that Khadija heard her - just stay out here, repair the burglar alarm, and move on. The man looked uncomfortable at the noise, but nodded affirmatively.
She flew off, but her mind continued to buzz. The encounter was already drifting from her memory. Might as well have not happened at all.
In the end… she was a cape. Capes died young, that was just an accepted truth of the universe. Endbringer fights, villain battles, some punk getting lucky with a gun and the element of surprise, finding your address, cracking through your unprotected doors and splattering your cabinets with bright, bright droplets which never came out of the woodwork. Capes died young, they died violently, rare indeed was the parahuman who managed to get from youth to retirement age. Her mom had explained it curtly at one point - that when you became a parahuman, a ticking clock was set over your head. Injuries would rack up, trauma would pile higher, losses would grow and gains would decline. Your powers could expand, but not radically, not on a long-term sustainable basis. Either you did nothing and sat around letting yourself go to waste… or you did something with yourself. Made some kind of shift. Some kind of transfer. The razor was back in her hand. She hadn't noticed when it happened. The edge was thin, painfully thin… it could slice into someone and they'd barely feel it. Peel the skin free with barely a whisper of irritation. Vicky sized up the knife in her hand. Her instincts were driving her towards this choice, and now she had independent verification - someone else who understood this and knew how this needed to play out.
She sighed.
Sometimes she wished she'd never flown out to that tea shop. Nah. Moment of weakness. Passed soon enough. The regret faded - and all that remained was confusion.
Sacrifice or selfishness?
* * *
Vicky was flying back home, doubts buzzing throughout her mind. The encounter with the mechanic was as far from her perception as it was possible to get. Useless. She flew lazily, not concentrating on the path ahead. Just wanted to get to the tea shop and collapse a bit - the painkillers made her drowsy, and her wounds were still exhausting her more than she'd like to admit. Adrenaline had flowed through her, passed, and now all that remained was weariness. Fuck, she felt weak. Hated feeling weak. The razor was a heavy weight on her waist, hidden under a few layers of cloth. Poking into her thigh from time to time. She'd… 'won' at Naaktgeboren Ridge, and all she'd claimed was a razor she was too terrified to use, and had left behind the monster who'd killed who-knew how many people. And now… now what? She hovered quietly to the tea shop, pinching the bridge of her nose. Just… get into bed. Seal the box up again, and go to sleep. Explore all her options before she committed, just… try and do something, fuck, anything… she was feeling on the edge of despair right now, and could feel a strange heat in the back of her head. Despair was comforting, it coddled thoughts and made intelligence a simple thing indeed. If she just gave in, she'd be fine. It drew her in like a whirlpool - give in, and no choice would need to be made. None at all.
She began to haul the window up, checking around briefly to make sure no-one saw her. Give up any semblance of control over her own identity, let it all fade away… and achieve the power necessary to make a real difference to the world.
She wondered, idly, and in a rather silly way, if Eidolon had any personal life to speak of. Did he have a wife? Husband? Kids? Parents he didn't call enough? Or did he just… vanish when the cowl came off? Would she be the same?
She groaned… and froze.
Voices from downstairs. Familiar voices.
An involuntary 'fuck, fuck, fuck…' escaped her lips. Shit. Fuck. She floated over the floor to avoid making any sound. She knew those voices. Fuck.
"Mr… Turk, is it? No last name? Regardless, we've received verifiable claims that our daughter was seen flying in and out of your shop recently, after she went missing from our home. Now, you can either talk like a reasonable adult, we can search your shop from top to bottom and move on… or we can see each other in court. This is the document we need to arrest you for obstructing an investigation and breaking almost a dozen other laws besides. All we need to do is sign it."
Oh fuck, she was in lawyer mode. She was in fucking lawyer mode.
"Hm."
"'Hm' won't quite cut it, Mr Turk. Now, are you going to answer these claims, or will it have to be under oath?"
They had Turk pinned. She glanced around frantically. Her shit was piled high in here… camping equipment, articles of clothing, tools, things that could easily be traced back to her. No way she could clean it all away in time - her mom knew how to look for things, she found everything if she tried hard enough, and her dad was no slouch in that department either. They loved her, she knew that, but at the moment that love was telling them to find her, drag her home, and have a long, long talk she was very unprepared to make at this point in time, Christ. Two of them at minimum… fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…
If she was taken back, she'd be deviancy tested and then Amy would be out of reach. And all of this would be worthless. Probably locked up or something, prevented from doing what she had to fucking do. She had a role here, she had something to do. She might just be a dead skin surrounding a bundle of dead organs, she might've died under that mountain, and if she was… if she was stopped from doing what she needed to do, then what was she? Who was she? Nothing and no-one. She could feel a stinking pelt wrapped around her limbs again, a feeling like she was on the edge of losing everything resembling herself. Bound into a role she didn't fucking want. No, no, no, no, no…
Sweat was trickling down her spine.
Her hair was clinging to her forehead.
She felt trapped.
Hällo!
AN: And that's all for today. I hope you had some fun with the ending of the ButcherBoat, though I'd be very interested in hearing your feedback on it - eager to improve, and scenes like that always leave me feeling a little odd. Never quite sure of how well it went.
Incidentally, we've got more fanart by the inestimable SorrySorrow - this time, a crossover piece with Brocktonite Yankee, my other long fic. The Stratagess of Stormveil and Neither-Nor about to really ruin someone's day.
Incidentally, we've got more fanart by the inestimable SorrySorrow - this time, a crossover piece with Brocktonite Yankee, my other long fic. The Stratagess of Stormveil and Neither-Nor about to really ruin someone's day.
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
Man, I thought I was over this.
I am not.
I'M COMPETENT.
Have been, largely! It's a good game. Elements I like more than others, certainly, but it strongly feels like a game trying very hard to be like French literature, but it stumbles along the way and remains post-Soviet literature. Subtle difference in misery.
I'm not apologising.
What a delectably evil cliffhanger. Hate it, love it in equal measure.
No Eldritch quote for today. Just silence of the Cosmos.
Have a small sketch.
Hoo nelly, that's a hell of a sketch right there. Two Taylors, both equally absolutely schizophrenic. It's funny, there's a fic on my hard-drive where I cross over with Fight Club, so out of the four fics I have put any writing into, three of them have schizophrenic Taylors. Wacky.
Seriously, loving the interpretation of the walking cryptid and the pile of scars and trauma in a good suit. Look ready to kick some ass.
The Wolf-Divided - by the effortlessly delightful Doodle-Doo
And so the world turns and the wolf devours itself.
The imagery of the Wolf-Divided in these chapters is just so evocative.
216 - Gridiron Streets Strange by Toothlight
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
216 - Gridiron Streets Strange by Toothlight
Sanagi was feeling… ill-at-ease. Sleep didn't come. She was too aware of herself, her surroundings, her situation. The walls of her house - not going to be hers for very long, admittedly - seemed to press in around her. The shape of her clothes in the wardrobe seemed like a crowd of people, staring at her as she slept. The room was too hot - she paid dearly for her power at the moment, and was unwilling to switch on her air conditioning. The fear of leaving it on all night was enough to keep her up anyway, so nothing was being lost here. Lose-lose. Felt pretty typical. She couldn't stop thinking… and she almost wondered if sleep was an optional thing for her. Not like her brain was human, and… maybe in time she'd shed her skin, become a skeleton, and sleep no more. She dreaded the day that became a reality. Sleeping was a relief, sleeping was a tiny death which she could welcome without fear. A moment of oblivion and utter, utter calm. The shadowy crowd in her wardrobe seemed to mutter to itself, a single living mass with a dozen voices, murmuring of how she'd fucked up, and how her current investigations would lead to nothing at all, nothing remotely useful. She stood in silence and dressed, feeling half-dead and half-alive… but movement was still better than being stuck in one place, especially while she was in a mood like this.
She took to the streets, worry pulsing through her mind - literally. Tiny pulsars winking in and out of existence, projecting tiny luminescent beams which reflected sharply from her eye-sockets. She quietly slipped her glass eyes in before she left her front garden, a featureless expanse of grass which she'd spent weekend after weekend caring for in the past. Fertiliser. Frequent reseeding. Regular mowing. Wearing a pair of ridiculous spiked shoes to ensure proper penetration by seeds. Seasonal application of moss killer. Hours, days of work piling on top of one another - layer after layer which resulted in the same level flat plane. She suddenly couldn't abide the sight of it, and strode off into the dark, allowing the city to welcome her. She had an air of melancholy about her that just wouldn't shift. Great. Brooding cop. Not even a brooding detective, not even a brooding P.I., just a brooding unemployed individual who was, she was certain, about to get sacked from her job as a gym teacher. She tried to think about the future… failed. She strode into the depths of the city, jacket pulled tight around her despite the warmth of the night. She wandered deeper, deeper, allowing the huge buildings to surround her on every side. Ugly brown phone towers, some of which had sun-starved men and women crawling on them, making sure everything was in working order. Some of them nodded politely as she passed, and she gladly nodded back.
Nice to have some company, she supposed.
She wandered by the warehouse again, just… out of curiosity, nothing more. Wasn't going to go inside. But she had questions, and while she knew that finding answers would involve pissing off people she shouldn't be pissing off… well, just having a look couldn't hurt, right? She slowly wound through alleyways in silence, noting the signs of hidden violence. A tooth, shining in the centre of a pool of stagnant water, bloody trails still visible in the water to mark the path of its descent. A patch of graffiti - MA-MA FUCKS, and next to it, in a different shade of paint, FUCK MA-MA HORSEBOYS FOR LIFE. And above it all, images of a pair of open jaws with sharp, sharp teeth. Well. That… helped? Maybe? She wondered, idly, at the internal politics of the Teeth. Incoherent, that much went without saying, but how incoherent? Could they have the coherency of factions necessary for a civil war, as opposed to a general anarchy? Once more, she wondered how Taylor was doing. Hopefully she was alright. Most likely she wasn't… but there were no leads to follow. No way of tracking her. And even if she did…
She'd heard the broadcasts. Neither-Nor was a registered villain now, confirmed as associated with the Teeth. A shit flood had begun, and she just hoped that Taylor could keep her head above the rising tide.
The warehouse came into sight, and she stepped carefully around some fallen aspirin bottles to get a better look.
Huh.
Well, it was definitely… guarded now. Her eyes widened (well, her eyelids did, the eyes themselves remained glassy and dead) at the sight of featureless vans clustered around the front gate. The booth was gone, replaced with something much, much more sturdy. Barbed wire had been replaced with a newer variant which looked less like it'd catch her skin and clothes, and more like it'd leap from the top of the wall to entwine and shred anyone who dared step foot in its range. They actively quivered atop the wall, sparking occasionally. Dangerous. A new keypad had been installed… it all looked incredibly over-the-top. A few people milled around, most of them dressed like PRT operators - they had the insignia on their shoulders, and a bored air of obligation which characterised (in her eyes) most members of law enforcement after a certain time of night. She watched them work from a distance, and looked around carefully. They were diligent, she could say that much. But the amount of resources they were deploying, it… was ridiculous. This was a single warehouse containing an aberrant body, it was obvious that they were going for a 'concealment is the best defence' policy with this stuff… so why drag attention down? This was a piece of shit warehouse in a crummy part of the city, no way it got this much defence without containing a lot of cocaine, or something ludicrously important. And if you declared this place as important, people were going to be interested. It felt like… like they were validating her intrusion. Making it seem like, yeah, she'd just gotten lucky, this place was important but had been briefly unguarded, she'd slipped in and penetrated something which was now worried. Look at her go, she was making a difference.
Somehow, she found that last part rather hard to believe.
Why was SET so concerned with Chorei's body? What was the point - the damn thing was destroyed by the Flame of Frenzy, vomited up and cast aside once all its insides were gone. What the fuck was the point in keeping it around?
She scratched her chin wisely.
She had no fucking idea what was going on, but she felt a little smarter.
SET was something that frightened her with its shapelessness. She knew this place was affiliated with that organisation, she knew it was tied up with them… but the PRT were here. Not a single person bore the letters 'SET' on them. It felt, almost, like a bureaucratic invention. A glitch in the system which had produced a random acronym. She knew that a few changes on the right ledger could change the world… often did, in her experience. Her getting fired formed part of that knowledge. A guy up at the top had looked at the scales of justice and decided that she was inconvenient to the proper functioning of the police. If she probed, she was sure she could find a precise mathematical explanation of why she needed to be taken out of the force. A weird historical anecdote occurred to her… something from the 90s. Computers were kicking off, and America was at the cutting edge. Tinkers were being used to develop supercomputers capable of calculating anything, capable of managing a bureaucracy entirely by themselves. The limits of tinkertech hadn't yet been fully established, and the still-living USSR had decided to poach a little of the tech for themselves. Put it in charge of a little harmless thing, a few half-dead reactors, meant to regulate the temperatures…
Then the tinkertech failed. And because of a few mistakes, a few breakdowns in systems, a catastrophe erupted which coated half an oblast in nuclear fallout, a black snow without end. A change in a ledger had led to a disaster. A bureaucratic change, a little error on some database, and… boom. SET seemed to exist entirely as a bureaucratic tool, never once emerging as a real organisation, with no employees, no operatives, nothing. But it had found a body, found those golden needles, and was now securing its resources using an entirely different organisation. Where was it? Where was SET - who directed it, who managed it, what legal powers did it possess, why did it do all it did, why did it hide behind so many different facades… what did it even mean? What was the true meaning of SET? Looking at the unmarked vans and anonymous workers milling around drinking coffee and chatting in subdued tones, she almost imagined that it meant… nothing. Nothing at all.
Quietly, she left. Nothing to see here. No way in… and likely nothing to find even if she managed to get past everyone here.
She walked off into the city, wandering for some time. More brown towers, more aspirin bottles, more pieces of graffiti declaring allegiance to one faction or another. She wandered deeper, trying to puzzle out what exactly was happening… but things just wouldn't work out. Nothing clicked. Not sure if she wanted it to. But the city was shivering around her, straining at the presence of things neither of them fully understood. A series of images - she passed by a man collapsing out of a nightclub, a frantic look in his eyes which made him look like some doom-mad preacher. Guzzling booze as though he expected it to all end soon. A woman staggered out behind him, puking into the gutter, her face red and wet like a freshly-rinsed piece of fruit. Red with exertion and wet with tears. They were both wearing clothes that didn't fit them especially well, and neither seemed to know each other. One of them, wearing stained snakeskin shoes, grinned up blearily at her.
"Alright?"
Sanagi made no reply, just huddled deeper into her jacket. She examined him like an insect on a pin. He was no threat to her… she could enjoy his strangeness more when she wasn't threatened. Stars boiled, just in case he tried anything funny. The man's grin widened, and he simply began to laugh. A long, broken thing which never quite ended. Sanagi moved along. Nothing more from him. Streets over, a strange face looked out of a window, staring down suspiciously before twitching the curtains back into place and concealing itself once more. Just a flash of pale skin and lank, blonde hair. Nothing more. Huddling back inside its cell where it was safe and secure. One street was marked out by the bins, of all things. All of them standing in orderly rows in front of houses, ready for collection… and completely, utterly empty. They were perfectly regular, too - arranged like soldiers standing to attention. But they were devoid of trash, and the houses had no lights in the windows. Had everyone just… left? The city, that is? Larger buildings stood around the street, and seemed to hunch inwards, ready to consume this pocket of negative pressure. She was standing in a tiny collapsing submarine, a dead suburban street about to be swallowed whole by the hungry city. The city around her was starving for something… and a sickness was lurking in the gutters.
Overdosing or underdosing? Was it manic with untold frenzies… or simply hungry? Yearning for more? And if so… what?
The surfeit and the starvation eluded her, their origin, their object, their result.
The strangest encounter of the night was in a deserted parking lot. Well, almost deserted. She arrived with a feeling of aimlessness. Her brain, she realised, didn't need sleep. Not at all. Sleep was just… a switch, at this point. She slept when she wished to, woke when she wished to. But that self-control had been taken away, and she couldn't find it in her to properly rest, not anymore. The parking lot emerged, an arena of concrete… and there were people in it. She wasn't sure when they'd arrived. Her stars hummed in anticipation, desperate for release… it'd been too long since she bisected something that screamed. She stared… and the crowd grew. There were over a dozen of them on each side, standing a distance apart. Like players on a sports field, ready for someone to blow a whistle. One side was wearing clothing that… well, it looked like something a bunch of office workers would wear. Smart trousers and skirts, neat shirts and blouses, even a few ties. But then came the additions. Holes. Sweat-stains. Makeup smeared into war-paint, five-o-clock shadow deepening into full-on beards. Chains in place of belts, ties used as makeshift boxing tape, teeth streaked with blood. Panting like animals. Office workers gone feral. The other side wore almost nothing at all, save for underwear and love-bites. A woman with mascara dripping down her face stumbled forward in a daze, long, livid cuts running down from the base of her bra to the expansion of her waist. She twitched. And facing her, a tall, noble-looking man with slicked-back hair and a nose turned into a mass of scar tissue, trousers which had been torn at the knees, and a shirt with the bloody, sweaty impression of someone's face bored into it.
"Fuck off, cunt. This lot's our turf."
The woman twitched.
"Fuck you. Ma-Ma wants it."
"Fuck's sake… Ma-Ma this, Ma-Ma that, can't even say her fuckin' name. Piece of shit. Not worthy of being Teeth."
Oh? Sanagi leant against a wall and watched. If they got uppity… well. She'd deal with the survivors.
The woman twitched like an animal, and shrieked.
"Don't you say that about her! She's the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and-"
"Yeah, yeah, we all get it."
"Horsefucker!"
"That's the Horsefucker Appreciation Society to you, shit-for-brains. At least our boss respects us."
"Our boss loves us!"
"Love is for faggots and socialists. We have a relationship of positive capital, we are the apex of the flow of wealth. We are the beginning of a new dawn for the Teeth - a dawn of money! The Teeth have, for too long, been content to slip around the junkyards of the world - we should take ourselves to the bloodiest of all arenas. The stock market! We're capitalistic raiders, we're office worker revolutionaries, we're the beginning of a new fucking age! We'll take us to the top, to the penthouses, to the pools of champagne. You'll take us to the boudoir and the benefit office."
The woman seemed downright confused at that little spiel. Half of the man's followers in the… Horsefucker Appreciation Society seemed to be confused, too. Sanagi was just feeling mildly entertained, honestly.
"...uh."
"Tongue tied?! Tongue twisted?! Love can't dig you out of this mess, you sub-optimal asset."
A lady by the man's side stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear. The man nodded, withdrew a notebook, wrote her suggestion down, then politely spoke under his breath.
"Janice, take this complaint…"
She took the sheet of paper.
"And eat it."
She didn't. He gently removed the paper, and slid it into her mouth. Then he manually worked her jaw up and down until her lips foamed with pulp. The nudist colony, the… the term she was using internally was Mama's Boys, even thought she was keenly aware of how many women were standing around. She idly wondered if Kabiri was part of… no. Horsefuckers, Rocinante seemed most likely. And Mama seemed like a Matrimonial thing, if she was being honest. The only other lady in the Teeth's inner circle. Her suspicion had been right - factions, fighting against one another. And with the Butcher gone, with Taylor in tow… maybe this was happening all over the city. She couldn't see the logic behind allowing this to happen, and honestly, didn't want to. It was probably insane. If anything, she was worried for her old colleagues. This was… crazy. Half of these people looked like recent recruits, taken through devotional love or irrepressible rage. And worse, they had ideas. Random outbreaks of violence were manageable, most people backed down once the blood started flowing, even rioters operated by standard forms of logic. These people didn't. These people were insane. And if there were enough insane people to form an insane posse, then insanity could become infectious. No wonder the city felt weird at the moment - madness was in the air.
There was a moment of posturing, growling, sharpening of weapons… and then they charged. Sanagi watched with wide eyes as the two groups met in the middle of the parking lot, fighting in absolute silence. Just the noise of bodies struggling against one another, and the rising smell of copper and sweat into the air, the dripping of blood to the ground, the slapping of flesh as it fell against the hard concrete. It was a frenzy of silent violence, and the absence of roars or screams forced her to stare at the contraction of muscles, the sliding of body against body, the slow, steady pants of people driving themselves to the brink. A fist flew - a handful of teeth clattered sharply to the ground. A woman sank her teeth into a man's thigh, and his pained hisses were muffled by the fact that he, himself, was trying to bite out another man's throat. That man, incidentally, had a mouth choked with blood and teeth, reduced any painful reaction to a barely-audible gurgle. The man and the woman from the beginning were grappling in the centre. The man was stronger, but the woman was more vicious by far, clambering around like a monkey and trying to get at his throat with a jagged piece of glass that dug cruelly into her hand. Not a single scream. Not a single yell. Absolute silence. Sanagi was tempted to rush in herself, to start cracking skulls and wringing necks. She'd win - she was tougher than them, and based on the Mama's Boys' emaciation, had at least the mental wherewithal to feed herself. Which put her a step above at least half of the people.
She didn't engage. Even when suspicious eyes flicked over to her, she simply remained on her wall, watching judgmentally. If they wanted a fight, there'd be a fight. Otherwise, her sights were set on someone other than Rocinante, Matrimonial, or their respective cronies. She wanted Kabiri dead. And she couldn't achieve that if she was laid up in hospital because of something she didn't…
Oh…
Hm…
Something in the air. An animal scent. Something which lurked in the back of her head and made her want to… do what, exactly? Punch someone? Use her pincers to rip out a throat? Maybe several throats? She could feel her tongue splitting open into two long blades, clicking eagerly inside her mouth… maybe that could be fun. Hurt someone. Felt freeing.
The woman leading the Mama's Boys was thrown from the shoulders of the leader of the Horsefuckers. She sprawled in front of Sanagi, and flailed aggressively in an attempt to get back to her feet - a tangle of limbs and hair that had once been a functional human being. Maybe. She staggered to her feet, and looked up. She saw Sanagi staring down, and tilted her head to one side, muddy brown hair falling in a filthy, greasy curtain. Looked like shit.
"...which side?"
Sanagi shrugged.
"Teeth?"
Another noncommittal shrug. The woman blinked.
"...I'm going to bite your tits off."
"You're welcome to try."
She did.
She failed.
The woman plunged back into the crowd at high-velocity, and eyes swivelled to see who had punted her like a fleshy rugby ball that felt pain and cried a lot. The crowd didn't freeze… but the man leading the Horsefucker - the Prime Horsefucker, Donkey-Diddler Supreme, a Stallion amongst Equiphiles - yelled over at her, the first genuine raised voice in the entire tussle.
"What chapter?"
Sanagi had a rather nasty idea.
"Skeleton Laser Cops."
A whistle of appreciation. A few more eyes cast her way.
"Fuckin' sweet, didn't know we were getting the far-out chapters in for this one. You getting in on this or what?"
Sanagi was already removing her jacket and rolling up her sleeves. She was going to enjoy this. Might not be able to sleep, might not be able to solve mysteries, might not be much of a person… but she could still hurt people. She could hurt them very, very well. And violence… violence was a kind of wisdom, right? Taylor had a comprehension of the mysteries beyond the veil of sanity, but Sanagi could punch real good. Laser real good, too. She dove into the midst of the brawl, punching and scrapping with the best of them. Noses cracked, lips split, faces burst open like pieces of rotten fruit. A nearly-naked man whimpered for his 'Mama' as he fell to the ground with his cheekbone caved inwards by an errant strike. A man in a refined three-piece suit attempted to choke her with a length of chain… and she hauled him forwards, flipping him over her shoulder and into a tangled mass of other fighters. She lost herself for a moment - always a second away from peeling her face off and slicing. But no. No slice. Only punch. And boy did she punch. She couldn't tell when the first roar escaped her lips, the first senseless cry which boiled out from her throat and expressed, to a degree, something inside her. Frustration, maybe. Anger, definitely. Guilt? Conceivable. She jumped onto the man who'd invited her in, threw him to the ground, and began to destroy him, inch by inch. Her knuckles split open and ran freely with blood, and he laughed as she tore his lips open, sent his teeth scattering across the ground, punched his cheek until the skin tore and he was given a wide, toothless, leering smile almost from ear to ear. She screamed at him, and had no idea what it was that she said. But she heard his reply.
"Oh, that's some fucking wolfish shit right there!"
Her lungs were burning. Her heart was pounding faster and faster. Her stars were boiling for release, and…
She felt a supernova go off in her skull. Oh, fuck… she felt freedom. The back of her glass eyes softened slightly, threatening to melt backwards into her braincase. Her scream turned into a howl.
A pulse of power, fury, lucidity…
The last one brought her back to earth.
Silence surrounded her on all sides.
The parking lot had emptied out, she saw. The crowd had simply… vanished. She glanced down, making sure that she hadn't simply hallucinated all of this, and… no, her knuckles were still torn. But the man was moving, crawling away and lurching into a vague stagger. Metal doors clanged like ceremonial gongs - the crowd had vanished into the buildings, evidently. She imagined them, bloodied and beaten, scattering to do something. Hide? Had the violence begun to escalate, she distinctly remembered knives being drawn, even a gun or two… had she imagined that part? No, no, the violence was definitely on the verge of going from 'scuffle' to 'massacre'. And then they'd just… left. Why? Sanagi slowly stood up, her knees aching, her skin burning from leftover adrenaline. The night air was stifling, filling her mouth and choking her throat. She wondered how many times this has repeated itself across the city - factions of the Teeth clashing, leaving some wounds, and then… vanishing into the dark. Ready to do this all over again. Was this a deliberate tactic, some weird quirk of the Teeth, maybe a portent of something to come? An ugly brown tower loomed overhead, another stupid phone tower which had sprung up in the last few weeks, heavy metal cables piercing through the concrete of the parking lot and delving deep underground. How long until the violence broke free?
She stumbled out of the parking lot… and a light rain began to fall. The kind which only came when the clouds were a little too full, had exceeded their capacity just a bit too much. Still waiting for a proper storm. Still. Just had to give it some time, that was all - then the storm would come, and wash this place clean. She could see the blood from the parking lot forming rivers drifting slowly, sluggishly into the drains. Soon, there'd be nothing. No remnants of the fight. She stared at her hands as she walked, ignoring the rain that began to weigh her hair down and suffuse her clothes. She expected to feel sick - disappointed in herself, in how she'd just given in to violence at the first fucking opportunity. The thing was? She didn't. She felt nothing. Just… relief. Relief, satisfaction, even a vague twitch of excitement. Her blood was rushing, the rain cooled her a little but never enough to put out the fire in her stomach and her head. She felt something rush… and ducked into a shadowy alleyway, checking around quickly. No-one. She couldn't help herself - she relaxed her mane of filaments, detached the bottom of the vertical strips composing her face, flipped them up and let them stick to the fringe of her hair. A wet fleshy, hairy mass. And her jaw was exposed. Pincers clicked out in seconds. She hesitated, tensed, flexed…
And a flood of stars came rushing out. A tidal wave of cosmic matter. The base of the alleyway was filled in seconds, nebulas blooming into infant stars, cracking wider and brighter until gravity failed them and they dispersed into yet more starmatter, new celestial bodies breeding in the mass of unknown purples and blues, shades that no earthly pigment could make. Sanagi felt her throat croaking… and she let out a hoarse, cackling laugh. She couldn't say why. But the stars kept coming, and she felt the most inexpressible pleasure go through her, a crackling, shivering joy. Relief, in a way. A relaxation of tension. A bowstring finally loosened. She looked down into the mass, still hurling up more and more stars, scorching the ground a fine, carbonised black, and thought she saw a pair of dead eyes staring out at her. She was doing her job. She blinked… and suddenly she saw herself. Changed. She saw something else stumbling out of the alleyway - a naked, blackened skeleton, skin boiled away into vapour, rib cage spluttering with stars. A reactor she could fuel with the issue of her skull. A burning, brightening idol, something pagan and blood, something that would be sacrificed to at the apex of a step pyramid.
Guilt didn't fade, but it certainly didn't catch up with this striding idol. All she had to do was let it happen, shed her skin, let the light win, and all obligation would be behind her. All shame. Hadn't talked to her mother yet. Didn't want to. Couldn't face the shame of it. If she shed her skin, she'd feel no responsibility for that particular part of her life. All roles gone, all binding ties severed. Leah Goodluck Nettle, the one she'd failed, the one who proved that she was, quite possibly, destined to be an eternal fuck-up. She choked out another rush of starlight, and felt the hems of her trousers start to roast slightly. Collapsed to her knees. Bury herself in a cocoon of nebulae and let the skin burn off… the state her power wanted her to have. She remembered the glorious dream she'd had on the day when she'd decided to obliterate reality in a flood of wine and poor decisions. Those Teeth back there… there'd been something about them. Something wolfish, that made her feel like just… shedding it all and moving on would be the right decision.
She blinked…
And felt something in the back of her mind.
Something golden.
Soothing.
She looked up from the pool of starmatter which had spread wide and thick, crackling with tiny detonations. A woman was standing there… but she felt nothing but calm wash over her. The woman looked Mediterranean, and her waist was stained with blood - her thighs were practically armoured with it. Hollow eyes stared down from a great height, the woman was unreasonably tall and muscled. Enough so that Sanagi actually felt a flicker of jealousy. Around her shoulders were hung animal skins coated with whitethorn branches, and over her back was a javelin. Every movement seemed to creak, like the hinges of a badly-oiled door. She looked irritable, and before Sanagi could think a heavy hand crashed onto her shoulder and hauled her upright, the nebulae at her feet rising like the sucking waters of a swamp, eager to keep her in place. She stared dumbly at the woman, who poked her in the chest.
"Unprofessional. Get back to work."
Sanagi blinked.
"...uh…"
"Unreasonable physical exertion and mental distress reduces combat efficacy and compromises logic centres. And contaminants… Get back to work. You're going to be late."
The woman tilted her head to one side, and groaned in exasperation. She spoke into thin air, ignoring Sanagi completely.
"Reclaimed Thoughtform 223007 reporting from Extension 12. Adjustment made. Course corrected."
Her attention shifted.
"This was a dream."
Sanagi tried to interject.
"I'm… sorry, who are you exa-"
-ctly?"
Sanagi was… not in the alleyway. When had she been in an alleyway? Her fists were sore… bandaged up, though. Hm. No, wait, she remembered how that'd happened - she'd gotten carried away with her punching bag, really went to town on the thing. Tore her knuckles open and had to spend a few minutes getting them back in working order. Legs were tired for the same reason. The bleariness was just a consequence of being unable to sleep. She felt odd. Very odd. Freaky dream, very violent, too. She… hm. She was standing in a different street. Her clothes were filthy, her face was sore, her stars felt oddly muted. Slowly, rationalisations drifted up, clicking into place with an ease clearly born of absolute familiarity. Walked over here, wanted to work off some excess energy. Car had driven past her, splashing her with muddy water. She'd lasered a rusty abandoned car in half out of stress. Feeling pent-up at the time, now she was… significantly better. The course had been corrected. Hm. Odd thing to say, but… no, no, it made sense. All of this made sense. She felt like she had the day she was sworn in as an officer - the same feeling of everything clicking into place, the same retrospective in which all things fit. Elements which had seemed disparate and unaffiliated were suddenly accounted for and integrated into a single coherent life-plan, and the future was plain and clear, predicted to absolute certainty. Her stride changed from a stumble to a confident stride. A faint edge of unease coloured her thoughts, a feeling that something had gone very, very wrong, but…
Something was wrong.
She was late.
Arrangements had been made, plans had been established. A quick check revealed that, yeah, she'd called Ahab, told her that she'd meet at the place. Sarkis had wanted them to get into another warehouse, a site affiliated with SET. If they acquiesced, he promised to give them every possible scrap of data on Kabiri - on Xavier Crowley. PRT support in tracking him down - the PRT could track anyone if they wanted to, even a well-hidden cape. Should be a little tricker than the last one. But that was how these things went, wasn't it? The first excursion was the easiest, and each subsequent encounter only escalated the tension and difficulty until there was some climactic resolution. It was a neat progression, one that she could easily get lost in. SET would be interested in this place, and while Sarkis could try and divert patrols from the PRT away from them, they'd likely be using other assets to make sure no-one messed with their property. Just needed to get in, find more ledgers, get some pictures for their own use, and then… done. She stepped into the street, and heard a distant honking. Ahab. Good.
"Hey, Etty!"
And irritation was coming back to her. Good. Feeling too peaceful.
"Ahab."
"Looks like someone had a party."
Her eyes swept over Sanagi's filthy clothes, and her eyebrows rose in appreciation.
"Just took a walk."
"Where, a World War One trench? Seriously, you… were you out all night?"
"No. Of course not. I found it hard to sleep, woke up early, and went for a walk to clear my head. Realised it'd be easier to just walk here than walk back to grab my car."
"...I mean, you're not wrong, but… still. Actually, shit, did you hear about what happened at the tea shop yesterday?"
"...no. Why?"
"I'll tell you later. It's wild. Turk was going nuts. Anyway, so, not going in with as much intel as I'd like, but… we can manage. Push comes to shove, deploy the skull."
Sanagi ignored the hollow feeling up there, the sense of faint exhaustion pervading her stars and making them pulse weakly and rarely. She nodded calmly, tried to bury herself in operational necessities. But… but something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, a sticky, cloying feeling which coated her skin and made her feel unclean - like she needed to do one of her monthly face-soaks, where she peeled her skin off strip by strip and soaked it in disinfectant-laden water. Just to prevent any lichen or moss from growing on the underside. Probably paranoia, but she'd never recovered fully from finding a tiny spider crawling underneath her face. While she was still wearing it. Feh.
Wait, something was definitely wrong. Definitely, definitely wrong. There had been something wolfish about her dreams last night. Definitely wolfish. A wolfish something that had been… almost freeing, really… and a part of it was hovering in the back of her mind. A tiny, tiny red star, like a hot coal but nowhere near as intense. A coal that burned cold, quiet and still. Indelible. But then plans began to form around it, a complex network of gold which suppressed it. The drive was still there, the desire to free herself and… no. It was altered. Integrated. She could feel her personality flowing around it, allowing the red star to fade away calmly. A functional ecosystem required the occasional wildfire, right? Arch had been able to relax in the past by going apeshit in the middle of the countryside, apparently. Yeah, that was all. She just needed a holiday. A little acceptable revolution against the world, which in turn came to reinforce the world itself. Revolution, after all, could mean the turning of a wheel, and what was more stable and perfect than a turning, turning wheel… if you were riding atop it, of course. Being crushed underneath was no fun at all. She shrugged, and Ahab started to get out bulletproof vests and guns. Going to be more professional now - two break-ins at the same agency's warehouse, yeah, subtlety was pointless. Not worth compromising the possibility of success.
Ahab gave her an odd look.
"Yeah, you're definitely lying."
"What?"
"Lying. You were out and about, I can tell. Honestly, I'm mostly just annoyed that you didn't bring me along. So, did you pin some guy to the mud and have your barbarian way with him?"
"...what the fuck, Ahab?"
"Just saying. You look a little more relaxed, your knuckles are busted, and all that mud… not judging, I've been with many fine gentlemen in the mud and the rain, in varying arrangements, frequently with the sound of artillery fire in the background. I get the urge."
"Please shut up."
"Nah, nah. Come on, we're friends, right?"
"...yes."
"Friendliest friends. So, tell me - what were you really up to?"
"...I…"
Sanagi paused.
What had she been up to?
Walked around, she remembered that. Punched the shit out of her bag, but… wait, why would she go out for a walk after exhausting herself on a punching bag? More than that, hadn't she wrecked her punching bag? Feeling this good… this wasn't a feeling that came along with trashing one of her few remaining punching bags, wasting money that she simply couldn't afford to waste. Why was… she felt good right now, but she couldn't quite get over the unease in the back of her skull… a red star was burning a little brighter, a hungry chaos which… no, no, nothing was happening, she was…
"I don't know."
"...more wine?"
"No, no, I don't think there was wine, I just… it's weird, it's hard to remember, it's like…"
The red star bloomed a little brighter… and then dimmed almost into nothingness. Order resumed with a twitch. Her expression hardened, but Ahab was unrelenting.
"This… isn't the first time this has happened. Back in the meat packing plant, you just… vanished, kept blowing me off, then showed up looking like a confused puppy. I don't think it's a powers thing… I hope it isn't, but there's definitely something up with you."
She paused, and tilted her head to one side, greasy hair trailing in the wind. Sanagi pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the hard bone beneath.
"I don't remember… much. I…"
A pulse of fear ran through her.
"Is it a power thing? Do you think?"
"...dunno. Not very familiar."
"Nor am I. I mean, I know they're mine, but that doesn't mean I understand them, and…"
Rotten hands clapped down on her shoulders. Ahab's cloudy eyes stared into her own.
"Hey. Calm down. We can work through this, two of us. Kay?"
Terror was genuinely running through her. She imagined losing her memories piece by piece, imagined more and more fugue states until nothing remained, just… just something out of a nightmare, and…
"Promise?"
Ahab smiled.
"Yeah. I promise. Two of us, we'll deal with this. Hell, we could have a sitcom - you, me, and Turk, all living under the same roof. Having adventures."
"...we already do most of that."
"Yeah, but we could do it with domestic drama. Spice of life. Maybe we all move to the protein farm with Arch, drag Taylor with us whenever she shows back up… yeah, I can see this going places."
"Does this sitcom have a name?"
Normality was starting to return a little. Ahab grinned.
"Friends."
That sounded reasonable. Nothing like that had ever been made before in her knowledge, beyond a short-lived pilot which she remembered watching once and not being entirely impressed by. Yeah. Friends. That worked. The two shouldered their weapons and moved off. Blueprints acquired - yeah, a few vulnerabilities they could exploit. No tiltrotors overhead, no unmarked vans… safe as houses. Utterly safe. But the unease built. Something was wrong. Something was definitely a little bit odd… her knuckles turned white around her gun. Tension hung in the air, and Ahab seemed to feel it as well, shifting uncomfortably and surveying the world around her with narrowed eyes. They stopped just outside the perimeter wall of the ugly warehouse, interchangeable with any other. She glanced around…
And froze.
People were moving.
They stood at the intersection of five roads. They'd walked up one.
And from three others…
People were coming.
The sound of horse hooves clacked on the asphalt.
Sanagi was feeling… ill-at-ease. Sleep didn't come. She was too aware of herself, her surroundings, her situation. The walls of her house - not going to be hers for very long, admittedly - seemed to press in around her. The shape of her clothes in the wardrobe seemed like a crowd of people, staring at her as she slept. The room was too hot - she paid dearly for her power at the moment, and was unwilling to switch on her air conditioning. The fear of leaving it on all night was enough to keep her up anyway, so nothing was being lost here. Lose-lose. Felt pretty typical. She couldn't stop thinking… and she almost wondered if sleep was an optional thing for her. Not like her brain was human, and… maybe in time she'd shed her skin, become a skeleton, and sleep no more. She dreaded the day that became a reality. Sleeping was a relief, sleeping was a tiny death which she could welcome without fear. A moment of oblivion and utter, utter calm. The shadowy crowd in her wardrobe seemed to mutter to itself, a single living mass with a dozen voices, murmuring of how she'd fucked up, and how her current investigations would lead to nothing at all, nothing remotely useful. She stood in silence and dressed, feeling half-dead and half-alive… but movement was still better than being stuck in one place, especially while she was in a mood like this.
She took to the streets, worry pulsing through her mind - literally. Tiny pulsars winking in and out of existence, projecting tiny luminescent beams which reflected sharply from her eye-sockets. She quietly slipped her glass eyes in before she left her front garden, a featureless expanse of grass which she'd spent weekend after weekend caring for in the past. Fertiliser. Frequent reseeding. Regular mowing. Wearing a pair of ridiculous spiked shoes to ensure proper penetration by seeds. Seasonal application of moss killer. Hours, days of work piling on top of one another - layer after layer which resulted in the same level flat plane. She suddenly couldn't abide the sight of it, and strode off into the dark, allowing the city to welcome her. She had an air of melancholy about her that just wouldn't shift. Great. Brooding cop. Not even a brooding detective, not even a brooding P.I., just a brooding unemployed individual who was, she was certain, about to get sacked from her job as a gym teacher. She tried to think about the future… failed. She strode into the depths of the city, jacket pulled tight around her despite the warmth of the night. She wandered deeper, deeper, allowing the huge buildings to surround her on every side. Ugly brown phone towers, some of which had sun-starved men and women crawling on them, making sure everything was in working order. Some of them nodded politely as she passed, and she gladly nodded back.
Nice to have some company, she supposed.
She wandered by the warehouse again, just… out of curiosity, nothing more. Wasn't going to go inside. But she had questions, and while she knew that finding answers would involve pissing off people she shouldn't be pissing off… well, just having a look couldn't hurt, right? She slowly wound through alleyways in silence, noting the signs of hidden violence. A tooth, shining in the centre of a pool of stagnant water, bloody trails still visible in the water to mark the path of its descent. A patch of graffiti - MA-MA FUCKS, and next to it, in a different shade of paint, FUCK MA-MA HORSEBOYS FOR LIFE. And above it all, images of a pair of open jaws with sharp, sharp teeth. Well. That… helped? Maybe? She wondered, idly, at the internal politics of the Teeth. Incoherent, that much went without saying, but how incoherent? Could they have the coherency of factions necessary for a civil war, as opposed to a general anarchy? Once more, she wondered how Taylor was doing. Hopefully she was alright. Most likely she wasn't… but there were no leads to follow. No way of tracking her. And even if she did…
She'd heard the broadcasts. Neither-Nor was a registered villain now, confirmed as associated with the Teeth. A shit flood had begun, and she just hoped that Taylor could keep her head above the rising tide.
The warehouse came into sight, and she stepped carefully around some fallen aspirin bottles to get a better look.
Huh.
Well, it was definitely… guarded now. Her eyes widened (well, her eyelids did, the eyes themselves remained glassy and dead) at the sight of featureless vans clustered around the front gate. The booth was gone, replaced with something much, much more sturdy. Barbed wire had been replaced with a newer variant which looked less like it'd catch her skin and clothes, and more like it'd leap from the top of the wall to entwine and shred anyone who dared step foot in its range. They actively quivered atop the wall, sparking occasionally. Dangerous. A new keypad had been installed… it all looked incredibly over-the-top. A few people milled around, most of them dressed like PRT operators - they had the insignia on their shoulders, and a bored air of obligation which characterised (in her eyes) most members of law enforcement after a certain time of night. She watched them work from a distance, and looked around carefully. They were diligent, she could say that much. But the amount of resources they were deploying, it… was ridiculous. This was a single warehouse containing an aberrant body, it was obvious that they were going for a 'concealment is the best defence' policy with this stuff… so why drag attention down? This was a piece of shit warehouse in a crummy part of the city, no way it got this much defence without containing a lot of cocaine, or something ludicrously important. And if you declared this place as important, people were going to be interested. It felt like… like they were validating her intrusion. Making it seem like, yeah, she'd just gotten lucky, this place was important but had been briefly unguarded, she'd slipped in and penetrated something which was now worried. Look at her go, she was making a difference.
Somehow, she found that last part rather hard to believe.
Why was SET so concerned with Chorei's body? What was the point - the damn thing was destroyed by the Flame of Frenzy, vomited up and cast aside once all its insides were gone. What the fuck was the point in keeping it around?
She scratched her chin wisely.
She had no fucking idea what was going on, but she felt a little smarter.
SET was something that frightened her with its shapelessness. She knew this place was affiliated with that organisation, she knew it was tied up with them… but the PRT were here. Not a single person bore the letters 'SET' on them. It felt, almost, like a bureaucratic invention. A glitch in the system which had produced a random acronym. She knew that a few changes on the right ledger could change the world… often did, in her experience. Her getting fired formed part of that knowledge. A guy up at the top had looked at the scales of justice and decided that she was inconvenient to the proper functioning of the police. If she probed, she was sure she could find a precise mathematical explanation of why she needed to be taken out of the force. A weird historical anecdote occurred to her… something from the 90s. Computers were kicking off, and America was at the cutting edge. Tinkers were being used to develop supercomputers capable of calculating anything, capable of managing a bureaucracy entirely by themselves. The limits of tinkertech hadn't yet been fully established, and the still-living USSR had decided to poach a little of the tech for themselves. Put it in charge of a little harmless thing, a few half-dead reactors, meant to regulate the temperatures…
Then the tinkertech failed. And because of a few mistakes, a few breakdowns in systems, a catastrophe erupted which coated half an oblast in nuclear fallout, a black snow without end. A change in a ledger had led to a disaster. A bureaucratic change, a little error on some database, and… boom. SET seemed to exist entirely as a bureaucratic tool, never once emerging as a real organisation, with no employees, no operatives, nothing. But it had found a body, found those golden needles, and was now securing its resources using an entirely different organisation. Where was it? Where was SET - who directed it, who managed it, what legal powers did it possess, why did it do all it did, why did it hide behind so many different facades… what did it even mean? What was the true meaning of SET? Looking at the unmarked vans and anonymous workers milling around drinking coffee and chatting in subdued tones, she almost imagined that it meant… nothing. Nothing at all.
Quietly, she left. Nothing to see here. No way in… and likely nothing to find even if she managed to get past everyone here.
She walked off into the city, wandering for some time. More brown towers, more aspirin bottles, more pieces of graffiti declaring allegiance to one faction or another. She wandered deeper, trying to puzzle out what exactly was happening… but things just wouldn't work out. Nothing clicked. Not sure if she wanted it to. But the city was shivering around her, straining at the presence of things neither of them fully understood. A series of images - she passed by a man collapsing out of a nightclub, a frantic look in his eyes which made him look like some doom-mad preacher. Guzzling booze as though he expected it to all end soon. A woman staggered out behind him, puking into the gutter, her face red and wet like a freshly-rinsed piece of fruit. Red with exertion and wet with tears. They were both wearing clothes that didn't fit them especially well, and neither seemed to know each other. One of them, wearing stained snakeskin shoes, grinned up blearily at her.
"Alright?"
Sanagi made no reply, just huddled deeper into her jacket. She examined him like an insect on a pin. He was no threat to her… she could enjoy his strangeness more when she wasn't threatened. Stars boiled, just in case he tried anything funny. The man's grin widened, and he simply began to laugh. A long, broken thing which never quite ended. Sanagi moved along. Nothing more from him. Streets over, a strange face looked out of a window, staring down suspiciously before twitching the curtains back into place and concealing itself once more. Just a flash of pale skin and lank, blonde hair. Nothing more. Huddling back inside its cell where it was safe and secure. One street was marked out by the bins, of all things. All of them standing in orderly rows in front of houses, ready for collection… and completely, utterly empty. They were perfectly regular, too - arranged like soldiers standing to attention. But they were devoid of trash, and the houses had no lights in the windows. Had everyone just… left? The city, that is? Larger buildings stood around the street, and seemed to hunch inwards, ready to consume this pocket of negative pressure. She was standing in a tiny collapsing submarine, a dead suburban street about to be swallowed whole by the hungry city. The city around her was starving for something… and a sickness was lurking in the gutters.
Overdosing or underdosing? Was it manic with untold frenzies… or simply hungry? Yearning for more? And if so… what?
The surfeit and the starvation eluded her, their origin, their object, their result.
The strangest encounter of the night was in a deserted parking lot. Well, almost deserted. She arrived with a feeling of aimlessness. Her brain, she realised, didn't need sleep. Not at all. Sleep was just… a switch, at this point. She slept when she wished to, woke when she wished to. But that self-control had been taken away, and she couldn't find it in her to properly rest, not anymore. The parking lot emerged, an arena of concrete… and there were people in it. She wasn't sure when they'd arrived. Her stars hummed in anticipation, desperate for release… it'd been too long since she bisected something that screamed. She stared… and the crowd grew. There were over a dozen of them on each side, standing a distance apart. Like players on a sports field, ready for someone to blow a whistle. One side was wearing clothing that… well, it looked like something a bunch of office workers would wear. Smart trousers and skirts, neat shirts and blouses, even a few ties. But then came the additions. Holes. Sweat-stains. Makeup smeared into war-paint, five-o-clock shadow deepening into full-on beards. Chains in place of belts, ties used as makeshift boxing tape, teeth streaked with blood. Panting like animals. Office workers gone feral. The other side wore almost nothing at all, save for underwear and love-bites. A woman with mascara dripping down her face stumbled forward in a daze, long, livid cuts running down from the base of her bra to the expansion of her waist. She twitched. And facing her, a tall, noble-looking man with slicked-back hair and a nose turned into a mass of scar tissue, trousers which had been torn at the knees, and a shirt with the bloody, sweaty impression of someone's face bored into it.
"Fuck off, cunt. This lot's our turf."
The woman twitched.
"Fuck you. Ma-Ma wants it."
"Fuck's sake… Ma-Ma this, Ma-Ma that, can't even say her fuckin' name. Piece of shit. Not worthy of being Teeth."
Oh? Sanagi leant against a wall and watched. If they got uppity… well. She'd deal with the survivors.
The woman twitched like an animal, and shrieked.
"Don't you say that about her! She's the most wonderful girl I've ever met, and-"
"Yeah, yeah, we all get it."
"Horsefucker!"
"That's the Horsefucker Appreciation Society to you, shit-for-brains. At least our boss respects us."
"Our boss loves us!"
"Love is for faggots and socialists. We have a relationship of positive capital, we are the apex of the flow of wealth. We are the beginning of a new dawn for the Teeth - a dawn of money! The Teeth have, for too long, been content to slip around the junkyards of the world - we should take ourselves to the bloodiest of all arenas. The stock market! We're capitalistic raiders, we're office worker revolutionaries, we're the beginning of a new fucking age! We'll take us to the top, to the penthouses, to the pools of champagne. You'll take us to the boudoir and the benefit office."
The woman seemed downright confused at that little spiel. Half of the man's followers in the… Horsefucker Appreciation Society seemed to be confused, too. Sanagi was just feeling mildly entertained, honestly.
"...uh."
"Tongue tied?! Tongue twisted?! Love can't dig you out of this mess, you sub-optimal asset."
A lady by the man's side stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear. The man nodded, withdrew a notebook, wrote her suggestion down, then politely spoke under his breath.
"Janice, take this complaint…"
She took the sheet of paper.
"And eat it."
She didn't. He gently removed the paper, and slid it into her mouth. Then he manually worked her jaw up and down until her lips foamed with pulp. The nudist colony, the… the term she was using internally was Mama's Boys, even thought she was keenly aware of how many women were standing around. She idly wondered if Kabiri was part of… no. Horsefuckers, Rocinante seemed most likely. And Mama seemed like a Matrimonial thing, if she was being honest. The only other lady in the Teeth's inner circle. Her suspicion had been right - factions, fighting against one another. And with the Butcher gone, with Taylor in tow… maybe this was happening all over the city. She couldn't see the logic behind allowing this to happen, and honestly, didn't want to. It was probably insane. If anything, she was worried for her old colleagues. This was… crazy. Half of these people looked like recent recruits, taken through devotional love or irrepressible rage. And worse, they had ideas. Random outbreaks of violence were manageable, most people backed down once the blood started flowing, even rioters operated by standard forms of logic. These people didn't. These people were insane. And if there were enough insane people to form an insane posse, then insanity could become infectious. No wonder the city felt weird at the moment - madness was in the air.
There was a moment of posturing, growling, sharpening of weapons… and then they charged. Sanagi watched with wide eyes as the two groups met in the middle of the parking lot, fighting in absolute silence. Just the noise of bodies struggling against one another, and the rising smell of copper and sweat into the air, the dripping of blood to the ground, the slapping of flesh as it fell against the hard concrete. It was a frenzy of silent violence, and the absence of roars or screams forced her to stare at the contraction of muscles, the sliding of body against body, the slow, steady pants of people driving themselves to the brink. A fist flew - a handful of teeth clattered sharply to the ground. A woman sank her teeth into a man's thigh, and his pained hisses were muffled by the fact that he, himself, was trying to bite out another man's throat. That man, incidentally, had a mouth choked with blood and teeth, reduced any painful reaction to a barely-audible gurgle. The man and the woman from the beginning were grappling in the centre. The man was stronger, but the woman was more vicious by far, clambering around like a monkey and trying to get at his throat with a jagged piece of glass that dug cruelly into her hand. Not a single scream. Not a single yell. Absolute silence. Sanagi was tempted to rush in herself, to start cracking skulls and wringing necks. She'd win - she was tougher than them, and based on the Mama's Boys' emaciation, had at least the mental wherewithal to feed herself. Which put her a step above at least half of the people.
She didn't engage. Even when suspicious eyes flicked over to her, she simply remained on her wall, watching judgmentally. If they wanted a fight, there'd be a fight. Otherwise, her sights were set on someone other than Rocinante, Matrimonial, or their respective cronies. She wanted Kabiri dead. And she couldn't achieve that if she was laid up in hospital because of something she didn't…
Oh…
Hm…
Something in the air. An animal scent. Something which lurked in the back of her head and made her want to… do what, exactly? Punch someone? Use her pincers to rip out a throat? Maybe several throats? She could feel her tongue splitting open into two long blades, clicking eagerly inside her mouth… maybe that could be fun. Hurt someone. Felt freeing.
The woman leading the Mama's Boys was thrown from the shoulders of the leader of the Horsefuckers. She sprawled in front of Sanagi, and flailed aggressively in an attempt to get back to her feet - a tangle of limbs and hair that had once been a functional human being. Maybe. She staggered to her feet, and looked up. She saw Sanagi staring down, and tilted her head to one side, muddy brown hair falling in a filthy, greasy curtain. Looked like shit.
"...which side?"
Sanagi shrugged.
"Teeth?"
Another noncommittal shrug. The woman blinked.
"...I'm going to bite your tits off."
"You're welcome to try."
She did.
She failed.
The woman plunged back into the crowd at high-velocity, and eyes swivelled to see who had punted her like a fleshy rugby ball that felt pain and cried a lot. The crowd didn't freeze… but the man leading the Horsefucker - the Prime Horsefucker, Donkey-Diddler Supreme, a Stallion amongst Equiphiles - yelled over at her, the first genuine raised voice in the entire tussle.
"What chapter?"
Sanagi had a rather nasty idea.
"Skeleton Laser Cops."
A whistle of appreciation. A few more eyes cast her way.
"Fuckin' sweet, didn't know we were getting the far-out chapters in for this one. You getting in on this or what?"
Sanagi was already removing her jacket and rolling up her sleeves. She was going to enjoy this. Might not be able to sleep, might not be able to solve mysteries, might not be much of a person… but she could still hurt people. She could hurt them very, very well. And violence… violence was a kind of wisdom, right? Taylor had a comprehension of the mysteries beyond the veil of sanity, but Sanagi could punch real good. Laser real good, too. She dove into the midst of the brawl, punching and scrapping with the best of them. Noses cracked, lips split, faces burst open like pieces of rotten fruit. A nearly-naked man whimpered for his 'Mama' as he fell to the ground with his cheekbone caved inwards by an errant strike. A man in a refined three-piece suit attempted to choke her with a length of chain… and she hauled him forwards, flipping him over her shoulder and into a tangled mass of other fighters. She lost herself for a moment - always a second away from peeling her face off and slicing. But no. No slice. Only punch. And boy did she punch. She couldn't tell when the first roar escaped her lips, the first senseless cry which boiled out from her throat and expressed, to a degree, something inside her. Frustration, maybe. Anger, definitely. Guilt? Conceivable. She jumped onto the man who'd invited her in, threw him to the ground, and began to destroy him, inch by inch. Her knuckles split open and ran freely with blood, and he laughed as she tore his lips open, sent his teeth scattering across the ground, punched his cheek until the skin tore and he was given a wide, toothless, leering smile almost from ear to ear. She screamed at him, and had no idea what it was that she said. But she heard his reply.
"Oh, that's some fucking wolfish shit right there!"
Her lungs were burning. Her heart was pounding faster and faster. Her stars were boiling for release, and…
She felt a supernova go off in her skull. Oh, fuck… she felt freedom. The back of her glass eyes softened slightly, threatening to melt backwards into her braincase. Her scream turned into a howl.
A pulse of power, fury, lucidity…
The last one brought her back to earth.
Silence surrounded her on all sides.
The parking lot had emptied out, she saw. The crowd had simply… vanished. She glanced down, making sure that she hadn't simply hallucinated all of this, and… no, her knuckles were still torn. But the man was moving, crawling away and lurching into a vague stagger. Metal doors clanged like ceremonial gongs - the crowd had vanished into the buildings, evidently. She imagined them, bloodied and beaten, scattering to do something. Hide? Had the violence begun to escalate, she distinctly remembered knives being drawn, even a gun or two… had she imagined that part? No, no, the violence was definitely on the verge of going from 'scuffle' to 'massacre'. And then they'd just… left. Why? Sanagi slowly stood up, her knees aching, her skin burning from leftover adrenaline. The night air was stifling, filling her mouth and choking her throat. She wondered how many times this has repeated itself across the city - factions of the Teeth clashing, leaving some wounds, and then… vanishing into the dark. Ready to do this all over again. Was this a deliberate tactic, some weird quirk of the Teeth, maybe a portent of something to come? An ugly brown tower loomed overhead, another stupid phone tower which had sprung up in the last few weeks, heavy metal cables piercing through the concrete of the parking lot and delving deep underground. How long until the violence broke free?
She stumbled out of the parking lot… and a light rain began to fall. The kind which only came when the clouds were a little too full, had exceeded their capacity just a bit too much. Still waiting for a proper storm. Still. Just had to give it some time, that was all - then the storm would come, and wash this place clean. She could see the blood from the parking lot forming rivers drifting slowly, sluggishly into the drains. Soon, there'd be nothing. No remnants of the fight. She stared at her hands as she walked, ignoring the rain that began to weigh her hair down and suffuse her clothes. She expected to feel sick - disappointed in herself, in how she'd just given in to violence at the first fucking opportunity. The thing was? She didn't. She felt nothing. Just… relief. Relief, satisfaction, even a vague twitch of excitement. Her blood was rushing, the rain cooled her a little but never enough to put out the fire in her stomach and her head. She felt something rush… and ducked into a shadowy alleyway, checking around quickly. No-one. She couldn't help herself - she relaxed her mane of filaments, detached the bottom of the vertical strips composing her face, flipped them up and let them stick to the fringe of her hair. A wet fleshy, hairy mass. And her jaw was exposed. Pincers clicked out in seconds. She hesitated, tensed, flexed…
And a flood of stars came rushing out. A tidal wave of cosmic matter. The base of the alleyway was filled in seconds, nebulas blooming into infant stars, cracking wider and brighter until gravity failed them and they dispersed into yet more starmatter, new celestial bodies breeding in the mass of unknown purples and blues, shades that no earthly pigment could make. Sanagi felt her throat croaking… and she let out a hoarse, cackling laugh. She couldn't say why. But the stars kept coming, and she felt the most inexpressible pleasure go through her, a crackling, shivering joy. Relief, in a way. A relaxation of tension. A bowstring finally loosened. She looked down into the mass, still hurling up more and more stars, scorching the ground a fine, carbonised black, and thought she saw a pair of dead eyes staring out at her. She was doing her job. She blinked… and suddenly she saw herself. Changed. She saw something else stumbling out of the alleyway - a naked, blackened skeleton, skin boiled away into vapour, rib cage spluttering with stars. A reactor she could fuel with the issue of her skull. A burning, brightening idol, something pagan and blood, something that would be sacrificed to at the apex of a step pyramid.
Guilt didn't fade, but it certainly didn't catch up with this striding idol. All she had to do was let it happen, shed her skin, let the light win, and all obligation would be behind her. All shame. Hadn't talked to her mother yet. Didn't want to. Couldn't face the shame of it. If she shed her skin, she'd feel no responsibility for that particular part of her life. All roles gone, all binding ties severed. Leah Goodluck Nettle, the one she'd failed, the one who proved that she was, quite possibly, destined to be an eternal fuck-up. She choked out another rush of starlight, and felt the hems of her trousers start to roast slightly. Collapsed to her knees. Bury herself in a cocoon of nebulae and let the skin burn off… the state her power wanted her to have. She remembered the glorious dream she'd had on the day when she'd decided to obliterate reality in a flood of wine and poor decisions. Those Teeth back there… there'd been something about them. Something wolfish, that made her feel like just… shedding it all and moving on would be the right decision.
She blinked…
And felt something in the back of her mind.
Something golden.
Soothing.
She looked up from the pool of starmatter which had spread wide and thick, crackling with tiny detonations. A woman was standing there… but she felt nothing but calm wash over her. The woman looked Mediterranean, and her waist was stained with blood - her thighs were practically armoured with it. Hollow eyes stared down from a great height, the woman was unreasonably tall and muscled. Enough so that Sanagi actually felt a flicker of jealousy. Around her shoulders were hung animal skins coated with whitethorn branches, and over her back was a javelin. Every movement seemed to creak, like the hinges of a badly-oiled door. She looked irritable, and before Sanagi could think a heavy hand crashed onto her shoulder and hauled her upright, the nebulae at her feet rising like the sucking waters of a swamp, eager to keep her in place. She stared dumbly at the woman, who poked her in the chest.
"Unprofessional. Get back to work."
Sanagi blinked.
"...uh…"
"Unreasonable physical exertion and mental distress reduces combat efficacy and compromises logic centres. And contaminants… Get back to work. You're going to be late."
The woman tilted her head to one side, and groaned in exasperation. She spoke into thin air, ignoring Sanagi completely.
"Reclaimed Thoughtform 223007 reporting from Extension 12. Adjustment made. Course corrected."
Her attention shifted.
"This was a dream."
Sanagi tried to interject.
"I'm… sorry, who are you exa-"
* * *
-ctly?"
Sanagi was… not in the alleyway. When had she been in an alleyway? Her fists were sore… bandaged up, though. Hm. No, wait, she remembered how that'd happened - she'd gotten carried away with her punching bag, really went to town on the thing. Tore her knuckles open and had to spend a few minutes getting them back in working order. Legs were tired for the same reason. The bleariness was just a consequence of being unable to sleep. She felt odd. Very odd. Freaky dream, very violent, too. She… hm. She was standing in a different street. Her clothes were filthy, her face was sore, her stars felt oddly muted. Slowly, rationalisations drifted up, clicking into place with an ease clearly born of absolute familiarity. Walked over here, wanted to work off some excess energy. Car had driven past her, splashing her with muddy water. She'd lasered a rusty abandoned car in half out of stress. Feeling pent-up at the time, now she was… significantly better. The course had been corrected. Hm. Odd thing to say, but… no, no, it made sense. All of this made sense. She felt like she had the day she was sworn in as an officer - the same feeling of everything clicking into place, the same retrospective in which all things fit. Elements which had seemed disparate and unaffiliated were suddenly accounted for and integrated into a single coherent life-plan, and the future was plain and clear, predicted to absolute certainty. Her stride changed from a stumble to a confident stride. A faint edge of unease coloured her thoughts, a feeling that something had gone very, very wrong, but…
Something was wrong.
She was late.
Arrangements had been made, plans had been established. A quick check revealed that, yeah, she'd called Ahab, told her that she'd meet at the place. Sarkis had wanted them to get into another warehouse, a site affiliated with SET. If they acquiesced, he promised to give them every possible scrap of data on Kabiri - on Xavier Crowley. PRT support in tracking him down - the PRT could track anyone if they wanted to, even a well-hidden cape. Should be a little tricker than the last one. But that was how these things went, wasn't it? The first excursion was the easiest, and each subsequent encounter only escalated the tension and difficulty until there was some climactic resolution. It was a neat progression, one that she could easily get lost in. SET would be interested in this place, and while Sarkis could try and divert patrols from the PRT away from them, they'd likely be using other assets to make sure no-one messed with their property. Just needed to get in, find more ledgers, get some pictures for their own use, and then… done. She stepped into the street, and heard a distant honking. Ahab. Good.
"Hey, Etty!"
And irritation was coming back to her. Good. Feeling too peaceful.
"Ahab."
"Looks like someone had a party."
Her eyes swept over Sanagi's filthy clothes, and her eyebrows rose in appreciation.
"Just took a walk."
"Where, a World War One trench? Seriously, you… were you out all night?"
"No. Of course not. I found it hard to sleep, woke up early, and went for a walk to clear my head. Realised it'd be easier to just walk here than walk back to grab my car."
"...I mean, you're not wrong, but… still. Actually, shit, did you hear about what happened at the tea shop yesterday?"
"...no. Why?"
"I'll tell you later. It's wild. Turk was going nuts. Anyway, so, not going in with as much intel as I'd like, but… we can manage. Push comes to shove, deploy the skull."
Sanagi ignored the hollow feeling up there, the sense of faint exhaustion pervading her stars and making them pulse weakly and rarely. She nodded calmly, tried to bury herself in operational necessities. But… but something was wrong. She could feel it in the air, a sticky, cloying feeling which coated her skin and made her feel unclean - like she needed to do one of her monthly face-soaks, where she peeled her skin off strip by strip and soaked it in disinfectant-laden water. Just to prevent any lichen or moss from growing on the underside. Probably paranoia, but she'd never recovered fully from finding a tiny spider crawling underneath her face. While she was still wearing it. Feh.
Wait, something was definitely wrong. Definitely, definitely wrong. There had been something wolfish about her dreams last night. Definitely wolfish. A wolfish something that had been… almost freeing, really… and a part of it was hovering in the back of her mind. A tiny, tiny red star, like a hot coal but nowhere near as intense. A coal that burned cold, quiet and still. Indelible. But then plans began to form around it, a complex network of gold which suppressed it. The drive was still there, the desire to free herself and… no. It was altered. Integrated. She could feel her personality flowing around it, allowing the red star to fade away calmly. A functional ecosystem required the occasional wildfire, right? Arch had been able to relax in the past by going apeshit in the middle of the countryside, apparently. Yeah, that was all. She just needed a holiday. A little acceptable revolution against the world, which in turn came to reinforce the world itself. Revolution, after all, could mean the turning of a wheel, and what was more stable and perfect than a turning, turning wheel… if you were riding atop it, of course. Being crushed underneath was no fun at all. She shrugged, and Ahab started to get out bulletproof vests and guns. Going to be more professional now - two break-ins at the same agency's warehouse, yeah, subtlety was pointless. Not worth compromising the possibility of success.
Ahab gave her an odd look.
"Yeah, you're definitely lying."
"What?"
"Lying. You were out and about, I can tell. Honestly, I'm mostly just annoyed that you didn't bring me along. So, did you pin some guy to the mud and have your barbarian way with him?"
"...what the fuck, Ahab?"
"Just saying. You look a little more relaxed, your knuckles are busted, and all that mud… not judging, I've been with many fine gentlemen in the mud and the rain, in varying arrangements, frequently with the sound of artillery fire in the background. I get the urge."
"Please shut up."
"Nah, nah. Come on, we're friends, right?"
"...yes."
"Friendliest friends. So, tell me - what were you really up to?"
"...I…"
Sanagi paused.
What had she been up to?
Walked around, she remembered that. Punched the shit out of her bag, but… wait, why would she go out for a walk after exhausting herself on a punching bag? More than that, hadn't she wrecked her punching bag? Feeling this good… this wasn't a feeling that came along with trashing one of her few remaining punching bags, wasting money that she simply couldn't afford to waste. Why was… she felt good right now, but she couldn't quite get over the unease in the back of her skull… a red star was burning a little brighter, a hungry chaos which… no, no, nothing was happening, she was…
"I don't know."
"...more wine?"
"No, no, I don't think there was wine, I just… it's weird, it's hard to remember, it's like…"
The red star bloomed a little brighter… and then dimmed almost into nothingness. Order resumed with a twitch. Her expression hardened, but Ahab was unrelenting.
"This… isn't the first time this has happened. Back in the meat packing plant, you just… vanished, kept blowing me off, then showed up looking like a confused puppy. I don't think it's a powers thing… I hope it isn't, but there's definitely something up with you."
She paused, and tilted her head to one side, greasy hair trailing in the wind. Sanagi pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the hard bone beneath.
"I don't remember… much. I…"
A pulse of fear ran through her.
"Is it a power thing? Do you think?"
"...dunno. Not very familiar."
"Nor am I. I mean, I know they're mine, but that doesn't mean I understand them, and…"
Rotten hands clapped down on her shoulders. Ahab's cloudy eyes stared into her own.
"Hey. Calm down. We can work through this, two of us. Kay?"
Terror was genuinely running through her. She imagined losing her memories piece by piece, imagined more and more fugue states until nothing remained, just… just something out of a nightmare, and…
"Promise?"
Ahab smiled.
"Yeah. I promise. Two of us, we'll deal with this. Hell, we could have a sitcom - you, me, and Turk, all living under the same roof. Having adventures."
"...we already do most of that."
"Yeah, but we could do it with domestic drama. Spice of life. Maybe we all move to the protein farm with Arch, drag Taylor with us whenever she shows back up… yeah, I can see this going places."
"Does this sitcom have a name?"
Normality was starting to return a little. Ahab grinned.
"Friends."
That sounded reasonable. Nothing like that had ever been made before in her knowledge, beyond a short-lived pilot which she remembered watching once and not being entirely impressed by. Yeah. Friends. That worked. The two shouldered their weapons and moved off. Blueprints acquired - yeah, a few vulnerabilities they could exploit. No tiltrotors overhead, no unmarked vans… safe as houses. Utterly safe. But the unease built. Something was wrong. Something was definitely a little bit odd… her knuckles turned white around her gun. Tension hung in the air, and Ahab seemed to feel it as well, shifting uncomfortably and surveying the world around her with narrowed eyes. They stopped just outside the perimeter wall of the ugly warehouse, interchangeable with any other. She glanced around…
And froze.
People were moving.
They stood at the intersection of five roads. They'd walked up one.
And from three others…
People were coming.
The sound of horse hooves clacked on the asphalt.
217 - Bëïgë v. Blöndë 2011, Jüdgë Türk Prësïdïng
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
217 - Bëïgë v. Blöndë 2011, Jüdgë Türk Prësïdïng
Vicky stared at the skin. No no no, she wasn't going insane. She was not going insane. Going insane was something for other people. The skin wasn't talking to her. The box hadn't moved, nothing was moving, nothing was happening - no, no, something was happening, the skin was fucking talking and her parents were downstairs. Wait, hadn't this… no, one time was just a crazy bit of painkiller-induced strangeness, this was beyond strangeness, this was verging into genuine derangement. Her painkillers were wearing off, too. Her mom was downstairs, pressuring Turk. had they seen her flying in? She could try and fly out, but… no, no, she could see people staring from their windows in the surrounding buildings, and one… one little shit was gawping at her with his mouth open. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Noticed. Her parents had probably been unsubtle as all hell coming in, her mom was a lovely lady but had all the subtlety of a fucking gulag prison guard. Her voice echoed up the stairs, bouncing around with all the fury of a vengeful pinball.
"Well? What's it going to be?"
She had her lawyer voice. She had her fucking lawyer voice. That was the voice she used when she wanted to dissect a person in court, reduce them to a puddle of tears which confessed everything. Or nothing, depending on how things were going at the time. Either way, the point was that tears were involved.
Yoür möthër ïs ä bïtch.
She didn't dignify the human fucking skin with a response.
Älrïght, dö äs yöu lïkë.
The funny German accent was still there, the same weird sloping tones that suggested a stereotypical evocation of the Germanic mien. Ridiculous in any other context. Oddly intimidating right now. Reflected her own worsening mental state. Wait, this voice sounded… she paused. Sounded weirdly familiar. Uncomfortable, honestly. Just on the edge of recognition. Her mom's voice carried up again, and Vicky quickly closed the window. She wouldn't leave until she had what she wanted - either her location, or an arrest warrant slammed down on Turk's counter. She had a brief nightmare vision of Turk getting hauled off to court, the same guy who'd unquestioningly given her a place to crash when she really needed a place to crash, had sewed up her fucking side. And if she exposed her return to her parents, then she'd be hauled off, deviancy testing, and then this would all be pointless. Probably kept under observation. The razor at her waist twitched, almost vibrating in the loose strips of cloth she used to stop it from slicing her leg open. Panic rose up. Leave, and fuck Turk over. Stay, and fuck herself over. No time to clean her room, no time to destroy all evidence of her presence here… she was still recovering from Naaktgeboren Ridge, for fuck's sake, she'd slept, maybe, twice since she got back, and she needed to talk to Taylor about this, and she was pinned in this room and skin was fucking talking to her.
Rëälly, nöt vëry pölïtë öf yöü. Ï'm jüst tryïng tö hëlp.
"Shut the fuck up."
No.
"You're not real. I'm just stressed and panicking."
Ïn thësë strängë tïmës, mëïn Frëünd, cöüldn't yöü säy thät thïs ïs fäïrly ävërägë? Fäcë ït, yöü'vë sëën wëïrdër.
"No. No I haven't."
Hm.
She ignored the skin, and started hunting for a solution. She felt like shit, her side was burning… a hand confirmed what she suspected. Bleeding. The stitches had been torn by that bitch Khadija, and the flight hadn't done them any favours. Nor was the stress. She was bleeding, and freely. Her side was already blood red. Her fingers were trying to twitch nervously, and ran against the issue that most of them were broken or bruised to hell and back. Pain ran up her arm in short spikes. Fuck, fuck, fuck… how was she meant to get out of this, exactly?
Ï cän öffër hëlp.
"Shut up."
The skin of a dead fucking Nazi was not going to help her, not today. Not like it could. She needed to get her parents out of the shop, convince them that something else was going on, and that they could, and indeed should leave at their earliest convenience. Once she had some breathing room, she could clean the room, find a more secure location to operate out from. Maybe a motel. No, too public, and… putting the cart before the horse, dumbass. Focus on this particular problem, think of future problems later. Shit, her side was really burning up, and she was starting to feel dizzy. Lost way too much blood over the last few days, and hadn't had remotely enough time to recover from any of it. Her fingers, paralysed as they were, were barely able to grab a needle, let alone thread it… she groaned, and grabbed one of Taylor's more crummy-looking shirts, abandoned in the corner of her closet. She held it over her wounds, promising that she'd get a proper replacement for her. The fabric was almost immediately damp, and was verging on soaked a moment later. She was pale and shaking, and her forcefield kept twitching. With a concerted effort, she kept her aura down. Couldn't let anyone know she was here, not remotely. A quiet drip, drip, drip - her hand was wounded to hell and back, and one of the cuts running along her left thumb was weeping freely now. Fuck…
"Hm."
Her dad's voice, now. Calm. Reassuring. Fucking infuriating.
"Look, Mr Turk, we really just want to get things straight here - we've got several accounts of her flying here, and recently, all within the timeframe of her disappearing. I understand if she's just being a teenager, you know how they are, but… we're worried. Very worried. She never acts out like this. So… can't you do us a solid?"
"No solid to do. She's not here."
Her mom's voice slicing through with all the grace and dignity of the Titanic.
"The accounts say otherwise. You're already six feet deep in a hole in the ground, Mr Turk, either you keep digging or you climb out. We're offering you that option. If you don't take it… all you can do it get buried."
"Tea?"
"No, Mr. Turk. No tea."
She imagined him getting deported. She imagined him being sent back to Russia because of her fuck-up. Taylor would never forgive her for making her friend vanish from the face of the earth, and all because she couldn't just resign herself to staying somewhere crummy. Idiot, idiot. The razor was so heavy… and she could feel it heating up slightly. She remembered the dark, the winding tunnels, the uncontrollable descent, the feeling of being hunted by something categorically superior to her in every conceivable way. The unfolding star. The feeling of reaching inside herself and finding nothing. Just a hollowness which echoed onwards and onwards, her face clattering off and shattering like a ceramic mask. And a delirious apathy at the feeling of nothingness. The razor hummed happily, and she had a vision of simply… simply slipping it under her weak flesh and peeling. It wouldn't take much. It was so sharp she wouldn't feel a thing - and when she did, it would be too late. The skin would be off. And someone else would walk away, someone who didn't need to worry about silly things like this, someone who could dedicate themselves completely to the role laid before them, who could be a true hero, and… and… no. She had to rip the razor free with one shaking hand, twitching her battered fingers into shape. She let it fall… meant to place it down calmly and efficiently.
But her fingers were so very, very tired, and could barely move without sending jolts of pain up her arm like ragged lightning bolts.
The knife dropped.
It thumped.
The voices below fell silent.
She froze.
Rëälly. Thät wäs äwfülly clümsy öf yöü.
No response. Didn't dare raise her voice. The voices below were silent. She imagined her mom brushing past Turk with the arrogance of someone used to getting her own way, the protective fury of a mother whose daughter had gone missing, and the sheer unmitigated potence of a cape. She could tear Turk open in a dozen different ways in about ten seconds, and she knew it. She also knew she could financially ruin him in a hundred different ways if she was given enough time. The combination made her move with absolute certainty. She tried to listen… were those footsteps, or just her own heart thumping. She curled up below the box, shivering, clutching the shirt to her bleeding side. Come on, she'd won, hadn't she? She'd gotten away? Managed to win something? Why did it feel like… why did it feel like she'd lost every single fucking time? The Striving wasn't coming to her, she had no rival to go against, nothing at all. Nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck…
Ï cöüld hëlp.
She whispered back.
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."
Yöü wänt ä wäy öüt. Ï cän öffër ït.
"What the fuck are you?"
Ï'm yöür öwn mïnd ättëmptïng tö rätïönälïsë thë trüths yöü'vë bëën ëxpösëd tö. Bäsëd ön whät yöü knöw, Ï thïnk ït's räthër ä cömmön rëspönsë. Sëëms lïkë ït shöüld bë, ät lëäst. Wöüldn't yöü stärt mänïfëstïng strängë vöïcës ïn süch ä scënärïö?
No response.
Wörks för Täylör.
"Chorei's real."
Änd shë güïdës hër. Shäpës hër. Mäybë yöü'rë cräckïng änd dëcïdëd yöü nëëdëd sömëthïng lïkë thät för yöürsëlf. Änd bëïng thë lïttlë dummkopf thät yöü ärë, yöü dëcïdëd tö pröjëct äwärënëss öntö ä pïëcë öf ïnänïmätë skïn. Höw üttërly wäcky.
"No. Shut up. Not listening."
Lïstën tö më. Yöü rëcögnïsë my vöïcë.
Vicky froze. She did. She recognised that voice, she recognised it like it was her own. Because it was. She heard that voice every time she opened her fucking mouth, but this was… flatter, mangled with an absurd German accent, distorted by the fact that she was hearing it coming from something other than herself. No. She wasn't sure what any of this meant, but she wasn't going to fucking listen to the skin in a box she had stolen from a madman's cabin. A skin belonging to, legitimately, one of the worst supervillains that had called Brockton Bay home, based on viciousness, reprehensibility, unashamed monstrousness, and also possible ascension to a state beyond human for reasons she couldn't quite understand. Maybe she was hallucinating, fine, fair enough, probably one of the least concerning symptoms she could be manifesting at the moment. Blood loss was a bitch, trauma was a bitch, and the universe was entirely occupied by the supreme fucking imperium of bitchdom, apparently. Gah. She groaned as another pulse of pain ran through her. Fuck… shit. Footsteps? Were those footsteps? She started to move, finding it harder and harder with each second that passed… come on, come on…
Yöü wänt ä wäy öüt. Ï cän öffër thät. Wëll, yöü cän öffër ït. Ï'm jüst thë ön prësëntïng thë öptïön, yöü schïzö fück.
"Shut… up…"
Wëär më.
Vicky froze.
"No."
Wëär më. Wë löök… sömëwhät sïmïlär. Ä cövër störy wöüld bë ëäsy tö crëätë. Äll yöü nëëd tö dö ïs püt më ön, änd thïs äll göës äwäy.
"No. I won't."
Yöü'vë dönë ït bëförë ïn thë möüntäïns. Änd thïs wïll bë völüntäry - yöür räzör wïll lët yöü sëvër thë skïn whënëvër yöü plëäsë.
"Stop it."
Löök ät yöü. Cräwlïng ön thë gröünd lïkë än ïnsëct, ünäblë tö fïnd ä wäy öüt öf yöür öwn mëss. Säcrïfïcëd ëvërythïng ïn Nääktgëbörën Rïdgë, änd thë önly rëwärd yöü ëxträctëd wäs önë yöü'rë töö äfräïd tö üsë. Wëäk. Sübhümän. Ïgnöränt üntërmënsch, ä döömëd gënë-prïsön. .
Vicky kept trying to crawl away, but her fingers were deeply, deeply injured, and her side was dripping blood slowly to the ground. Tap, tap, tap. Footsteps? Her own blood? They were close to the door, she could feel it, she could feel it… fuck, if she had her fingers back she could just stitch herself up, slap a band-aid on or something. Helpless. She felt… she felt weak. Powerless. She remembered the cold air slicing across unprotected skin, the feeling of profound, yearning loss from having her powers stolen away. She shuddered… and she felt something rush over her. Something… she recognised, but she nonetheless was subject to. A shiver as the memories came back with terrifying force, a cringing sensation as she realised that she was on all fours, crawling away from another indomitable threat… and a conclusion. She had to do something. In the mountains, she'd just pushed onwards, through all the pain, all the wounds, all the absolute terror. In the mountains, she'd reduced herself down to a basic engine of survival, something capable of navigating through everything with utter determination. When in doubt, keep moving. Even when what's ahead looks worse, at least it's not certain death. Or worse, seeing someone who helped her get fucked over by her parents, seeing her sister getting taken away even further, more contact severed, more trust destroyed, and she could already feel the rising existential horror at being unable to do heroic things, after all she'd sacrificed. All she'd seen, done, lost…
A pale, pale hand was dangling from the lid of the box. The closed box. The weighted box. She stared at it, and the voice echoed in the corners of her mind. Not from the skin. Never from the skin. Always herself. Right? The razor on the ground glinted like a sharp, straight smile. A flash of teeth. Her breath was coming faster. The walls were pressing in. Her heart was beating out of her chest. Footsteps on the stairs, footsteps on the stairs… she reached out hesitantly, and her fingertips brushed against the skin.
Just a tiny bit of contact.
Tiny.
She hadn't made up her mind yet. Hadn't come to any definite conclusions. Still uncertain. Her breath caught in her throat.
The hand wrapped around her own.
Turk was sweating. A little. Right at the base of his neck. He didn't get nervous often, and he wasn't nervous now, but he was definitely… a little on edge. Little bit. His usual calm had been disrupted, certainly. There were two people in front of him - people he had become mildly familiar with, and hoped that this familiarity wouldn't go any further. Yet here he was. A second or so away from a court order. God, he despised lawyers. In love with their own voices, that was it. Too much enjoyment with hearing themselves speak, hearing the cadence of their words, relishing their own advanced vocabulary. The woman, Carol, was playing the bad cop, the man, Mark, was playing the good cop. Neither were very good at it - Mark didn't have any heart in the interrogation, and Carol was too much of a raging bitch. The bad cop needed to be more than hated, they needed to be feared. He didn't know if Vicky was upstairs or not, had no idea. But he knew that these two would find signs if they looked. He was stonewalling for now, but… he tried to put together a plan. So, they were trained professionals, one was a lawyer, both were capes. His best opportunity was just to stonewall a little further, then see if he could break away to talk with his own lawyer, old pal from O.K., and see what could be rustled up. But he wanted to be a stone face at first - they expected fear. The longer they were denied it, the more likely they'd make a mistake he could seize on in future.
…he hated lawyers. Not just the voices. But the fact that beating them didn't involve actually beating them. Which was a source of substantial irritation.
He hesitated, trying to draw out some more attempts… but they were on the verge of just giving up, signing that damn arrest warrant, and moving on. The document was a thick wall of legalese which basically amounted to 'you're breaking half a dozen laws right now by inhibiting the investigations of a group of accredited and PRT-approved parahumans, potentially keeping a troubled teen away from her parents, and jaywalking. Enjoy jail, enjoy court, enjoy getting deported'. American parahumans… as he understood it, if you played nice with the PRT, you got a lot of legal liberties. Like, for instance, suing private citizens who weren't doing as they were told. A knot of worry began to grow in his stomach like a tapeworm. He didn't want to go back to Russia, not right now. He liked it here. He polished a teacup with more force than necessary. Taylor was still missing, and he couldn't just be gone when she got back. The girl deserved better than that. He knew he'd just worry himself sick if he was sent back home…
And then someone came down the stairs.
He twitched, and a tiny wave of relief went through him. Good. She was biting the bullet and coming forward. Sometimes you just had to choose between a rock and a hard place, and in this case the rock had won. Or the hard place. Never sure which one was worse in that saying. Sure, she'd get brought in, but she was smart - and he'd do what he could, he was fairly sure some old colleagues had ended up in the PRT as consultants, maybe he could get some insight into their methods. Or she could weasel her way out of a deviancy test. He understood her worry, but in his experience it was easier to play the system when you weren't actively being hunted down by the system and its irritable blonde outriders.
He glanced.
His eye widened imperceptibly.
That wasn't Vicky.
The woman that walked down was about the same height, but her features were definitely older. Not his type. Too… painfully angular. Cruel face, more used to sneering than smiling. High cheekbones, sharp chin, a patch of old acne scars across one cheek. A hook-shaped scar over her chin, forming a kind of question mark. Beige-coloured hair trailing down in unkempt tresses, uncared for over a long period. But then he saw the eyes - bright blue, and looking almost afraid. Then he saw the clothes, the same ones he'd seen Vicky in this morning. His grip tightened, and he felt the ceramic under his fingers straining. The woman strode forwards with confidence that didn't fit those eyes, pausing and staring haughtily at the two interlopers. Both of them looked taken aback. The woman sniffed.
"Wëll? Whät ïs ït? Yöü'vë bëën mäkïng mörë thän ënöügh-"
Her voice was weirdly accented, like the kind of thing an Americna might think resembled a German accent. Carol cut her off. She looked… oddly alarmed at the sound of that voice, the sight of that face. A tiny amount of light crackled around her fingertips, a reminder of the power she had at her command. Her husband didn't look much better, he'd immediately tensed up, and was looking at the woman incredulously.
"How the hell are you still al…"
She paused, sized up the woman again, and the light began to dissipate from her hands.
"...sorry. Sorry. Confused you for someone else."
The woman seemed nervous, and her accent stabilised slightly. More American.
"Apology half-accepted. Now, what do you want?"
Some of Carol's aggression returned in a flood of indignation.
"Who are you, exactly? Do you live here?"
"No, I just make a habit of breaking into random tea shops, yes, I live here. I couldn't help but hear you two yelling - an arrest warrant? Really?"
"We have-"
"Yes, yes, I'm aware."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath.
"Ms… Dallon, was it? Listen, this is a delicate matter, but I can assure you it doesn't involve your daughter. Not remotely. She comes here for tea, and nothing more."
"But-"
The woman quietly started hovering off the ground, and her eyes flashed with a smidgen of confidence. A tiny scrap of something resembling Vicky in this strange, harsh-looking woman. But… no, the closer he looked, the less of Vicky he saw. There was a casual cruelty in her entire bearing, a kind of haughty superiority flavouring every movement. Whoever she was imitating, she was supremely arrogant, and clearly had a very, very high opinion of herself. Strangely, the sight of her floating seemed to make the capes relaxed, like they'd received confirmation of something. Or, rather, a confident denial.
"The two of us look similar. The two of us are parahumans. And both of us associate with the tea shop. Ms. Dallon, you're simply mistaken. Your daughter isn't here, and hasn't been here in some time."
"There are-"
"Accounts, yes, you mentioned. What kind?"
The Dallons were clearly on the backfoot, and Turk found a slight respect for the young parahuman - she had a capacity for improvisation that reminded him a little of Taylor. Honestly, this entire situation was making him think of Taylor and her… habits. The weird encounters, the bizarre occurrences, the awkward conversations with irritated parents, the batshit insane plans… his tea shop used to be quiet. He distinctly remembered it being fairly quiet.
"Verbal, but-"
The woman let out a high, cruel laugh - and goosebumps emerged on Turk's arms. Didn't like that laugh. Didn't like it at all. And the cruelty in it felt natural, like this was what her every laugh sounded like regardless of context.
"Well, if we're all investigating verbal accounts, I can give you some wonderful UFOs to check out. Please, your standards of evidence are clearly as high as high can be, why not give them a look?"
The two capes looked at one another, and a strange look passed between them. A strange kind of… recognition, almost? Were they recognising their daughter's modes of speech, or were they seeing… something else? The woman seemed much more uncomfortable for a monent, her scared eyes flicking between the two. The man, Mark, stepped closer and seemed to be examining her a little, even as his voice remained genial and apologetic. Oh, he was good. More dangerous than he looked.
"...I'm sorry, I understand how this sounds. And… wait, you're a parahuman, sorry, let's follow up on that for a second. You seem familiar, have we met-"
"No. No we haven't."
Carol narrowed her eyes.
"No, you definitely sound familiar. Do you have family here, or...?"
"No. None. My only family is elsewhere in the country."
"And who exactly are you affiliated with? Could we plug your records into-"
The woman was growing more agitated with each passing moment.
"Independent. I'm here visiting a friend, that's all. My parahuman name is none of your business, my real name is certainly none of your business. Now, I'm not going to fight you, are you going to fight me? Break every standard of decorum over a parahuman who is, again, passing through with no interest in lingering. I thought your lot would understand the awkwardness of being caught out of costume."
Flinches. She'd touched a nerve. The woman's expression softened, but her eyes still looked absolutely terrified.
"I'm sorry we couldn't help. But waving an arrest warrant around won't get you any closer to your daughter."
Mark tapped his wife on the shoulder. There was a resigned look on his face, one that slowly infected Carol. He sighed.
"I'm sorry for all of this, really. It's… been a stressful week."
Americans. When he had a stressful week he got drunk and had a very large breakfast the morning after. Maybe a bath. When they had a stressful week, they tried to arrest random tea shop owners. Feh. Maybe going back to Russia wasn't the most awful idea.
"I understand. Now, if there's nothing else, could you leave, please?"
The sympathy, the use of the word 'please' seemed to actually dispel some of their suspicion. There was history here, he was sure of it. Evidently whoever they thought she was wasn't the type to say 'sorry' or act remotely empathetic. Hm. Hate to meet who they thought she was. Sounded like a right cunt.
"Of course. We're sorry again. If you see anything, or if she gets in contact, just… call us. Please. We're worried sick about her, it's not… like her to do this kind of thing. Our niece says she's fine, but just needs some time alone… so we know she's in the city."
He tilted his head to one side.
"...you really do look similar to her. And… honestly, a bit like someone else. Are you sure none of your family is from round here?"
"Positive. I'm visiting friends."
Carol scowled.
"Stay out of trouble, then. Or we'll have a much less civilised conversation."
The woman sniffed dismissively. Mark smiled apologetically.
"Sorry for all of this. Sorry for… the parahuman stuff, too. It was unfair of us."
Carol sniffed derisively (hm, like mother like daughter), turned on her heel, and left. Mark trailed behind her, apologising the entire way. With the wind out of their sails, with the fury gone from them, they just looked… sad. Lonely. Hm. Two daughters, one missing, one contained by the PRT. Rough fate, which… explained some of the aggressiveness, even if it didn't exactly make up for almost getting him arrested. The doorbell jingled merrily as the door shut, and the two were left in solitary silence. They waited for a moment, listening to the sound of a car starting up - didn't want the publicity of being sighted harassing a local business owner. It drove away, and the two remained silent. Silence reigned, and the two were willing and loyal subjects. Only after a long few seconds did Turk look over slowly and cautiously. The woman returned his gaze, took a deep breath, leaned close, and said, in the calmest voice she could muster…
"Türk, Ï'm göïng tö hävë ä fückïng pänïc ättäck rïght nöw gët thïs fückïng thïng öff më."
This close, he could see what she meant. And a shudder ran through him. Wearing human skin… and it was animated, too, contracting like ordinary skin, even sweating in some places. But it was loose around some joints, and Vicky kicked off her shoes to reveal two flesh-coloured socks trailing from her feet, the skin a little too tall for her. It shivered like some kind of exotic sea creature, and was clearly unnatural. Livid red marks around the seams where it'd been sealed up, a faint gradient around the eyes where it gave way to her own flesh, and the mouth detached slightly from her own, lower lip hanging pendulously downwards. He didn't think for long - just started to move. She followed, but sagged to the ground halfway up, groaning weakly. Shit. Bleeding. He grabbed her, dragging the girl into a bridal carry before thundering up the stairs and laying her carefully on the rudimentary couch, still slightly stained from when Sanagi had treated Ted there. Her breath was rapid and shallow, her eyes had the glazed quality of someone suffering from advanced blood loss. Idiot. He readied himself, and… had no idea what to do. What was the right course of action? His expression remained stony, but he honestly had no fucking clue what was the appropriate response to…
A razor was thrust into his hand.
"Take it. Cut it off, yöü fückïng vödkä-swïllïng cömmünïst."
Her voice was jerky and uncertain, fading in and out of lucidity. By the end, it was a vague mumble and nothing more, accented in that same bizarre way. That, incidentally, was the only reason he didn't give her a firm talking to. He drank moonshine, and he'd been around to see communism die and had promptly sold his soul to the… nevermind. Recollections for later. He nodded sharply and got to work. The seams… yes, that seemed like a wise place. He slipped the razor in, the handle contouring to his hand perfectly despite being nothing but a hunk of metal wrapped in cloth… and the flesh gave way with eerie smoothness. At first. Then it began to cling tightly, gripping onto Vicky's flesh impossibly. He focused, and kept going… Vicky groaned, and the razor started to come away red. Most of her was red, blood having flowed from her wounds, trapped beneath the skin and forming a cracked crimson layer across her. Her face was a solid mask of the stuff, and she was deathly pale beneath it. Idiot. Her stitches were still healing, even Taylor hadn't gone out fighting so soon after getting injured. Not until she had the capacity to rapidly adapt. Idiot. He gritted his teeth as he kept working, slicing carefully around the skin and peeled it free, holding it in place with his elbows and knees. Like skinning a deer. Just think of it like skinning a deer.
Problem.
The skin kept trying to crawl back on. He couldn't see it happening… but he'd look away, look back, and a patch would have reattached itself, a part he thought satisfactorily dealt with would be adhered so tightly he'd need to pay close attention to avoid contributing to Vicky's unreasonable blood loss.
"Stay. Be back."
His English worsened when he was nervous. He crashed through his cupboards, hunting for… there. Nails. Heavy. Well, the sofa was ruined anyway. The skin had already almost completed its reapplication while he was away, and it hadn't done it well. Vicky looked like she could barely breathe, the mouth of the skin-suit tugged up and smeared until she couldn't actually speak or breathe through her mouth. Desperate wheezes came from her nostrils… OK, time was of the essence. He got back to work, slicing skin, yanking it upwards with some difficulty, and pinning the scraps down to the sofa. It looked horrific - a bloodstained girl within a hungry skin-suit, which was gradually becoming a complex nest of pierced, sail-like flaps. Her struggles were weaker, her voice had dwindled to a vague whisper. He reached into the perverse lotus-bloom, and ripped. His muscles strained, veins popped on his forehead… and Vicky tore outwards, the skin almost writhing as she escaped from it. He couldn't support her full weight like this, and she collapsed to the hard ground in silence. Shit. The skin was nailed a few more times, just to keep it from getting any ideas. When he turned away, eh could hear it tearing his couch apart, dragging the nails out of position inch by inch. Safe for the time being, though, he'd inhibited the range of motion enough.
More work.
The stitches were a mess. Someone had kicked them open, he could see the bruised imprint of a boot. If he found them, he'd gladly throw them to the overambitious piece of epidermis that was trying its best to escape from its iron prison. He cleaned the blood away, disinfected again, restitched. Blood loss was bad - she needed a transfusion. Do it himself, but he wasn't sure of her blood type. This, this was why he had his code name, his unit number, his corporate affiliation, and his blood type tattooed on his left pectoral. The only tattoo he wanted or needed. Made it easier for the medics, or the people identifying bodies after a battle. And it was also why he never went unprepared. He thought he had… there. A tiny blood test kit, part of his crate of medical supplies. He pierced her with a lancet and let the little machine do its work. A minute's wait. Right. Other injuries. Fingers had been snapped again by the skin-suit… at least they were into a normal position. Not much effort to reapply splints. Why had she put that damn thing on, why…
Kids.
Blood test came back… good. He had what he needed. He was compatible. Without hesitating, he pierced his own arm and hooked up Vicky. A few taps started the flow, a quick squeeze accelerated it to acceptable levels. Waiting game now. Small laceration under the throat, shallow but painful. No need for stitches, just some more disinfectant to make sure she wasn't getting any nasty infections. And then it was just an exercise in getting the blood off, ruining most of his hand towels in the process. Didn't mind. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he worked… her colour was improving a little. Didn't want to go too far with this, she was young, her natural recovery would be good, but… wanted to be sure. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she shivered.
"...is it…?"
"Off. Nailed down."
His eye turned cold.
"What did you do?"
"...you were going to get arrested, I-"
He poked the tip of her nose, drawing an irritated grunt. Good. If she was irritated, she could recover.
"Idiot. I would've found a way out. Not my first time. You, though…"
He grimaced.
"What did you do?"
"Just… I found that skin in the mountains, I brought it back, and it…"
She looked incredibly ashamed. Good.
"It just… it was tempting, and it was… I think it was mostly the razor, and…"
He was going to burn this skin. If impossible, he'd bury it. In the ocean. In a very large trench. Before setting off a depth charge. Just to be thorough.
"Where did you go?"
"Just… visiting-"
"Had stitches kicked open. Idiot. Now you need to rest. A lot. No more flying."
"...yeah. I guess I deserve that."
"You do."
He sighed, and sat back, watching the blood flow from his arm to hers.
"If you got hurt, Taylor would kill me. You know that?"
"...yeah."
"Bed rest. Continuous. No more opening your wounds. Next time I'll just take you to a hospital, let them sort you out."
A look of panic flashed across her features - very good, panic meant your survival instinct was still going.
"No! No hospitals, I can't-"
"Then don't open your wounds. idiot."
Was he being harsh? Probably. Was it deserved? Definitely. Taylor would kill him if he let Vicky get killed because of something so… simple. He had known people with IQs somewhere around room temperature, and they knew the importance of resting after getting repeated bloody wounds and painful fractures, they knew you avoided any kind of combat or exertion after injuries remotely like this. He imagined Taylor confronting him about this - she wouldn't yell. Just coldly nod and leave. Like his own daughter, funnily enough. Yekaterina had his reserve and her mother's anger. Enough that she was a terror in any argument. Never knew when you'd gone too far with her, and she'd crossed an imperceptible line from 'irritated' to 'going to castrate you'. Taylor was like that. He honestly pitied the Butcher - you never wanted anyone like that on your bad side. That 'you' included him. It very much included him. And if Vicky had any brains, 'you' would include her.
"You've done it, then."
He said this quietly. Regretfully.
"Hm?"
"No going back, right?"
"...I mean, I-"
She paused.
"...no. I guess not. I don't… think I could go back to being normal. Not after this. At least I did it of my own volition. That's… that's kinda the level I'm at now. Fuck, why did I put on that skin, why did I listen to that fucking razor…"
Turk said nothing. He felt each and every one of his years weighing on him, and found it a struggle to remove the needle from his arm, to haul Vicky over to a bed where she could actually get some sleep. She was weakened, still. Recovering, but weakened. He doubted she'd have let him carry her over if she had any wherewithal left. He glared at the bright knife on the ground, winking cheerily up at him. The skin could be dealt with. Shove it in a box, seal it shut, and then keep that box in a secure location. But the knife… he worried about that. He'd long-since given up understanding most of what happened around him. He understood it through the effects it had on those he cared about, the utility it presented. But he remembered the power that had flowed through that rifle, the one he'd used to hurt Bisha once Taylor had pinned him in place. And if this thing was even close to that in the right hands… he didn't want anything to do with it. If he had any choice in the matter, no-one would. Vicky was already asleep before he set her down, and the slumber only deepened over the succeeding seconds.
He needed a smoke.
He needed a drink.
Not as much as Vicky and Taylor needed one. But he'd burn up enough cigarettes for the three of them. His hands were shaky as they fumbled for his lighter. He glared at them until they went still…
And that was all.
Memories had pulsed through the skin. And Vicky dreamt of things she had never experienced. Instincts she had never felt. She could feel power at the edge of her vision, a power to drop. A guillotine suspended over the world - rising, rising, rising, rising, drop. A single slip and she could overwhelm a room in crushing metal. Nothing like that idiot brother who was too… too weak. Too utterly obsessed with being a careful little boy, a little perfectionist. It might get him killed one day. Hopefully. She'd never liked him, the little shit-weasel. No, wait… no, she didn't remember this, she had no brother, her power was different. Vicky stirred uneasily. She remembered being taller, stronger. A rippling form of muscle and power, gesturing like a capricious empress ordering a horde of slaves executed on a whim. The bleeding guillotine of the Empire, the slicing edge which liberated the city from the tangled mass of corruption that strangled it to death. Iron Rain. The Reign of Terror. Heh. She'd thought she was so very clever for coming up with that pun. Her men roared her name when they fought, her father looked on her with delirious pride, her brother with delicious envy. Marquis loathed her, the moronic immigrant horde feared her. The world formed a delicate kind of sense in her eyes - a perfect balance of purpose, justification, and sheer unbridled joy. All was well in the eye of the racestorm, all was well in the court of the Allfather, all was well in the shadow of the Empire's guillotine.
Vicky flinched in her sleep as visions of caricatured nations flashed by. Arabs ululating in the middle of a desert where only idiots would settle. Africans (she didn't really conceive of any differences between them, Africans were Africans) chanting primally as they readied a pot to boil some foolish white explorer. Chinese peasants kowtowing over and over and grinning with servile bliss as their lords commanded another famine, another million dead. Liquor-obsessed Russians nodding contentedly as they waited in endless queues for a single loaf of bread. Took some effort to banish. Iron Rain had been a sick, sick person. And behind all these caricatures was the single, overriding notion: 'wouldn't it be better if they just went away and stopped bothering me?' A notion that there was one breed of humans slowly being drowned out by hordes of mules, interbreeding creating underclass after underclass, the innumerable sub-castes of doomed races that deserved to be euthanaised or sterilised before the poison fermenting in their genes could spill outwards. The racestorm whirled and burned, always dancing on the edge of devastation.
Like she said. Sick.
But one memory in particular had bled through the skin. One important memory - the memory which had led to it all beginning. Which had led to the skin being cut away and discarded, a fragment from a life which no longer had any bearing on Iron Rain's path. No, wait… she had a name. A name was coming through - a name for the jagged face and the cruel mouth, the beige hair and the cratered wasteland of acne scars that lay along one of her cheeks. It was… no. There was nothing. She'd been mistaken. Iron Rain was all she had been - she'd forgotten the name her mother gave her by the time she ripped the skin off. Had carved it away and sacrificed it to the deep. She knew what she was, and the squealing child she'd once been had no bearing on that. Iron Rain sufficed… and the skin could feel the shadows of what came next. Angrboda. Grief-Bringer. Nothing else remained but the roles she'd taken, the skins she wore to contain the chaos she'd found.
A memory was surfacing. An ugly one.
Vicky tossed and turned, almost opening her stitches again. Almost.
Allfather had called her in for a talk. A long one. Very convenient that he'd called himself Allfather, basically just meant Iron Rain got to call him 'dad' with an additional syllable attached to the front. Highly useful for the secret identity thing. She remembered… remembered being called in for a chat at his mansion just outside of town. The new power plant was humming happily away, the city beyond blazed with light. She remembered that keenly, the promise of a glorious future built upon a superior breed of parahuman, fully integrated into society. Paranoia had been flooding through her veins, though. Usually she was fairly careful, not as careful as her idiot brother, but she had brains. She had the capacity to be careful, when it was necessary. And it… had been necessary. Rather necessary. Usually she was highly discrete about some of her habits, the ones which made her pulse with guilt and froth with impotent rage, the kind that made her want to slice people open from head to toe, bathe in their blood and make it clear that she was still fucking Iron Rain, she was still a creature of sublime, shredded destruction that no-one could hope to defeat. Usually she was fine. She blamed Sturm and Drang, those two new ladies from Europe. Got her angry. Very angry. Needed a way too cool off.
Iron Rain had clasped her hands behind her back and stood to attention, her armour shifting smoothly with her motions. And then… then it had begun. The talk. Allfather had told her the honest truth. He was a little old, and his lifestyle didn't favour old men. He knew that he was going to die, and he wanted to tell her something. He intended for the Empire to become a diarchy, with her and her brother looking after it. But her idiot brother… he didn't quite commit. A little too slimy. A little too merchant-like. Unwilling to get down to the dirty business with all the zealotry it demanded. Allfather preferred her - preferred her immensely. She believed his words, had believed them from the moment she was taught the secrets of the world and the invisible hierarchies of things. She was ordered to stand down, to sit in a comfortable chair… unusual. Her armour usually scratched it up.
She'd sat gladly, crossed her legs, and listened.
By the time Allfather was finished, she was pale as a ghost, frozen in place, and her hands were quivering with barely suppressed rage. Somewhere along the way, her brother had joined them, sitting with barely-concealed joy. Her father looked older than she'd ever seen him. A handful of photos were scattered across the table. Her paranoia had been entirely correct. She threatened to take her men and leave… and was told, in the politest possible terms, that if she committed to that she'd be killed on the spot. Her indiscretions had been ignored for a while, but now there were witnesses.
Not her fault.
Not her fault that her father and mother had allowed sickness to fester in her. She hated the sickness more than anyone else, her father knew that, her brother knew that…
A flash of memory. Blonde hair. Full lips. Deep eyes.
Not her fault that Sturm had been so… so…
Anyway.
Vicky flinched with a hint of unintentional sympathy. Quickly suppressed. She could feel the blood on her hands. She could feel the iron hanging in the air, and the weeping faces of those about to feel its kiss.
Banished. Out into the cold. Told, politely, that the evidence was out there. Her indiscretions would be tolerated for the time being, but she needed a sabbatical. Time to reorganise. Her father apologised, explained that for anyone else there might be room for some… allowances, a policy of silence, but not for her. Not for the diarch. She knew where the pattern would lead. She knew. Her brother's smile had told her everything. The evidence would hang over her head like one of her own guillotines, enough to destroy her career. Didn't they understand the purpose of her work? Didn't they understand that her personal life was irrelevant next to her role as the bleeding edge of the Empire? But… no. Her brother would take superiority. Force her into kowtowing to his new order once her father passed on. Her hands had clenched so tightly she remembered the metal had strained, verging on breaking. Allfather had left, and her brother had shot her a final, mocking smile. He had a dream for the future, and she didn't feature in it - a lifetime of humiliation from now on, before he either let her turn into a martyr for the cause (a cause he would inevitably betray) or simply dragged her name through the mud and allowed her to be strung up by her own men.
Not her fault. She was used to most of them. And then… then there had been Sturm, blonde and willowy, fresh from the Gesellschaft with her smile and her… and her…
Anyway.
Banished.
Left to rot.
The cause endured. The Empire endured. Her ideals never faltered, not for a moment. Her personal failings meant nothnig compared to something so vast, so profoundly important. There was a world aching to be born, and it could only be born in a storm of iron, blood, and above all, fire. Didn't they understand that the world was balanced on the edge of a knife? Didn't they undersatnd that a single push would send them falling into the dark, never to return? The world was at stake, the very future of the genome, and they were just… playing politics. No sense for the grandeur of history, the necessity of their work. Her own men had found her disturbing in those days. Drinking. Fighting. And… Sturm had been sent away, never to be seen again, but… but she'd… maybe she'd indulged a little in her own sickness. Fed it. Hated herself the whole while, hated the twisting monster in her stomach which stirred into motion whenever she saw…
Anyway.
Weeks later. Degenerate. Desperate. Shivering. Cast out. Lying in the bedroom in her father's mansion, locked herslef up to stay away from any form of temptation. At her lowest. Reminder of her trigger. Everything going wrong. Surrounded by stuffed animals she'd never had the heart to throw out. Witnessing the victory of the counterclockwise motion of the racestorm, witnessing history spiral into the abyss. Dreaming of a world that could be born if only people had the balls to allow it, to rip it into existence. Nothing was gained with sacrifice. Nothing. They just needed to rip it open, rip the world apart and birth a new one from the ashes. She'd gone to sleep with the scent of ozone in her nostrils. A desire to change the world. A revolution against it. Against her family. Against her own genetic degeneracy.
A red star twinkled that night.
And she dreamt of a comet .
When she woke, the bed was in tatters, a grin was plastered on her face, and she strode from the mansion with a spring in her step and purpose in her eyes.
A flurry of disconnected memories spilling from a fragmented mind.
Reading. So much reading. Raiding of libraries, the bullying of academics. A cabal of students formed around her, devoted to finding what she sought. When she was done with them she threw them into the harbour and impaled their feet into the seabed. They'd been degenerates anyhow - deserved what they got. She had higher goals. Moved on. Found more truths, more ideas, more nuances.
Faking her death. Watching her brother pretend to mourn. Promising revenge. Promising return.
A shadow of a great mountain. Eyes that glinted like the coins they'd once placed on the faces of the dead. A pelt wrapping around her… and crying out for a deal. A bargain. Anything, just… there was a new world to create. Anything was worth that price.
Lessons in a dark cabin while the snow flurried outside. Hot breath on her neck. Hate brewing in her gut. Hot enough to warm her in the cold, cold nights. Practicing. Placing a knife against her skin and cutting, piercing deep until she could feel the flame within start to explode outwards. Laughing as lightning crackled from her blood. Cutting into her memories, into her very self, piercing deep and filling the void with fire.
Journeying into the deep.
Finding something.
Stealing a knife of her very own.
Carving. Carving. Carving.
A new name, carved in rust-red shades. A name that abandoned the trappings of her old life, trappings she promised to reclaim soon enough. All that she had been was stripped away, and all that remained was an inviolable burning chaos, a desire to burn the world down and raise a new one from the ashes. A wolf in her mind that fed on the fact that her revolution would, by definition, destroy herself as well.
A name that was the last thing this skin remembered, whispered from skinless lips before the crate closed over and it all came to an end. Before she abandoned that phase of her life, and all that came with it. Setting aside all the petty distractions in favour of a single, divine purpose. A flash of fear before she carved - a flash of terror. Was she taking away too much? A slip. The skin of her hand shook, shivered, refused to come away. A messy scar carved up her arm out of uncertainty. The stolen razor carved deeper and deeper, and she felt… she felt other things slipping with it. Idea by idea. Trait by trait. Slowly, Iron Rain was carving away herself, and leaving behind only a furious, whirling storm fit to raze the world… a storm with a suitably blazing name. Skinless lips whispered reverently.
ANGRBODA.
And then… nothing at all. Silence. And a new face staring at the skin, curious, horrified… reaching out…
Vicky shivered in her sleep.
And something under the city shivered with her.
Vicky stared at the skin. No no no, she wasn't going insane. She was not going insane. Going insane was something for other people. The skin wasn't talking to her. The box hadn't moved, nothing was moving, nothing was happening - no, no, something was happening, the skin was fucking talking and her parents were downstairs. Wait, hadn't this… no, one time was just a crazy bit of painkiller-induced strangeness, this was beyond strangeness, this was verging into genuine derangement. Her painkillers were wearing off, too. Her mom was downstairs, pressuring Turk. had they seen her flying in? She could try and fly out, but… no, no, she could see people staring from their windows in the surrounding buildings, and one… one little shit was gawping at her with his mouth open. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Noticed. Her parents had probably been unsubtle as all hell coming in, her mom was a lovely lady but had all the subtlety of a fucking gulag prison guard. Her voice echoed up the stairs, bouncing around with all the fury of a vengeful pinball.
"Well? What's it going to be?"
She had her lawyer voice. She had her fucking lawyer voice. That was the voice she used when she wanted to dissect a person in court, reduce them to a puddle of tears which confessed everything. Or nothing, depending on how things were going at the time. Either way, the point was that tears were involved.
Yoür möthër ïs ä bïtch.
She didn't dignify the human fucking skin with a response.
Älrïght, dö äs yöu lïkë.
The funny German accent was still there, the same weird sloping tones that suggested a stereotypical evocation of the Germanic mien. Ridiculous in any other context. Oddly intimidating right now. Reflected her own worsening mental state. Wait, this voice sounded… she paused. Sounded weirdly familiar. Uncomfortable, honestly. Just on the edge of recognition. Her mom's voice carried up again, and Vicky quickly closed the window. She wouldn't leave until she had what she wanted - either her location, or an arrest warrant slammed down on Turk's counter. She had a brief nightmare vision of Turk getting hauled off to court, the same guy who'd unquestioningly given her a place to crash when she really needed a place to crash, had sewed up her fucking side. And if she exposed her return to her parents, then she'd be hauled off, deviancy testing, and then this would all be pointless. Probably kept under observation. The razor at her waist twitched, almost vibrating in the loose strips of cloth she used to stop it from slicing her leg open. Panic rose up. Leave, and fuck Turk over. Stay, and fuck herself over. No time to clean her room, no time to destroy all evidence of her presence here… she was still recovering from Naaktgeboren Ridge, for fuck's sake, she'd slept, maybe, twice since she got back, and she needed to talk to Taylor about this, and she was pinned in this room and skin was fucking talking to her.
Rëälly, nöt vëry pölïtë öf yöü. Ï'm jüst tryïng tö hëlp.
"Shut the fuck up."
No.
"You're not real. I'm just stressed and panicking."
Ïn thësë strängë tïmës, mëïn Frëünd, cöüldn't yöü säy thät thïs ïs fäïrly ävërägë? Fäcë ït, yöü'vë sëën wëïrdër.
"No. No I haven't."
Hm.
She ignored the skin, and started hunting for a solution. She felt like shit, her side was burning… a hand confirmed what she suspected. Bleeding. The stitches had been torn by that bitch Khadija, and the flight hadn't done them any favours. Nor was the stress. She was bleeding, and freely. Her side was already blood red. Her fingers were trying to twitch nervously, and ran against the issue that most of them were broken or bruised to hell and back. Pain ran up her arm in short spikes. Fuck, fuck, fuck… how was she meant to get out of this, exactly?
Ï cän öffër hëlp.
"Shut up."
The skin of a dead fucking Nazi was not going to help her, not today. Not like it could. She needed to get her parents out of the shop, convince them that something else was going on, and that they could, and indeed should leave at their earliest convenience. Once she had some breathing room, she could clean the room, find a more secure location to operate out from. Maybe a motel. No, too public, and… putting the cart before the horse, dumbass. Focus on this particular problem, think of future problems later. Shit, her side was really burning up, and she was starting to feel dizzy. Lost way too much blood over the last few days, and hadn't had remotely enough time to recover from any of it. Her fingers, paralysed as they were, were barely able to grab a needle, let alone thread it… she groaned, and grabbed one of Taylor's more crummy-looking shirts, abandoned in the corner of her closet. She held it over her wounds, promising that she'd get a proper replacement for her. The fabric was almost immediately damp, and was verging on soaked a moment later. She was pale and shaking, and her forcefield kept twitching. With a concerted effort, she kept her aura down. Couldn't let anyone know she was here, not remotely. A quiet drip, drip, drip - her hand was wounded to hell and back, and one of the cuts running along her left thumb was weeping freely now. Fuck…
"Hm."
Her dad's voice, now. Calm. Reassuring. Fucking infuriating.
"Look, Mr Turk, we really just want to get things straight here - we've got several accounts of her flying here, and recently, all within the timeframe of her disappearing. I understand if she's just being a teenager, you know how they are, but… we're worried. Very worried. She never acts out like this. So… can't you do us a solid?"
"No solid to do. She's not here."
Her mom's voice slicing through with all the grace and dignity of the Titanic.
"The accounts say otherwise. You're already six feet deep in a hole in the ground, Mr Turk, either you keep digging or you climb out. We're offering you that option. If you don't take it… all you can do it get buried."
"Tea?"
"No, Mr. Turk. No tea."
She imagined him getting deported. She imagined him being sent back to Russia because of her fuck-up. Taylor would never forgive her for making her friend vanish from the face of the earth, and all because she couldn't just resign herself to staying somewhere crummy. Idiot, idiot. The razor was so heavy… and she could feel it heating up slightly. She remembered the dark, the winding tunnels, the uncontrollable descent, the feeling of being hunted by something categorically superior to her in every conceivable way. The unfolding star. The feeling of reaching inside herself and finding nothing. Just a hollowness which echoed onwards and onwards, her face clattering off and shattering like a ceramic mask. And a delirious apathy at the feeling of nothingness. The razor hummed happily, and she had a vision of simply… simply slipping it under her weak flesh and peeling. It wouldn't take much. It was so sharp she wouldn't feel a thing - and when she did, it would be too late. The skin would be off. And someone else would walk away, someone who didn't need to worry about silly things like this, someone who could dedicate themselves completely to the role laid before them, who could be a true hero, and… and… no. She had to rip the razor free with one shaking hand, twitching her battered fingers into shape. She let it fall… meant to place it down calmly and efficiently.
But her fingers were so very, very tired, and could barely move without sending jolts of pain up her arm like ragged lightning bolts.
The knife dropped.
It thumped.
The voices below fell silent.
She froze.
Rëälly. Thät wäs äwfülly clümsy öf yöü.
No response. Didn't dare raise her voice. The voices below were silent. She imagined her mom brushing past Turk with the arrogance of someone used to getting her own way, the protective fury of a mother whose daughter had gone missing, and the sheer unmitigated potence of a cape. She could tear Turk open in a dozen different ways in about ten seconds, and she knew it. She also knew she could financially ruin him in a hundred different ways if she was given enough time. The combination made her move with absolute certainty. She tried to listen… were those footsteps, or just her own heart thumping. She curled up below the box, shivering, clutching the shirt to her bleeding side. Come on, she'd won, hadn't she? She'd gotten away? Managed to win something? Why did it feel like… why did it feel like she'd lost every single fucking time? The Striving wasn't coming to her, she had no rival to go against, nothing at all. Nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck…
Ï cöüld hëlp.
She whispered back.
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."
Yöü wänt ä wäy öüt. Ï cän öffër ït.
"What the fuck are you?"
Ï'm yöür öwn mïnd ättëmptïng tö rätïönälïsë thë trüths yöü'vë bëën ëxpösëd tö. Bäsëd ön whät yöü knöw, Ï thïnk ït's räthër ä cömmön rëspönsë. Sëëms lïkë ït shöüld bë, ät lëäst. Wöüldn't yöü stärt mänïfëstïng strängë vöïcës ïn süch ä scënärïö?
No response.
Wörks för Täylör.
"Chorei's real."
Änd shë güïdës hër. Shäpës hër. Mäybë yöü'rë cräckïng änd dëcïdëd yöü nëëdëd sömëthïng lïkë thät för yöürsëlf. Änd bëïng thë lïttlë dummkopf thät yöü ärë, yöü dëcïdëd tö pröjëct äwärënëss öntö ä pïëcë öf ïnänïmätë skïn. Höw üttërly wäcky.
"No. Shut up. Not listening."
Lïstën tö më. Yöü rëcögnïsë my vöïcë.
Vicky froze. She did. She recognised that voice, she recognised it like it was her own. Because it was. She heard that voice every time she opened her fucking mouth, but this was… flatter, mangled with an absurd German accent, distorted by the fact that she was hearing it coming from something other than herself. No. She wasn't sure what any of this meant, but she wasn't going to fucking listen to the skin in a box she had stolen from a madman's cabin. A skin belonging to, legitimately, one of the worst supervillains that had called Brockton Bay home, based on viciousness, reprehensibility, unashamed monstrousness, and also possible ascension to a state beyond human for reasons she couldn't quite understand. Maybe she was hallucinating, fine, fair enough, probably one of the least concerning symptoms she could be manifesting at the moment. Blood loss was a bitch, trauma was a bitch, and the universe was entirely occupied by the supreme fucking imperium of bitchdom, apparently. Gah. She groaned as another pulse of pain ran through her. Fuck… shit. Footsteps? Were those footsteps? She started to move, finding it harder and harder with each second that passed… come on, come on…
Yöü wänt ä wäy öüt. Ï cän öffër thät. Wëll, yöü cän öffër ït. Ï'm jüst thë ön prësëntïng thë öptïön, yöü schïzö fück.
"Shut… up…"
Wëär më.
Vicky froze.
"No."
Wëär më. Wë löök… sömëwhät sïmïlär. Ä cövër störy wöüld bë ëäsy tö crëätë. Äll yöü nëëd tö dö ïs püt më ön, änd thïs äll göës äwäy.
"No. I won't."
Yöü'vë dönë ït bëförë ïn thë möüntäïns. Änd thïs wïll bë völüntäry - yöür räzör wïll lët yöü sëvër thë skïn whënëvër yöü plëäsë.
"Stop it."
Löök ät yöü. Cräwlïng ön thë gröünd lïkë än ïnsëct, ünäblë tö fïnd ä wäy öüt öf yöür öwn mëss. Säcrïfïcëd ëvërythïng ïn Nääktgëbörën Rïdgë, änd thë önly rëwärd yöü ëxträctëd wäs önë yöü'rë töö äfräïd tö üsë. Wëäk. Sübhümän. Ïgnöränt üntërmënsch, ä döömëd gënë-prïsön. .
Vicky kept trying to crawl away, but her fingers were deeply, deeply injured, and her side was dripping blood slowly to the ground. Tap, tap, tap. Footsteps? Her own blood? They were close to the door, she could feel it, she could feel it… fuck, if she had her fingers back she could just stitch herself up, slap a band-aid on or something. Helpless. She felt… she felt weak. Powerless. She remembered the cold air slicing across unprotected skin, the feeling of profound, yearning loss from having her powers stolen away. She shuddered… and she felt something rush over her. Something… she recognised, but she nonetheless was subject to. A shiver as the memories came back with terrifying force, a cringing sensation as she realised that she was on all fours, crawling away from another indomitable threat… and a conclusion. She had to do something. In the mountains, she'd just pushed onwards, through all the pain, all the wounds, all the absolute terror. In the mountains, she'd reduced herself down to a basic engine of survival, something capable of navigating through everything with utter determination. When in doubt, keep moving. Even when what's ahead looks worse, at least it's not certain death. Or worse, seeing someone who helped her get fucked over by her parents, seeing her sister getting taken away even further, more contact severed, more trust destroyed, and she could already feel the rising existential horror at being unable to do heroic things, after all she'd sacrificed. All she'd seen, done, lost…
A pale, pale hand was dangling from the lid of the box. The closed box. The weighted box. She stared at it, and the voice echoed in the corners of her mind. Not from the skin. Never from the skin. Always herself. Right? The razor on the ground glinted like a sharp, straight smile. A flash of teeth. Her breath was coming faster. The walls were pressing in. Her heart was beating out of her chest. Footsteps on the stairs, footsteps on the stairs… she reached out hesitantly, and her fingertips brushed against the skin.
Just a tiny bit of contact.
Tiny.
She hadn't made up her mind yet. Hadn't come to any definite conclusions. Still uncertain. Her breath caught in her throat.
The hand wrapped around her own.
* * *
Turk was sweating. A little. Right at the base of his neck. He didn't get nervous often, and he wasn't nervous now, but he was definitely… a little on edge. Little bit. His usual calm had been disrupted, certainly. There were two people in front of him - people he had become mildly familiar with, and hoped that this familiarity wouldn't go any further. Yet here he was. A second or so away from a court order. God, he despised lawyers. In love with their own voices, that was it. Too much enjoyment with hearing themselves speak, hearing the cadence of their words, relishing their own advanced vocabulary. The woman, Carol, was playing the bad cop, the man, Mark, was playing the good cop. Neither were very good at it - Mark didn't have any heart in the interrogation, and Carol was too much of a raging bitch. The bad cop needed to be more than hated, they needed to be feared. He didn't know if Vicky was upstairs or not, had no idea. But he knew that these two would find signs if they looked. He was stonewalling for now, but… he tried to put together a plan. So, they were trained professionals, one was a lawyer, both were capes. His best opportunity was just to stonewall a little further, then see if he could break away to talk with his own lawyer, old pal from O.K., and see what could be rustled up. But he wanted to be a stone face at first - they expected fear. The longer they were denied it, the more likely they'd make a mistake he could seize on in future.
…he hated lawyers. Not just the voices. But the fact that beating them didn't involve actually beating them. Which was a source of substantial irritation.
He hesitated, trying to draw out some more attempts… but they were on the verge of just giving up, signing that damn arrest warrant, and moving on. The document was a thick wall of legalese which basically amounted to 'you're breaking half a dozen laws right now by inhibiting the investigations of a group of accredited and PRT-approved parahumans, potentially keeping a troubled teen away from her parents, and jaywalking. Enjoy jail, enjoy court, enjoy getting deported'. American parahumans… as he understood it, if you played nice with the PRT, you got a lot of legal liberties. Like, for instance, suing private citizens who weren't doing as they were told. A knot of worry began to grow in his stomach like a tapeworm. He didn't want to go back to Russia, not right now. He liked it here. He polished a teacup with more force than necessary. Taylor was still missing, and he couldn't just be gone when she got back. The girl deserved better than that. He knew he'd just worry himself sick if he was sent back home…
And then someone came down the stairs.
He twitched, and a tiny wave of relief went through him. Good. She was biting the bullet and coming forward. Sometimes you just had to choose between a rock and a hard place, and in this case the rock had won. Or the hard place. Never sure which one was worse in that saying. Sure, she'd get brought in, but she was smart - and he'd do what he could, he was fairly sure some old colleagues had ended up in the PRT as consultants, maybe he could get some insight into their methods. Or she could weasel her way out of a deviancy test. He understood her worry, but in his experience it was easier to play the system when you weren't actively being hunted down by the system and its irritable blonde outriders.
He glanced.
His eye widened imperceptibly.
That wasn't Vicky.
The woman that walked down was about the same height, but her features were definitely older. Not his type. Too… painfully angular. Cruel face, more used to sneering than smiling. High cheekbones, sharp chin, a patch of old acne scars across one cheek. A hook-shaped scar over her chin, forming a kind of question mark. Beige-coloured hair trailing down in unkempt tresses, uncared for over a long period. But then he saw the eyes - bright blue, and looking almost afraid. Then he saw the clothes, the same ones he'd seen Vicky in this morning. His grip tightened, and he felt the ceramic under his fingers straining. The woman strode forwards with confidence that didn't fit those eyes, pausing and staring haughtily at the two interlopers. Both of them looked taken aback. The woman sniffed.
"Wëll? Whät ïs ït? Yöü'vë bëën mäkïng mörë thän ënöügh-"
Her voice was weirdly accented, like the kind of thing an Americna might think resembled a German accent. Carol cut her off. She looked… oddly alarmed at the sound of that voice, the sight of that face. A tiny amount of light crackled around her fingertips, a reminder of the power she had at her command. Her husband didn't look much better, he'd immediately tensed up, and was looking at the woman incredulously.
"How the hell are you still al…"
She paused, sized up the woman again, and the light began to dissipate from her hands.
"...sorry. Sorry. Confused you for someone else."
The woman seemed nervous, and her accent stabilised slightly. More American.
"Apology half-accepted. Now, what do you want?"
Some of Carol's aggression returned in a flood of indignation.
"Who are you, exactly? Do you live here?"
"No, I just make a habit of breaking into random tea shops, yes, I live here. I couldn't help but hear you two yelling - an arrest warrant? Really?"
"We have-"
"Yes, yes, I'm aware."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath.
"Ms… Dallon, was it? Listen, this is a delicate matter, but I can assure you it doesn't involve your daughter. Not remotely. She comes here for tea, and nothing more."
"But-"
The woman quietly started hovering off the ground, and her eyes flashed with a smidgen of confidence. A tiny scrap of something resembling Vicky in this strange, harsh-looking woman. But… no, the closer he looked, the less of Vicky he saw. There was a casual cruelty in her entire bearing, a kind of haughty superiority flavouring every movement. Whoever she was imitating, she was supremely arrogant, and clearly had a very, very high opinion of herself. Strangely, the sight of her floating seemed to make the capes relaxed, like they'd received confirmation of something. Or, rather, a confident denial.
"The two of us look similar. The two of us are parahumans. And both of us associate with the tea shop. Ms. Dallon, you're simply mistaken. Your daughter isn't here, and hasn't been here in some time."
"There are-"
"Accounts, yes, you mentioned. What kind?"
The Dallons were clearly on the backfoot, and Turk found a slight respect for the young parahuman - she had a capacity for improvisation that reminded him a little of Taylor. Honestly, this entire situation was making him think of Taylor and her… habits. The weird encounters, the bizarre occurrences, the awkward conversations with irritated parents, the batshit insane plans… his tea shop used to be quiet. He distinctly remembered it being fairly quiet.
"Verbal, but-"
The woman let out a high, cruel laugh - and goosebumps emerged on Turk's arms. Didn't like that laugh. Didn't like it at all. And the cruelty in it felt natural, like this was what her every laugh sounded like regardless of context.
"Well, if we're all investigating verbal accounts, I can give you some wonderful UFOs to check out. Please, your standards of evidence are clearly as high as high can be, why not give them a look?"
The two capes looked at one another, and a strange look passed between them. A strange kind of… recognition, almost? Were they recognising their daughter's modes of speech, or were they seeing… something else? The woman seemed much more uncomfortable for a monent, her scared eyes flicking between the two. The man, Mark, stepped closer and seemed to be examining her a little, even as his voice remained genial and apologetic. Oh, he was good. More dangerous than he looked.
"...I'm sorry, I understand how this sounds. And… wait, you're a parahuman, sorry, let's follow up on that for a second. You seem familiar, have we met-"
"No. No we haven't."
Carol narrowed her eyes.
"No, you definitely sound familiar. Do you have family here, or...?"
"No. None. My only family is elsewhere in the country."
"And who exactly are you affiliated with? Could we plug your records into-"
The woman was growing more agitated with each passing moment.
"Independent. I'm here visiting a friend, that's all. My parahuman name is none of your business, my real name is certainly none of your business. Now, I'm not going to fight you, are you going to fight me? Break every standard of decorum over a parahuman who is, again, passing through with no interest in lingering. I thought your lot would understand the awkwardness of being caught out of costume."
Flinches. She'd touched a nerve. The woman's expression softened, but her eyes still looked absolutely terrified.
"I'm sorry we couldn't help. But waving an arrest warrant around won't get you any closer to your daughter."
Mark tapped his wife on the shoulder. There was a resigned look on his face, one that slowly infected Carol. He sighed.
"I'm sorry for all of this, really. It's… been a stressful week."
Americans. When he had a stressful week he got drunk and had a very large breakfast the morning after. Maybe a bath. When they had a stressful week, they tried to arrest random tea shop owners. Feh. Maybe going back to Russia wasn't the most awful idea.
"I understand. Now, if there's nothing else, could you leave, please?"
The sympathy, the use of the word 'please' seemed to actually dispel some of their suspicion. There was history here, he was sure of it. Evidently whoever they thought she was wasn't the type to say 'sorry' or act remotely empathetic. Hm. Hate to meet who they thought she was. Sounded like a right cunt.
"Of course. We're sorry again. If you see anything, or if she gets in contact, just… call us. Please. We're worried sick about her, it's not… like her to do this kind of thing. Our niece says she's fine, but just needs some time alone… so we know she's in the city."
He tilted his head to one side.
"...you really do look similar to her. And… honestly, a bit like someone else. Are you sure none of your family is from round here?"
"Positive. I'm visiting friends."
Carol scowled.
"Stay out of trouble, then. Or we'll have a much less civilised conversation."
The woman sniffed dismissively. Mark smiled apologetically.
"Sorry for all of this. Sorry for… the parahuman stuff, too. It was unfair of us."
Carol sniffed derisively (hm, like mother like daughter), turned on her heel, and left. Mark trailed behind her, apologising the entire way. With the wind out of their sails, with the fury gone from them, they just looked… sad. Lonely. Hm. Two daughters, one missing, one contained by the PRT. Rough fate, which… explained some of the aggressiveness, even if it didn't exactly make up for almost getting him arrested. The doorbell jingled merrily as the door shut, and the two were left in solitary silence. They waited for a moment, listening to the sound of a car starting up - didn't want the publicity of being sighted harassing a local business owner. It drove away, and the two remained silent. Silence reigned, and the two were willing and loyal subjects. Only after a long few seconds did Turk look over slowly and cautiously. The woman returned his gaze, took a deep breath, leaned close, and said, in the calmest voice she could muster…
"Türk, Ï'm göïng tö hävë ä fückïng pänïc ättäck rïght nöw gët thïs fückïng thïng öff më."
This close, he could see what she meant. And a shudder ran through him. Wearing human skin… and it was animated, too, contracting like ordinary skin, even sweating in some places. But it was loose around some joints, and Vicky kicked off her shoes to reveal two flesh-coloured socks trailing from her feet, the skin a little too tall for her. It shivered like some kind of exotic sea creature, and was clearly unnatural. Livid red marks around the seams where it'd been sealed up, a faint gradient around the eyes where it gave way to her own flesh, and the mouth detached slightly from her own, lower lip hanging pendulously downwards. He didn't think for long - just started to move. She followed, but sagged to the ground halfway up, groaning weakly. Shit. Bleeding. He grabbed her, dragging the girl into a bridal carry before thundering up the stairs and laying her carefully on the rudimentary couch, still slightly stained from when Sanagi had treated Ted there. Her breath was rapid and shallow, her eyes had the glazed quality of someone suffering from advanced blood loss. Idiot. He readied himself, and… had no idea what to do. What was the right course of action? His expression remained stony, but he honestly had no fucking clue what was the appropriate response to…
A razor was thrust into his hand.
"Take it. Cut it off, yöü fückïng vödkä-swïllïng cömmünïst."
Her voice was jerky and uncertain, fading in and out of lucidity. By the end, it was a vague mumble and nothing more, accented in that same bizarre way. That, incidentally, was the only reason he didn't give her a firm talking to. He drank moonshine, and he'd been around to see communism die and had promptly sold his soul to the… nevermind. Recollections for later. He nodded sharply and got to work. The seams… yes, that seemed like a wise place. He slipped the razor in, the handle contouring to his hand perfectly despite being nothing but a hunk of metal wrapped in cloth… and the flesh gave way with eerie smoothness. At first. Then it began to cling tightly, gripping onto Vicky's flesh impossibly. He focused, and kept going… Vicky groaned, and the razor started to come away red. Most of her was red, blood having flowed from her wounds, trapped beneath the skin and forming a cracked crimson layer across her. Her face was a solid mask of the stuff, and she was deathly pale beneath it. Idiot. Her stitches were still healing, even Taylor hadn't gone out fighting so soon after getting injured. Not until she had the capacity to rapidly adapt. Idiot. He gritted his teeth as he kept working, slicing carefully around the skin and peeled it free, holding it in place with his elbows and knees. Like skinning a deer. Just think of it like skinning a deer.
Problem.
The skin kept trying to crawl back on. He couldn't see it happening… but he'd look away, look back, and a patch would have reattached itself, a part he thought satisfactorily dealt with would be adhered so tightly he'd need to pay close attention to avoid contributing to Vicky's unreasonable blood loss.
"Stay. Be back."
His English worsened when he was nervous. He crashed through his cupboards, hunting for… there. Nails. Heavy. Well, the sofa was ruined anyway. The skin had already almost completed its reapplication while he was away, and it hadn't done it well. Vicky looked like she could barely breathe, the mouth of the skin-suit tugged up and smeared until she couldn't actually speak or breathe through her mouth. Desperate wheezes came from her nostrils… OK, time was of the essence. He got back to work, slicing skin, yanking it upwards with some difficulty, and pinning the scraps down to the sofa. It looked horrific - a bloodstained girl within a hungry skin-suit, which was gradually becoming a complex nest of pierced, sail-like flaps. Her struggles were weaker, her voice had dwindled to a vague whisper. He reached into the perverse lotus-bloom, and ripped. His muscles strained, veins popped on his forehead… and Vicky tore outwards, the skin almost writhing as she escaped from it. He couldn't support her full weight like this, and she collapsed to the hard ground in silence. Shit. The skin was nailed a few more times, just to keep it from getting any ideas. When he turned away, eh could hear it tearing his couch apart, dragging the nails out of position inch by inch. Safe for the time being, though, he'd inhibited the range of motion enough.
More work.
The stitches were a mess. Someone had kicked them open, he could see the bruised imprint of a boot. If he found them, he'd gladly throw them to the overambitious piece of epidermis that was trying its best to escape from its iron prison. He cleaned the blood away, disinfected again, restitched. Blood loss was bad - she needed a transfusion. Do it himself, but he wasn't sure of her blood type. This, this was why he had his code name, his unit number, his corporate affiliation, and his blood type tattooed on his left pectoral. The only tattoo he wanted or needed. Made it easier for the medics, or the people identifying bodies after a battle. And it was also why he never went unprepared. He thought he had… there. A tiny blood test kit, part of his crate of medical supplies. He pierced her with a lancet and let the little machine do its work. A minute's wait. Right. Other injuries. Fingers had been snapped again by the skin-suit… at least they were into a normal position. Not much effort to reapply splints. Why had she put that damn thing on, why…
Kids.
Blood test came back… good. He had what he needed. He was compatible. Without hesitating, he pierced his own arm and hooked up Vicky. A few taps started the flow, a quick squeeze accelerated it to acceptable levels. Waiting game now. Small laceration under the throat, shallow but painful. No need for stitches, just some more disinfectant to make sure she wasn't getting any nasty infections. And then it was just an exercise in getting the blood off, ruining most of his hand towels in the process. Didn't mind. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he worked… her colour was improving a little. Didn't want to go too far with this, she was young, her natural recovery would be good, but… wanted to be sure. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she shivered.
"...is it…?"
"Off. Nailed down."
His eye turned cold.
"What did you do?"
"...you were going to get arrested, I-"
He poked the tip of her nose, drawing an irritated grunt. Good. If she was irritated, she could recover.
"Idiot. I would've found a way out. Not my first time. You, though…"
He grimaced.
"What did you do?"
"Just… I found that skin in the mountains, I brought it back, and it…"
She looked incredibly ashamed. Good.
"It just… it was tempting, and it was… I think it was mostly the razor, and…"
He was going to burn this skin. If impossible, he'd bury it. In the ocean. In a very large trench. Before setting off a depth charge. Just to be thorough.
"Where did you go?"
"Just… visiting-"
"Had stitches kicked open. Idiot. Now you need to rest. A lot. No more flying."
"...yeah. I guess I deserve that."
"You do."
He sighed, and sat back, watching the blood flow from his arm to hers.
"If you got hurt, Taylor would kill me. You know that?"
"...yeah."
"Bed rest. Continuous. No more opening your wounds. Next time I'll just take you to a hospital, let them sort you out."
A look of panic flashed across her features - very good, panic meant your survival instinct was still going.
"No! No hospitals, I can't-"
"Then don't open your wounds. idiot."
Was he being harsh? Probably. Was it deserved? Definitely. Taylor would kill him if he let Vicky get killed because of something so… simple. He had known people with IQs somewhere around room temperature, and they knew the importance of resting after getting repeated bloody wounds and painful fractures, they knew you avoided any kind of combat or exertion after injuries remotely like this. He imagined Taylor confronting him about this - she wouldn't yell. Just coldly nod and leave. Like his own daughter, funnily enough. Yekaterina had his reserve and her mother's anger. Enough that she was a terror in any argument. Never knew when you'd gone too far with her, and she'd crossed an imperceptible line from 'irritated' to 'going to castrate you'. Taylor was like that. He honestly pitied the Butcher - you never wanted anyone like that on your bad side. That 'you' included him. It very much included him. And if Vicky had any brains, 'you' would include her.
"You've done it, then."
He said this quietly. Regretfully.
"Hm?"
"No going back, right?"
"...I mean, I-"
She paused.
"...no. I guess not. I don't… think I could go back to being normal. Not after this. At least I did it of my own volition. That's… that's kinda the level I'm at now. Fuck, why did I put on that skin, why did I listen to that fucking razor…"
Turk said nothing. He felt each and every one of his years weighing on him, and found it a struggle to remove the needle from his arm, to haul Vicky over to a bed where she could actually get some sleep. She was weakened, still. Recovering, but weakened. He doubted she'd have let him carry her over if she had any wherewithal left. He glared at the bright knife on the ground, winking cheerily up at him. The skin could be dealt with. Shove it in a box, seal it shut, and then keep that box in a secure location. But the knife… he worried about that. He'd long-since given up understanding most of what happened around him. He understood it through the effects it had on those he cared about, the utility it presented. But he remembered the power that had flowed through that rifle, the one he'd used to hurt Bisha once Taylor had pinned him in place. And if this thing was even close to that in the right hands… he didn't want anything to do with it. If he had any choice in the matter, no-one would. Vicky was already asleep before he set her down, and the slumber only deepened over the succeeding seconds.
He needed a smoke.
He needed a drink.
Not as much as Vicky and Taylor needed one. But he'd burn up enough cigarettes for the three of them. His hands were shaky as they fumbled for his lighter. He glared at them until they went still…
And that was all.
* * *
Memories had pulsed through the skin. And Vicky dreamt of things she had never experienced. Instincts she had never felt. She could feel power at the edge of her vision, a power to drop. A guillotine suspended over the world - rising, rising, rising, rising, drop. A single slip and she could overwhelm a room in crushing metal. Nothing like that idiot brother who was too… too weak. Too utterly obsessed with being a careful little boy, a little perfectionist. It might get him killed one day. Hopefully. She'd never liked him, the little shit-weasel. No, wait… no, she didn't remember this, she had no brother, her power was different. Vicky stirred uneasily. She remembered being taller, stronger. A rippling form of muscle and power, gesturing like a capricious empress ordering a horde of slaves executed on a whim. The bleeding guillotine of the Empire, the slicing edge which liberated the city from the tangled mass of corruption that strangled it to death. Iron Rain. The Reign of Terror. Heh. She'd thought she was so very clever for coming up with that pun. Her men roared her name when they fought, her father looked on her with delirious pride, her brother with delicious envy. Marquis loathed her, the moronic immigrant horde feared her. The world formed a delicate kind of sense in her eyes - a perfect balance of purpose, justification, and sheer unbridled joy. All was well in the eye of the racestorm, all was well in the court of the Allfather, all was well in the shadow of the Empire's guillotine.
Vicky flinched in her sleep as visions of caricatured nations flashed by. Arabs ululating in the middle of a desert where only idiots would settle. Africans (she didn't really conceive of any differences between them, Africans were Africans) chanting primally as they readied a pot to boil some foolish white explorer. Chinese peasants kowtowing over and over and grinning with servile bliss as their lords commanded another famine, another million dead. Liquor-obsessed Russians nodding contentedly as they waited in endless queues for a single loaf of bread. Took some effort to banish. Iron Rain had been a sick, sick person. And behind all these caricatures was the single, overriding notion: 'wouldn't it be better if they just went away and stopped bothering me?' A notion that there was one breed of humans slowly being drowned out by hordes of mules, interbreeding creating underclass after underclass, the innumerable sub-castes of doomed races that deserved to be euthanaised or sterilised before the poison fermenting in their genes could spill outwards. The racestorm whirled and burned, always dancing on the edge of devastation.
Like she said. Sick.
But one memory in particular had bled through the skin. One important memory - the memory which had led to it all beginning. Which had led to the skin being cut away and discarded, a fragment from a life which no longer had any bearing on Iron Rain's path. No, wait… she had a name. A name was coming through - a name for the jagged face and the cruel mouth, the beige hair and the cratered wasteland of acne scars that lay along one of her cheeks. It was… no. There was nothing. She'd been mistaken. Iron Rain was all she had been - she'd forgotten the name her mother gave her by the time she ripped the skin off. Had carved it away and sacrificed it to the deep. She knew what she was, and the squealing child she'd once been had no bearing on that. Iron Rain sufficed… and the skin could feel the shadows of what came next. Angrboda. Grief-Bringer. Nothing else remained but the roles she'd taken, the skins she wore to contain the chaos she'd found.
A memory was surfacing. An ugly one.
Vicky tossed and turned, almost opening her stitches again. Almost.
Allfather had called her in for a talk. A long one. Very convenient that he'd called himself Allfather, basically just meant Iron Rain got to call him 'dad' with an additional syllable attached to the front. Highly useful for the secret identity thing. She remembered… remembered being called in for a chat at his mansion just outside of town. The new power plant was humming happily away, the city beyond blazed with light. She remembered that keenly, the promise of a glorious future built upon a superior breed of parahuman, fully integrated into society. Paranoia had been flooding through her veins, though. Usually she was fairly careful, not as careful as her idiot brother, but she had brains. She had the capacity to be careful, when it was necessary. And it… had been necessary. Rather necessary. Usually she was highly discrete about some of her habits, the ones which made her pulse with guilt and froth with impotent rage, the kind that made her want to slice people open from head to toe, bathe in their blood and make it clear that she was still fucking Iron Rain, she was still a creature of sublime, shredded destruction that no-one could hope to defeat. Usually she was fine. She blamed Sturm and Drang, those two new ladies from Europe. Got her angry. Very angry. Needed a way too cool off.
Iron Rain had clasped her hands behind her back and stood to attention, her armour shifting smoothly with her motions. And then… then it had begun. The talk. Allfather had told her the honest truth. He was a little old, and his lifestyle didn't favour old men. He knew that he was going to die, and he wanted to tell her something. He intended for the Empire to become a diarchy, with her and her brother looking after it. But her idiot brother… he didn't quite commit. A little too slimy. A little too merchant-like. Unwilling to get down to the dirty business with all the zealotry it demanded. Allfather preferred her - preferred her immensely. She believed his words, had believed them from the moment she was taught the secrets of the world and the invisible hierarchies of things. She was ordered to stand down, to sit in a comfortable chair… unusual. Her armour usually scratched it up.
She'd sat gladly, crossed her legs, and listened.
By the time Allfather was finished, she was pale as a ghost, frozen in place, and her hands were quivering with barely suppressed rage. Somewhere along the way, her brother had joined them, sitting with barely-concealed joy. Her father looked older than she'd ever seen him. A handful of photos were scattered across the table. Her paranoia had been entirely correct. She threatened to take her men and leave… and was told, in the politest possible terms, that if she committed to that she'd be killed on the spot. Her indiscretions had been ignored for a while, but now there were witnesses.
Not her fault.
Not her fault that her father and mother had allowed sickness to fester in her. She hated the sickness more than anyone else, her father knew that, her brother knew that…
A flash of memory. Blonde hair. Full lips. Deep eyes.
Not her fault that Sturm had been so… so…
Anyway.
Vicky flinched with a hint of unintentional sympathy. Quickly suppressed. She could feel the blood on her hands. She could feel the iron hanging in the air, and the weeping faces of those about to feel its kiss.
Banished. Out into the cold. Told, politely, that the evidence was out there. Her indiscretions would be tolerated for the time being, but she needed a sabbatical. Time to reorganise. Her father apologised, explained that for anyone else there might be room for some… allowances, a policy of silence, but not for her. Not for the diarch. She knew where the pattern would lead. She knew. Her brother's smile had told her everything. The evidence would hang over her head like one of her own guillotines, enough to destroy her career. Didn't they understand the purpose of her work? Didn't they understand that her personal life was irrelevant next to her role as the bleeding edge of the Empire? But… no. Her brother would take superiority. Force her into kowtowing to his new order once her father passed on. Her hands had clenched so tightly she remembered the metal had strained, verging on breaking. Allfather had left, and her brother had shot her a final, mocking smile. He had a dream for the future, and she didn't feature in it - a lifetime of humiliation from now on, before he either let her turn into a martyr for the cause (a cause he would inevitably betray) or simply dragged her name through the mud and allowed her to be strung up by her own men.
Not her fault. She was used to most of them. And then… then there had been Sturm, blonde and willowy, fresh from the Gesellschaft with her smile and her… and her…
Anyway.
Banished.
Left to rot.
The cause endured. The Empire endured. Her ideals never faltered, not for a moment. Her personal failings meant nothnig compared to something so vast, so profoundly important. There was a world aching to be born, and it could only be born in a storm of iron, blood, and above all, fire. Didn't they understand that the world was balanced on the edge of a knife? Didn't they undersatnd that a single push would send them falling into the dark, never to return? The world was at stake, the very future of the genome, and they were just… playing politics. No sense for the grandeur of history, the necessity of their work. Her own men had found her disturbing in those days. Drinking. Fighting. And… Sturm had been sent away, never to be seen again, but… but she'd… maybe she'd indulged a little in her own sickness. Fed it. Hated herself the whole while, hated the twisting monster in her stomach which stirred into motion whenever she saw…
Anyway.
Weeks later. Degenerate. Desperate. Shivering. Cast out. Lying in the bedroom in her father's mansion, locked herslef up to stay away from any form of temptation. At her lowest. Reminder of her trigger. Everything going wrong. Surrounded by stuffed animals she'd never had the heart to throw out. Witnessing the victory of the counterclockwise motion of the racestorm, witnessing history spiral into the abyss. Dreaming of a world that could be born if only people had the balls to allow it, to rip it into existence. Nothing was gained with sacrifice. Nothing. They just needed to rip it open, rip the world apart and birth a new one from the ashes. She'd gone to sleep with the scent of ozone in her nostrils. A desire to change the world. A revolution against it. Against her family. Against her own genetic degeneracy.
A red star twinkled that night.
And she dreamt of a comet .
When she woke, the bed was in tatters, a grin was plastered on her face, and she strode from the mansion with a spring in her step and purpose in her eyes.
A flurry of disconnected memories spilling from a fragmented mind.
Reading. So much reading. Raiding of libraries, the bullying of academics. A cabal of students formed around her, devoted to finding what she sought. When she was done with them she threw them into the harbour and impaled their feet into the seabed. They'd been degenerates anyhow - deserved what they got. She had higher goals. Moved on. Found more truths, more ideas, more nuances.
Faking her death. Watching her brother pretend to mourn. Promising revenge. Promising return.
A shadow of a great mountain. Eyes that glinted like the coins they'd once placed on the faces of the dead. A pelt wrapping around her… and crying out for a deal. A bargain. Anything, just… there was a new world to create. Anything was worth that price.
Lessons in a dark cabin while the snow flurried outside. Hot breath on her neck. Hate brewing in her gut. Hot enough to warm her in the cold, cold nights. Practicing. Placing a knife against her skin and cutting, piercing deep until she could feel the flame within start to explode outwards. Laughing as lightning crackled from her blood. Cutting into her memories, into her very self, piercing deep and filling the void with fire.
Journeying into the deep.
Finding something.
Stealing a knife of her very own.
Carving. Carving. Carving.
A new name, carved in rust-red shades. A name that abandoned the trappings of her old life, trappings she promised to reclaim soon enough. All that she had been was stripped away, and all that remained was an inviolable burning chaos, a desire to burn the world down and raise a new one from the ashes. A wolf in her mind that fed on the fact that her revolution would, by definition, destroy herself as well.
A name that was the last thing this skin remembered, whispered from skinless lips before the crate closed over and it all came to an end. Before she abandoned that phase of her life, and all that came with it. Setting aside all the petty distractions in favour of a single, divine purpose. A flash of fear before she carved - a flash of terror. Was she taking away too much? A slip. The skin of her hand shook, shivered, refused to come away. A messy scar carved up her arm out of uncertainty. The stolen razor carved deeper and deeper, and she felt… she felt other things slipping with it. Idea by idea. Trait by trait. Slowly, Iron Rain was carving away herself, and leaving behind only a furious, whirling storm fit to raze the world… a storm with a suitably blazing name. Skinless lips whispered reverently.
ANGRBODA.
And then… nothing at all. Silence. And a new face staring at the skin, curious, horrified… reaching out…
Vicky shivered in her sleep.
And something under the city shivered with her.
AN: And that's all for this week, m'lads. Incidentally, got some art from the delightful Doodle Doo of the Wolf-Divided. He don't bite.
See you guys next week!
See you guys next week!
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
And so the world turns and the wolf devours itself.
The imagery of the Wolf-Divided in these chapters is just so evocative.
Ooooh, very cool indeed - what a nice-looking dog. I'm sure it doesn't bite. I'm sure it has a name like 'Princess'. Incidentally, someone in a Discord server described it as a particularly strange Pokemon. And now I'm thinking of a Pokemon which looks like this, whose battle cry is Ṙ̷̛͓̯̱̫̟̰͔̪͚̮͖͑̾L̸̢̦̈́̾Y̸̧̨̡̢̛̩̲͈̺̱̝̞͙̥͕̯̱͎̰̭̬̦̰̆͐̏̇̿̓̉̽̈́̂̈́̿͝ͅE̸͉͍̟͚͖̣͈̭͕͉͕͔͚̥͕̒̓̽͆̑̄̽̅͋̾̒̒̓̀͌̏̐̐͒̀͌͑̈͝H̷̛̹̪͚͚̖͚̩̋̌̂͐̈́̇́̃͑̄̆̃͐͊̈́̄̍̑̕̕Q̷̛̲̬̤̻̎̂̎͛̀̒̀̉̓̆͒̂̽́̂͛͗͒͒Ų̵̨̙̜̊͑̒͗̎͛̽̀̀̎̚͝ͅX̷̢̫̩̣̩̫̰̳̙̼̠̱̘̹̙̜͆̎̎̾͌͋͊̇̆̈́͑̍̍̾̓̋͌̓͋͆͐̊͘̕͘͝ͅͅĄ̷̤̞̗͓̠̬̲̭̹̪̌̏̈́͑̌̾̑̿̂̃̀̓̈͒̈́̔͑̽͊̃̽̚͜͝ͅX̷̡̨̡̘̗̬͍̦͎͓̯̝̗̝̖̮̝̜̰̼̮̮̲̱̪͗̍́̌̀̐͊͠ͅẢ̴̛̛͖̼̣̮͚͖͕͚̯̠̱͂̓̈́̀̌̋̏̃̈́̔̅̐̒̉̒́͗͌̉̚͜͜͠͠͝ͅU̴̢͚̰̭̬͖̻̰̎̎̊̈́̄Q̸̡̲͕̘̪̩̳̣̪̮̪͍͍̈́̈́͛̃́̑̌̄́̍̈̈́̆̉͊̋̌̽͘̕̚̚̚͘̕L̶̨̧̬̖̼̬̟̲͉̬͚̱͖͎̱̬̤̗̮̻̫̹͉̠̈́́̀̀͂̒͝O̷̙̮̜̒̌͑̎͋͋̇̃͑̐N̸̡̠̤̯͚̖̩͉̗̈́́̂͐͒̃́̂̂̉͊̎̈́̆͂̀̚͜͝F̶̤͓̣̜̤̳̪̺̹̣̐̇͛͒̄͗̓͌̏͠͠H̴̖͈͉̣̼̩̫͍̖͒̓̈͜T̷̫̠͍͖̙͚͙͈͓̮̪̲͉̖͕͎͗͐͆̿́͆̉́̈̒͋̿͊̅͐͂̚̚͠͝͠Ä̵̡̡̢̱̟̠͓̫̯̳̰̭̟͇͔͙̝̖͓͔̝̘̗́̊͑̚̕G̷̞͖̖̝͕͎̙͉̈́͆̓͗̾͂͊͘͝ͅN̴̛̰͚͂̍̅̈́͐̂́̃͊̓̀̀̈̊́́̈͐̽͆̾̂̕͠.
The classic kid's pokemon, you know the one, don't pretend you don't.
Come to think of it, the Pitbull-Divided is probably just the Wolf's more profoundly terrifying cousin.
Taylor Hebert, Neither-Nor - by the unquestioningly centipede-like Shializaro
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
Russian Caravan (Worm, Eldritch Horror, Crossover/AU)
u got fanart on tumblr (bc i am too lazy to figure out image hosting sites :)) anyway i enjoyed the new chapters a lot and can't wait to see how taylor isgonna end up with all the primordial forces knocking around in her head. also, the new backstory finally made me love the angboda=iron rain...
forums.spacebattles.com
Incidentally, there's some fanart on SB of Neither-Nor about to ruin someone's day.
Just spent the entire week binging this behemoth of a story non-stop, from start to finish—and I'm fairly certain I lost a few years in the process. But it was worth it.
About this chapter: it's so obvious in retrospect, and I don't know how I didn't see it till it was literally spelled out, but Sturm und Drang. Oh my God. AND ALSO THE PARALLELS BETWEEN IRON RAIN'S BACKSTORY AND DIE RÄUBER.
About this chapter: it's so obvious in retrospect, and I don't know how I didn't see it till it was literally spelled out, but Sturm und Drang. Oh my God. AND ALSO THE PARALLELS BETWEEN IRON RAIN'S BACKSTORY AND DIE RÄUBER.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- SL
Chapter 4
Taylor stiffened. She hadn't told Turk about his her abilities.
Taylor stiffened. She hadn't told Turk about his her abilities.
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
- Pronouns
- She/They
I like how this is a link on SV to a link on SB to a picture posted on TumblrRussian Caravan (Worm, Eldritch Horror, Crossover/AU)
u got fanart on tumblr (bc i am too lazy to figure out image hosting sites :)) anyway i enjoyed the new chapters a lot and can't wait to see how taylor isgonna end up with all the primordial forces knocking around in her head. also, the new backstory finally made me love the angboda=iron rain...
Incidentally, there's some fanart on SB of Neither-Nor about to ruin someone's day.
218 - Five-Forked Gambit
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
218 - Five-Forked Gambit
Sanagi braced herself, and tugged a balaclava over her face. Ahab did the same, cursing under her breath. If Taylor's intel was right, then the three figures approaching them were the mercenaries who'd managed to infiltrate the inner council. Ahab probably knew more about them, but they seemed… dangerous. Keshig PMC, if she remembered correctly, and there was… Rocinante, Uheer, and Colter. Respectively: horse augmentation, unknown power, and some kind of ability to create wounds which worsened, refused to heal, and could be used to track the wounded target. Dangerous combination, but not exactly front-line fighters. The three were wearing slate-grey ponchos, the kind which included heavy hoods. Looked like environmental protection suits, probably concealed a mound of bulletproof armour. Guns in hand, riding down the street like a bunch of cowboys. Sanagi glared at them… what were they doing here? Could they explain that they were all on the same side? The horses came to a stop halfway down the street, and she could see eyes covered with black glasses staring at them, like a trio of black beetles. Their rifles remained low, but she could see their fingers lingering at the trigger. A lonely wind blew through the buildings, twanging from the taut cables strung between them. The warehouse cast a long shadow down the street as the sun rose closer and closer to midday.
Ahab broke the silence.
"Howdy, folks!"
The man at the front raised his hand.
"Howdy. So, what do we say we keep this professional? More'n you deserve, but…"
"Professional?"
"Professional. Gotta understand, this is… just business. We know what you're here for. And it's ours, see? Ours. You can square your business when we've had our share, not a moment before. For now, you're on our fucking turf."
"The fuck are you talking about?"
"...well, we gave you the courtesy. Play dumb. We've got the fuckin' receipts, we know who you're workin' for, and we do not appreciate interference. Hope you pricks have some good-ass life insurance."
Something was in the air. A low, angry whine… she could barely detect it, but it seemed to be emanating from the warehouse. She'd heard something like it before - high-pitched noises played by some buildings to ward off kids, apparently they had a higher threshold for what they could hear. Like dogs, really. This felt similar, but more… agitating. Ahab didn't notice it. But the mercenaries were twitching on their horses, flinching slightly from something only they could hear. There was a tone in their voices - haggard, tired. On the brink of breaking. Their horses looked equally tired, honestly. And their clothes were torn in a few places, as if something huge had been tearing at them, some kind of wild animal. Unease built. Ahab gripped her pistol tightly, but a look of confusion still hovered about her. These weren't just mercenaries, they were strained mercenaries. They acted like she'd seen Taylor act on a few occasions, when she was particularly out of it - still fixed on combat mode, incapable of thinking of a world outside of it. They glanced at once another, shrugged…
Crack.
A bullet whizzed overhead, and Ahab immediately crouched, reduced her profile as much as possible. Her gun clicked, ready to go. Sanagi swore, and raised her own gun. They weren't well-armed enough for a full conflict with three heavily-armed mercenaries, fuck. And why the fuck were they attacking, did they think they were… nevermind. Not much cover out here, but they made do, ducking behind a parked car which had seen better days… she reached for her face, ready to peel it off, when Ahab gestured for her to stop.
"Guys, we're not-"
Another shot, cracking the glass in the windows, blooming them into a spiderweb of cracks. Sanagi growled under her breath, and her face began to slip free, revealing scorched bone and a pair of clicking pincers. The balaclava was discarded, and Ahab didn't object to any of it. She was busy scanning the buildings surrounding the warehouse, trying to figure out a plan of attack. Terraced, one building linking to another, flanking both sides of the street. The warehouse lay in a square at the very centre of five intersecting roads, and the horsemen were approaching fast. Most windows around them looked shuttered and dark, but frightened eyes could be glimpsed through a few. Shit. Well, her identity was hidden. Ahab was muttering to herself, regretting not bringing more firepower, more basic equipment. The mercenaries were spreading out, and Sanagi gave Ahab a glance. No confirmation to fire. Not yet. Her beams would slice them in half easily, but at that point there was no going back. She had no moral objections to fighting them, but…
"Look, we're not against you, we just-"
"Keep on talkin'. Makes it easier to find you. Fuckin' scabs."
…scabs?
Was this a fucking union dispute?
Another crack. They fired cautiously. Conservatively. Never wasting ammo. This round tore through the body of the car itself - armour piercing, then. A golf-ball sized hall just beside her elbow. She shifted quickly, readying herself for a blast. Confirmation or no, she wasn't dying here. The three were exchanging commands in a clipped, rasping speech that sounded barely human. The horses broke into a gallop - they were trying to overwhelm them quickly. Moving in for the kill, they had no intention of sparing their lives. She couldn't guess why they were doing this - maybe someone had hired them, maybe this was a misunderstanding, but these guys looked too out of it to really process things normally. The way they moved suggested they'd been moving for some time now, and were reaching their limits, mental and physical.
Crack.
Sanagi glanced at Ahab once more… and received a nod in return. If they were going to be jackasses, then it was worth frightening them. Stars bloomed, a little more delayed than usual… doubts were purged from her mind. Get out of this alive, then angst. The stars erupted into a pencil-thin beam, one that screamed in the air, howled in a way that jarred the ears and disturbed the senses. The beam ripped through the roof of the car - aim was off - and sliced across the street. Sanagi watched in glee as it tore up concrete, sliced open yet more cars, and ran through the space where the mercenaries had been, and-
Where were the mercenaries?
Where were the fucking screams?
The beam trailed off… the shots had come from this direction, surely…
A small pistol lay in the street, a tiny device mounted over the trigger, a small tripod deployed from the bottom. Useless now. Recoil had flung the thing backwards. She could hear it clicking - spring-loaded. Situational. Could be carried in your pocket and deployed at a moment's notice. Another click, and the pistol fired into the sky, spinning it across the street. She admired the idea.
Admiration ceased.
Fear began.
Dread followed.
…Oh fuck.
A crack ripped from the rooftops, and behind it, a shout. A growling, mocking voice.
"Oldest trick in the fuckin' book, ain't got no brains in that skull, huh? Shit, the fuckhead was right about you things…"
Dread gone. Hate. Now only hate.
Three horses, silhouetted against the morning sun. One of them had a gun raised - hard to say which. She had a moment to process the deception before her shoulder erupted in pain, a good chunk of it simply disappearing… and already the wound was beginning to smoke, fuck. Felt like someone had poured acid on the thing… and now she was being tracked, if Taylor's intel was correct. The burst of pain was almost the worst she'd ever felt. Almost. Her nervous system comprehended it for roughly a second before shock crept in, before adrenaline drowned it out. Her reptilian brain demanding that she keep going, to survive at all costs. Stars, for once, bloomed in front of her eyes and not behind them. Silence condemned her to suffer without swearing.
Internally, she was embracing her inner sailor.
Fucking cunty cunt-cunts with cunt mothers and cunty cunt-horses!
She used to be nice. Maybe.
She fell back against a wall, heat generating in her skull, stars birthing from formless nebulae and swirling into devastation motion. Her mouth roared silently with deadly light. The beam was weaker, not charged up properly. It'd kill nonetheless. The horses scattered, and she saw the deadliest weapons at their disposal - mobility and cover. The horses leapt to and from the roof in a single bound, and they raced down the street with uncanny speed. Her beam came close to one of them, and the rider simply tumbled from the saddle, rolling along the ground with a mild grunt. Armoured, protected from the fall. The horse was grazed by the beam, and beyond a puckered segment of burned flesh and a stink of roasted hair… nothing. A whinny of pain. That was all she earned. The beam hadn't fucked killed it - just wounded. This was… this was freakish. Ahab looked over her shoulder, and moved.
She poked her head up, and fired wildly with her rifle. Full-auto. No regard for aiming, just for distracting. The grounded rider dove behind a car, but those who had lingered on their saddles had a mixed response. One, a man, presumably Colter based on the smoking barrel of his gun, drove his horse in a desperate race across to the warehouse, jumping over the gates and approaching the building itself. Disappearing from sight. The other, a woman, Uheer presumably, simply slid down the side of her horse, hanging from the saddle with one hand while her other aimed a gun at the two women crouched behind a car. She was a better rider than the others, experienced with fighting from horseback. Another crack, barely missing Ahab's head. The beam swept over to cover her assault, and Uheer remained hanging, letting the horse soak up the impact. They had mobile cover. They had superior firepower. They had better armour. They had powers. Sanagi and Ahab had sub-par munitions, no grenades, and a power which they'd swiftly adapted to. Sanagi's wound burned, growing worse by the second. Fuck, fuck… needed to take out Colter. They were aiming to kill here, negotiations were out of the question.
Fucking mercenaries…
Uheer approached faster than they could react, and Ahab did what Ahab did best. She improvised. With a roar of anger, she leapt on the hood of the car they were using as cover, and used it to springboard onto Uheer. Ahab's rifle clattered to the ground, rolling under another car, lost from sight a moment later. Uheer's followed suit. Sidearms only from now on. The two tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs while the horse froze in place, blinking dumbly. It wasn't attacking them, at least. Rocinante was in the street, aiming from behind a car… no cover. Sanagi charged herself up, let the heat bloom… and Uheer's horse rushed at her immediately, whinnying furiously. Fuck. Knew to defend its master. She dove aside to avoid the animal, and it ploughed into the wall, sending up a spray of dust and rubble. If she was caught by that, she'd be dead. No questions asked. Her beam charged… and an idea struck her. The sound of Uheer and Ahab fighting carried clearly, and Sanagi crawled under the car. Ignored the scraping of asphalt trough her clothes, nothing compared to the pain in her shoulder, an aching, throbbing thing that threatened to send her into unconsciousness. The horse reared around, jaws dripping with something between blood and saliva, and it began to canter over with furious hunger in its eyes. Sanagi crawled faster… and fired.
A beam. Ankle-high. Cheesewire-thin.
A symphony of pops as tires burst explosively.
And a roar of pain. Rocinante had been caught. A thrill of sadistic satisfaction ran through her, and she felt the dim urge to run over and kick him repeatedly in the groin. Just until she felt in control of things again.
The horse immediately rushed to protect its master. Sanagi tried to angle her beam upwards to follow the man, who'd climbed on top of a car to escape. But the horse intercepted, getting in the way and soaking up the shot. A crack from the roof of the warehouse - Colter was up there, taking potshots down at them. Fuck, fuck… Rocinante was wounded, Uheer was in battle, and Colter remained at large. Her shoulder was incapacitating her now, her arm was completely useless. Have to fire with her left hand, her non-dominant. Fuck. Useless at long-range, then. Her beam charged up - she had Colter's position… fuck, he was moving. Using his horse to stay mobile, keeping out of her sights. Ahab was using Uheer as cover, their fight was too close for anyone to get a shot off. She heard a squeal of pain from Uheer, presumably Ahab had done some damage. Good.
Surrounded. Outgunned. Outmatched by a group that, for all their exhaustion, was still capable of working as a team, covering their weaknesses, augmenting their strengths, and always pushing forward. The battle had begun with the street entirely contested… now Sanagi and Ahab were utterly pinned, and rapidly being surrounded. One wound on each side. Ankles which didn't look severed, but looked sliced. His boots had given him a moment of protection, but he was still immobilised. Unfortunately, horse. Still had some mobility. Her wound was worse than the one she'd inflicted, a sliced ankle didn't mean shit next to a potentially fatal parahuman-inflicted wound in her shoulder. They were still ahead.
Gasoline was trickling from the battered car… not safe here, not remotely. Had to move. No cover out there. Couldn't leave Ahab. She began to crawl using one arm in the direction of the fight, hoping to overwhelm Uheer…
When something genuinely unexpected happened.
Rocinante's screams intensified. His horses rushed in, abandoning their masters, and a roar echoed through the air.
"Foundsh you!"
And Sanagi poked her skull out from under the car to see a huge thing reaching out of the ground, grabbing Rocinante with vicious force. Ahab's struggles slowed as she watched, and Uheer swore loudly in a foreign language as she reached for her fallen rifle. The thing was huge, with slick, pale skin, a series of barely-healed bullet wounds across his torso, wearing almost nothing but a pair of ragged trousers… and needle-sharp teeth bared in a rictus grin of savage victory. Something clicked. The reason for the tears in their clothing, the reason for their exhaustion. They hadn't been chasing them down - they'd been running from something, and had evidently decided that Sanagi and Ahab were somehow implicated. Something was missing from the pattern, but she couldn't quite get a bead on it. Not now. She heard ribs crack, she saw wounds open, she saw Rocinante juiced like a piece of ripe fruit. Blood and thicker substances crept from his mouth in a wretched gurgle, and everything seemed to fall silent for a moment. The horses made sense, now. Staying above ground. Staying protected. Protection that Sanagi and Ahab had completely ruined.
A name came to mind - Hadal. Fish-creature, case 53, power to move through solid matter. Rocinante had barely a moment to scream before the creature dove back underground. The asphalt parted for him, flowing like water, sealing up like nothing had happened. Silence reigned. Uheer screamed in fury, and elbowed a distracted Ahab in the stomach. She used the distraction to stand up, and scramble away, getting to some form of cover from Hadal. The fish-creature was in the ground, and Sanagi was… honestly confused. The Teeth were definitely having some kind of civil war, then. And how would Hadal respond to them? Would he attack them on sight, or treat them as temporary allies? Uheer jumped atop a car, struggling to pull out a sidearm. Part of her visor had come free, revealing a pair of frightened, strangely bloodshot eyes. She stared at Sanagi and Ahab like they were raving animals, growling under her breath as she did so. Ahab lunged for her, re-engaging, and Sanagi tried to track Colter's movements.
But the paranoia lingered. Where was Hadal? What was he doing? Colter was moving quickly, galloping across the rooftops, clearly trying to circle around and get a clean shot on the two of them. Maybe Hadal, once he chose to resurface. Sanagi hesitated… and scrambled out from her own car, jumping quickly onto the hood. Just in case the creature got any ideas. There was a moment of absolute silence, nothing but the sound of Uheer and Ahab wrestling atop a neighbouring car. Sanagi kept her eyes peeled (figuratively) for Colter's movements… the horses were acting strange, twitching uneasily, shuffling from side to side, never capable of focusing on anything for longer than a moment. With Rocinante gone, presumably their augmentations had faded as well. One of them whinnied sadly, and slammed its head into a car, leaving an enormous dent. Not quite gone, then. Still had traces. Didn't know how long they'd last. She heard muffled cursing from the roof… shit. Rocinante was gone, and Colter's horse was slowing, losing its abilities. Mobility back down to zero. She heard a gun being loaded…
And whirled, firing her beam as brightly as she could. The air screamed as she split it apart.
Estimations off. The horse was bisected, but Colter was somewhere else, sheltering behind a chimney stack. He was glancing around frantically, barely paying attention to Sanagi at all. She adjusted, began to charge up her beam once more, ignoring the smell of roasting meat from the dead horse. Yay, she killed livestock now. Colter raised his gun, aiming at something entirely different…
Hadal burst from the ground near Uheer's car, lunging up with a roar. Uheer twisted, putting Ahab between her and the cape. Huge claws sliced out, grazing against and not qutie penetrating the vest Ahab had on. Still, knocked the wind out of her, and smashed her into the windshield of the car with the sound of splintering glass. The cape was still distracted for a moment, figuring out where one bundle of limbs ended and another began.
Crack.
Hadal howled as a bullet struck him in the back. Sanagi's beam launched, and this time Colter reacted. He swore loudly, and backed away, sliding uncontrollably down the far side of the roof into one of the other streets. She heard him rolling as he hit the ground -out of sight, no clear way of hitting her from there. Hadal, though, looked panicked. His wound was smoking - Sanagi's was getting worse by the second, too. He dove back underground… but he'd lost his advantage. Colter could track him now, and based on the crackling from Uheer's radio, he was communicating positions. Ahab groaned, peeling herself from the windshield, trailing glass shards behind her. Some were stuck in her jacket, giving her the appearance of a leprous hedgehog. Uheer was scanning the ground, reaching for her sidearm… Sanagi didn't hesitate. Ahab was too close for her to use the beam safely, so she simply leapt across from car to car, her pincers clicking eagerly. Uheer barked something in a foreign language, and her leg lashed out in a brutal kick. Sanagi tried to absorb the strike… steel-toed boot, fuck. Air was driven out, pain lanced through her, but she managed to snap her pincers around the woman's arm. There was a moment of desperate struggle… she pulled herself inwards, trying to get a grip on the woman with her actual hands. Uheer spat out a series of untranslatable curses, before lapsing into English.
"Move, idiot scab!"
Sanagi hesitated.
Uheer used the distraction to pull herself backwards, slipping out of the clicking pincers - her armour was slick, hard to get a grip on. There was a continuous rattle of communication from her sturdy radio, and it was reaching a fever pitch. Sanagi realised what was happening, and grabbed Ahab, tumbling from the hood of the car. Hadal came up a moment later. His strength was… terrifying to behold. He slipped from the ground, and sliced through the car with ease, tearing the metal apart and shredding the fuel tank. Uheer screamed as her leg was torn open by an errant claw. Hadal grinned in victory… before immediately diving back down into the earth, trailing gasoline behind him. A bullet whizzed through the space where he'd once been. Colter's voice, still in that incomprehensible mercenary cant, rattled off faster and faster, confirming positions. The wound in the creature's back had been worse than before, growing larger and larger, deeper and deeper. Uheer hesitated, looked between the ground and her two visible opponents… before simply running. She remained low to the ground, bobbed and weaved, and quickly reached the warehouse. Sanagi was still recovering from the boot to her stomach. The mercenaries were getting picked off one by one. Growing more desperate. But Hadal was on a time limit until his wound became debilitating.
Uheer scrambled up the wall, digging her feet easily into the half-decayed stone, clambering as high and fast as she could. Professional, she'd clearly trained for this. A tiny canister dropped to the ground behind her, exploding into a shower of eerily glittering gas. Based on how Ahab immediately backed off and covered her mouth, that stuff was nasty. Her rifle was abandoned now, she only had a pistol at her disposal. She scanned the ground, her radio squealed, and she hesitated. Ah. Sanagi could guess what was happening. Hadal was swimming in Colter's direction, trying to silence the creature that had wounded him so grievously. Time limit for him - counting down to the moment when his wound worsened to the point of being fatal. Sanagi was inching closer to that stage with each moment that passed, her arm was utterly useless, her pistol might as well be dead weight as a consequence. Uheer was clearly paralysed - move into Sanagi's line of fire and maybe save her colleague, or stay safe and maybe leave Colter to die. She ducked behind the shredded ruins of the car, and Ahab finally started to get her breathing under control.
The entire encounter, thus far, had taken less than a minute. Frantic combat on either side. Mercenaries down one.
Crack.
Covering fire, ripping trails through the glittering gas that, she imagined, probably qualified as a war crime. Uheer was trying to stop them from leaving. Keeping them from interfering with things. Long-range small arms fire, felt like a recipe for disaster. Sanagi started to charge up her beam… and paused. Hadal had shredded the gas tank for this car, spraying flammable fluid all over the ground, some of it soaking into her boots. It shimmered like a dull rainbow, and stank like the abandoned rotten tankers on the docks which still bore stains from their old professions. If she fired, she might well just light them all up. She produced more than enough heat for it. Crack. A bullet ricocheted from the ground. Shit. Uheer had picked up on that as well. Her wound was burning, at this point she couldn't actually feel her arm at all, it swung uselessly at her side, and now the feeling was spreading to her neck, making it painful to simply look around. Ahab was finally back in action. She glanced nervously at Sanagi's wound, and grimaced, some of the crusted-over sores on her lips splitting and leaking a stagnant brown pus. Like dried blood running down her chin.
"I'll kiss it better later. Cover now."
Sanagi nodded mutely, glad that she couldn't actually say anything right now, not without her synthesiser (stashed in one of her pockets). Ahab nodded, counted silently… and sprinted forward with all the speed and power she could muster, a low roar building in her throat as she angled for the building behind them. Another few desperate cracks, most of them pinging around her. Uheer was trying to cover with a sidearm, her accuracy was somewhere between bad and dogshit. Still. Bullets were bullets. A bullet slammed into Ahab's back, and she wheezed. Something had definitely broken, maybe a rib. Her breath was gone. But she continued her charge, and crashed through one of the windows in the buildings behind them. An abandoned house, streaked with bird shit and dripping with mould. Sanagi heard a gun being reloaded, and immediately followed. Ahab had created an opening for her without hesitation - and she ignored the pain in her useless shoulder as she leapt through the broken window. Ahab looked like shit, she had a chunk of glass sticking out from over her left eyebrow, and Sanagi felt a slow drip of blood from her own arm, elbow sliced open by an errant shard. Still. Cover.
No furniture in here, nothing she could use. But the wall was better cover than the car. Another crack confirmed her opinion - the gasoline went up, and her view from the window was obscured by a rushing sheet of flame and choking black smoke. She ducked down, and the fire was reduced to nothing more than an oppressive aura of heat. A reminder that, for the moment, their cover had pinned them in place. Ahab snarled under her breath as she crouched next to Sanagi, reloading her own gun.
"Why the fuck…"
She cut herself off. Pointless line of questioning.
"Colter's out back. We find him, kill him. Uheer doesn't seem any different to a normal mercenary, probably not a combat-focused cape. They're specialised for civilian environments, means they don't have heavy firepower. Only thing keeping us alive. One grenade, one fucking grenade would wipe us out. Fuck."
She was talking automatically now, slipping into professionalism. Blood dripped over her eye, and with a grunt of irritation she reached up, ripped the glass shard away, before grabbing a… tiny stapler from her pocket. Sanagi looked away, heard nothing but a clunk and a hiss of pain. When she looked back, the wound was sealed, and Ahab had a new, fancy facial piercing. The only sound in the air was their heavy breathing, the roaring of flames, and… nothing else. No more gunfire. No more roars of victory from Hadal. Sanagi's jaw clicked erratically, and Ahab stood slowly, checking around. Nothing. Nothing at all. After the frantic firefight of the last minute or so… it was uncanny to be surrounded by so much nothing. Sanagi scanned her environment… the building had no windows for Colter to shoot through, not on his side of the street. But he could track them. Presumably he was already adjusting to avoid her breams. Uheer was quiet. Where was Hadal? Ahab's voice was low and quiet.
"...something's happened."
Sanagi looked at her. Ahab shrugged.
"Instinct. Mercenaries don't sit around like this. A fight can change in a second. Anything can change in a minute. They have us pinned, why aren't they moving in?"
A click from her pincers.
"Yeah, Hadal, but… he's wounded. Why isn't he attacking before his wound worsens?"
Another, doubtful click.
"Too fucking quiet."
Ahab only had a pistol at her disposal. Weak. Not something they should be using at the moment. Sanagi was powerful, but unsubtle. No grenades, nothing but some vests and small arms fire. Sanagi's aim was useless with a gun at the moment, not used to using her left hand. They were outmatched. Hadal had saved their asses, as much as she hated to admit it. Why had the mercenaries just fired? Ahab strained her ears, and reached into her jacket for a small radio. She began to adjust frequencies rapidly, presumably trying to tap in on the mercenaries' communications. Pointless, they weren't speaking in anything resembling English. Maybe Ahab knew it, but… anyway. She scrambled through frequency after frequency, getting nothing but static… the radio looked partially homemade, a dial on the side kept whizzing alarmingly as it scanned everything possible. Ahab gritted her teeth… and paled slightly. Sanagi clicked her pincers quizzically.
"They're using a basic frequency. I can tell - listen."
The static was more characterful than the others - she could hear the crackling of fire, the disturbance of buildings falling into rubble. Sanagi blushed internally. She'd… gone to town a bit, hadn't she?
"So… why aren't they communicating? Why aren't they exchanging information?"
Maybe they were being cautious. Thought that Ahab was listening in.
"I can't understand them, they probably have a code which only they can understand, standard procedure… so why…?"
Sanagi listened. The silence was deafening. Hadal wasn't attacking, the mercenaries weren't firing, weren't even communicating, so… she shuffled quietly across the stained floor of the dilapidated house, ignoring the involuntary shivers of revulsion. Stay low, stay out of sight of the window. She poked her head into an adjoining room… nothing. Ahab nodded, and she made her way to the stairs, clambering up in absolute silence. Her pincers wanted desperately to click in agitation, but she resisted the urge. No noise. None at all. The upper floors had a proper view over the next street over… she felt disoriented. Confused. Had this just been an accident? Stumbling into a conflict they had no place in? No, wait… in that case, why had the mercenaries fired on sight? Seemed unusually aggressive, and… she was on the upper floor now. Ahab was still downstairs, making sure Uheer didn't get any ideas. Her shoulder ached so fiercely that she needed to take a moment just to get her breath back, to muster the will to go on. Fuck, needed to kill Colter soon. This place was a rotten husk, and the floorboards had swollen from years of damp, starting to spill from their frames in waves of sweet-smelling pulp. A dead wasp's nest formed a pipe organ across one wall, and she could see holes where her beam had swept through corners of the structure, where bullets had pierced easily through the rotten plaster. There was mould in the air. She could taste it. It cloyed around her eye sockets and made her pincers ache. A window, a window - clear, unboarded. She poked her head up, staring in silence…
There was the city. There was the sun. And there was the street…
And there was the impenetrable black fog.
She'd been mistaken. There weren't three players in this little conflict.
There were four.
Her stars bloomed without thinking. A supernova went off, and she heard a distant howling in the back of her skull, a remnant of something she couldn't quite remember. Kabiri. Kabiri. Vision of Heaven. Xavier Crowley. She knew this black fog, she'd seen the footage, read the reports. Choking black smog that caused paralysis in those it touched. She couldn't see anything through it… and honestly, she didn't care. Her beam ripped the air apart, fusing atoms and burning its way outwards. The sun was briefly eclipsed by it, and her silent roar echoed in the empty confines of her skull. The beam lanced into the fog, burning with all the fury she could muster, howling as it went… and the fog swallowed it whole. The beam illuminated a handful of shapes, some struggling, some still. But they faded when she looked at them for too long - illusions. Shades. The beam was eaten whole by the fog… and nothing happened. She glared at the black mass which filled most of the street, choking every access point, crawling slowly up the sides of buildings. If there were any civilians in them, they were gone. Simply gone. The beam had been consumed. The pain in her shoulder was non-existent now. She charged herself up again, readying for another shot, this one a long sweep up and down the street. Cut off avenues, one by one. The beam charged…
And she heard a distant snap.
Her shoulder… her shoulder felt fine. Painful, sure, but… there was no smoke, no feeling of acid dripping over her injury.
Colter was dead.
Her beam exploded outwards, sweeping up and down the street, homing in one the snap she'd heard. She saw cars being bisected, illuminated for a second by the beam before the darkness returned. She fired, fired, fired, poured everything she had into turning the street into fucking plate glass. Asphalt melted under the heat, windows quivered in their frames from the sheer force, and smoke rose high into the air, thick, choking, and painfully mundane. The fog lingered. The fog never ceased for more than a moment. She swore she could see mocking faces forming in it, laughing silently up at her. Fingers of dark fog started to climb up the walls, inch by inch, reaching up for the window… her beam trailed off, her stars feeling utterly spent. Her shoulder wept blood. Silence returned, the echo of her beam fading into the distance. The fog endured.
The fog endured.
And then they came.
Figures. Humans. Rampaging out from the fog, bearing primitive, crudely-assembled weapons. The fog parted around them, clearing gaps for them to go through. She recognised them - the lack of clothing, the frantic, zealous looks in their eyes, the primitive tools, even their battle-cries. Where did she… last night? What had happened last night, exactly, that she recognised these things? They bore the colours of the Teeth on their arms, and howled into the day, the only sounds which escaped that damn fog.
"Ma-ma!"
A regular, repeated chant.
Mama's Boys. Matrimonial's own.
Sanagi felt like she was standing at the epicentre of a collapsing scheme. No way this was coincidence. Hadal, the mercenaries, Matrimonial, Kabiri's fog… and both Sanagi and Ahab?
This wasn't a coincidence.
And her mind clicked to a conclusion.
Trap.
She abandoned subtlety entirely, rushing downstairs, taking the steps three at a time. The wood shook from the impact, constantly on the verge of shattering. She could already hear the Mama's Boys starting to crash against the walls, breaking windows, battering doors, and in some cases simply hacking at the stonework with whatever came to hand. Utterly fanatic, and clearly aligned in some way with Kabiri. There was a crack, a tinkling of falling glass, and she could imagine the fog starting to creep in. Couldn't let it touch her. All the data she'd found confirmed that much, at least - never let it touch her. Ahab was standing up when she got down, looking around nervously. Sanagi dragged her synthesiser out of her pocket, and rattled off her findings. Kabiri. Matrimonial. Mercenaries. Hadal. Not sure who was on which side. And them in the middle. Ahab nodded calmly, hummed in acknowledgement, then turned around and kicked the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
"Fuck!"
Sanagi nodded mutely.
"We've been fucked. Sarkis. I'll bet my left tit on it, that fuck burned us. Don't know how he did it, don't know where it all lies…"
Another shattered window. Bodies starting to spill in.
"...never mind that. Come on. Let's just get the fuck out of here."
The synthesiser rasped.
"Kabiri."
"...shit. Yeah."
Ahab tilted her head to one side.
"Well, that changes things. Let's at least get to another building. Get some better cover. We can sweep for Kabiri then."
She stopped speaking just in time - one of the Mama's Boys came screaming into the room, whooping like a lunatic, waving a rusty hatchet around his head. He was practically naked, body streaked with long, ragged cuts from the window he'd climbed through. None of the pain fazed him - he had the burned-out look in his eyes that she'd seen in more than enough addicts. No-one was at the wheel up there - but someone had definitely left instructions. He charged, screaming, and Ahab nonchalantly shot him in the leg. He collapsed to the ground, and a second shot immobilised him completely, both legs pierced, shredded, and incapable of movement. Even so, he tried to crawl feebly towards them, eyes glazing over with shock. His scream tapered off to a vague whimper… and Ahab kicked him in the face, popping his nose like a piece of rotten fruit. That was the straw to break the camel's back. But there were others coming. Ahab mumbled irritably.
"You'd think they'd learn not to bring a knife to a gunfight."
Others. Clearing the glass and charging in. Must be over a dozen. And fog was spilling around them, forming pools of light for them to operate in, but racing hungrily towards Ahab and Sanagi. The two moved, diving through the window they'd used to get in. Gasoline fire was still burning, and heat washed over them in sickly waves. A crack from the warehouse - Uheer didn't know about the Mama's Boys, didn't know about Kabiri. She was invisible from this position, and Sanagi ignored her - bigger fish to fry. Her shots were immediately redirected towards the charging mass of bodies, and Sanagi heard a muffled curse. The two women ran across the street, seeking more cover. Cars, buildings… her beam was charging up, she could sweep through that crowd easily. She'd just mark herself out as a complete and utter murderer in the process, of course. Did she mind that? As she looked inside, she realised… not really. She just wanted Kabiri dead. The fog was leaking out of the building they'd just vacated, spilling into the street… how far was his range? No time to think, too busy running. Ahab covered their desperate sprint, firing wildly into the howling crowd. Uheer ignored the two of them entirely, her focus switching completely to the crowd.
They didn't feel pain. None of them. Even when they were wounded, only total muscle severance could stop them - lacerations were nothing, scratches were nothing, if the bullet wasn't actively crippling them it was as good as useless. The screaming outriders of the fog. And as she stepped forward, angling for more cover…
A hand wrapped around her ankle.
A mouth of needle-sharp teeth grinned up.
And the ground swallowed her whole.
The last thing she heard was Ahab crying out in panic.
Calvert leant back, and reviewed his reports. Ah. Wonderful. A little clash outside a certain entirely unimportant warehouse.
The problems were taking care of one another.
The mercenaries. Officer Sanagi and her leprous associate. Kabiri. And to throw it into the bargain, Hadal. Three members of the Teeth's inner circle struggling with a cape who, he was fully aware, had a talent for wide scale destruction. Force them into a killing field where nothing could escape… not even the one doing the killing. Already he was twitching a few communications, making a few calls through many layers of encryption. In another timeline, he continued to review the ledger, relishing in the calming feeling that swept over him. He felt in tune with himself, in alignment with the universe and everything in it. Compared to the constant headache and confusion of the past few months… it was beyond delightful. For the first time in so very long, he felt in total control of his life and everything in it. He was invulnerable. A few calls, a few redirections… he had contacts in a variety of places, and he gladly burned them up, forced them to destroy their cover to cause the changes he needed. The factionalism among the Teeth, the absence of the Butcher… plenty of options for an enterprising chap like himself.
An alert came up.
Patrol was ready.
Ah. Wonderful. If only he could just sent out Asset 113 to take care of things… well. Couldn't have everything. Requisitioned by the Directorate for their own usage. The crisis was redirecting patrols from a dozen sources, dragging them away from where they'd been guarding. Oh, he knew they were being diverted against his will, he knew that the Directorate was asserting control over patrols and had been doing so for months. But now… now he had a crisis. And in a crisis, everything became simpler. Everything fell under his control, and a whole raft of openings were exposed. A tiny network of very well-paid agents was moving in on their primary targets. More warehouses, half-derelict buildings, even a seemingly random chop shop. More sites associated with the enigmatic SET, connected so intimately to his beloved Directorate. He was closer than ever before, he could feel it.
The disparate components of his enemies were integrated.
Their movements had been predicted.
And everything was accounted for.
Calvert was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.
His smile stretched from ear to ear… and his fingers stroked his beloved ledger.
All was right with the world.
Sanagi braced herself, and tugged a balaclava over her face. Ahab did the same, cursing under her breath. If Taylor's intel was right, then the three figures approaching them were the mercenaries who'd managed to infiltrate the inner council. Ahab probably knew more about them, but they seemed… dangerous. Keshig PMC, if she remembered correctly, and there was… Rocinante, Uheer, and Colter. Respectively: horse augmentation, unknown power, and some kind of ability to create wounds which worsened, refused to heal, and could be used to track the wounded target. Dangerous combination, but not exactly front-line fighters. The three were wearing slate-grey ponchos, the kind which included heavy hoods. Looked like environmental protection suits, probably concealed a mound of bulletproof armour. Guns in hand, riding down the street like a bunch of cowboys. Sanagi glared at them… what were they doing here? Could they explain that they were all on the same side? The horses came to a stop halfway down the street, and she could see eyes covered with black glasses staring at them, like a trio of black beetles. Their rifles remained low, but she could see their fingers lingering at the trigger. A lonely wind blew through the buildings, twanging from the taut cables strung between them. The warehouse cast a long shadow down the street as the sun rose closer and closer to midday.
Ahab broke the silence.
"Howdy, folks!"
The man at the front raised his hand.
"Howdy. So, what do we say we keep this professional? More'n you deserve, but…"
"Professional?"
"Professional. Gotta understand, this is… just business. We know what you're here for. And it's ours, see? Ours. You can square your business when we've had our share, not a moment before. For now, you're on our fucking turf."
"The fuck are you talking about?"
"...well, we gave you the courtesy. Play dumb. We've got the fuckin' receipts, we know who you're workin' for, and we do not appreciate interference. Hope you pricks have some good-ass life insurance."
Something was in the air. A low, angry whine… she could barely detect it, but it seemed to be emanating from the warehouse. She'd heard something like it before - high-pitched noises played by some buildings to ward off kids, apparently they had a higher threshold for what they could hear. Like dogs, really. This felt similar, but more… agitating. Ahab didn't notice it. But the mercenaries were twitching on their horses, flinching slightly from something only they could hear. There was a tone in their voices - haggard, tired. On the brink of breaking. Their horses looked equally tired, honestly. And their clothes were torn in a few places, as if something huge had been tearing at them, some kind of wild animal. Unease built. Ahab gripped her pistol tightly, but a look of confusion still hovered about her. These weren't just mercenaries, they were strained mercenaries. They acted like she'd seen Taylor act on a few occasions, when she was particularly out of it - still fixed on combat mode, incapable of thinking of a world outside of it. They glanced at once another, shrugged…
Crack.
A bullet whizzed overhead, and Ahab immediately crouched, reduced her profile as much as possible. Her gun clicked, ready to go. Sanagi swore, and raised her own gun. They weren't well-armed enough for a full conflict with three heavily-armed mercenaries, fuck. And why the fuck were they attacking, did they think they were… nevermind. Not much cover out here, but they made do, ducking behind a parked car which had seen better days… she reached for her face, ready to peel it off, when Ahab gestured for her to stop.
"Guys, we're not-"
Another shot, cracking the glass in the windows, blooming them into a spiderweb of cracks. Sanagi growled under her breath, and her face began to slip free, revealing scorched bone and a pair of clicking pincers. The balaclava was discarded, and Ahab didn't object to any of it. She was busy scanning the buildings surrounding the warehouse, trying to figure out a plan of attack. Terraced, one building linking to another, flanking both sides of the street. The warehouse lay in a square at the very centre of five intersecting roads, and the horsemen were approaching fast. Most windows around them looked shuttered and dark, but frightened eyes could be glimpsed through a few. Shit. Well, her identity was hidden. Ahab was muttering to herself, regretting not bringing more firepower, more basic equipment. The mercenaries were spreading out, and Sanagi gave Ahab a glance. No confirmation to fire. Not yet. Her beams would slice them in half easily, but at that point there was no going back. She had no moral objections to fighting them, but…
"Look, we're not against you, we just-"
"Keep on talkin'. Makes it easier to find you. Fuckin' scabs."
…scabs?
Was this a fucking union dispute?
Another crack. They fired cautiously. Conservatively. Never wasting ammo. This round tore through the body of the car itself - armour piercing, then. A golf-ball sized hall just beside her elbow. She shifted quickly, readying herself for a blast. Confirmation or no, she wasn't dying here. The three were exchanging commands in a clipped, rasping speech that sounded barely human. The horses broke into a gallop - they were trying to overwhelm them quickly. Moving in for the kill, they had no intention of sparing their lives. She couldn't guess why they were doing this - maybe someone had hired them, maybe this was a misunderstanding, but these guys looked too out of it to really process things normally. The way they moved suggested they'd been moving for some time now, and were reaching their limits, mental and physical.
Crack.
Sanagi glanced at Ahab once more… and received a nod in return. If they were going to be jackasses, then it was worth frightening them. Stars bloomed, a little more delayed than usual… doubts were purged from her mind. Get out of this alive, then angst. The stars erupted into a pencil-thin beam, one that screamed in the air, howled in a way that jarred the ears and disturbed the senses. The beam ripped through the roof of the car - aim was off - and sliced across the street. Sanagi watched in glee as it tore up concrete, sliced open yet more cars, and ran through the space where the mercenaries had been, and-
Where were the mercenaries?
Where were the fucking screams?
The beam trailed off… the shots had come from this direction, surely…
A small pistol lay in the street, a tiny device mounted over the trigger, a small tripod deployed from the bottom. Useless now. Recoil had flung the thing backwards. She could hear it clicking - spring-loaded. Situational. Could be carried in your pocket and deployed at a moment's notice. Another click, and the pistol fired into the sky, spinning it across the street. She admired the idea.
Admiration ceased.
Fear began.
Dread followed.
…Oh fuck.
A crack ripped from the rooftops, and behind it, a shout. A growling, mocking voice.
"Oldest trick in the fuckin' book, ain't got no brains in that skull, huh? Shit, the fuckhead was right about you things…"
Dread gone. Hate. Now only hate.
Three horses, silhouetted against the morning sun. One of them had a gun raised - hard to say which. She had a moment to process the deception before her shoulder erupted in pain, a good chunk of it simply disappearing… and already the wound was beginning to smoke, fuck. Felt like someone had poured acid on the thing… and now she was being tracked, if Taylor's intel was correct. The burst of pain was almost the worst she'd ever felt. Almost. Her nervous system comprehended it for roughly a second before shock crept in, before adrenaline drowned it out. Her reptilian brain demanding that she keep going, to survive at all costs. Stars, for once, bloomed in front of her eyes and not behind them. Silence condemned her to suffer without swearing.
Internally, she was embracing her inner sailor.
Fucking cunty cunt-cunts with cunt mothers and cunty cunt-horses!
She used to be nice. Maybe.
She fell back against a wall, heat generating in her skull, stars birthing from formless nebulae and swirling into devastation motion. Her mouth roared silently with deadly light. The beam was weaker, not charged up properly. It'd kill nonetheless. The horses scattered, and she saw the deadliest weapons at their disposal - mobility and cover. The horses leapt to and from the roof in a single bound, and they raced down the street with uncanny speed. Her beam came close to one of them, and the rider simply tumbled from the saddle, rolling along the ground with a mild grunt. Armoured, protected from the fall. The horse was grazed by the beam, and beyond a puckered segment of burned flesh and a stink of roasted hair… nothing. A whinny of pain. That was all she earned. The beam hadn't fucked killed it - just wounded. This was… this was freakish. Ahab looked over her shoulder, and moved.
She poked her head up, and fired wildly with her rifle. Full-auto. No regard for aiming, just for distracting. The grounded rider dove behind a car, but those who had lingered on their saddles had a mixed response. One, a man, presumably Colter based on the smoking barrel of his gun, drove his horse in a desperate race across to the warehouse, jumping over the gates and approaching the building itself. Disappearing from sight. The other, a woman, Uheer presumably, simply slid down the side of her horse, hanging from the saddle with one hand while her other aimed a gun at the two women crouched behind a car. She was a better rider than the others, experienced with fighting from horseback. Another crack, barely missing Ahab's head. The beam swept over to cover her assault, and Uheer remained hanging, letting the horse soak up the impact. They had mobile cover. They had superior firepower. They had better armour. They had powers. Sanagi and Ahab had sub-par munitions, no grenades, and a power which they'd swiftly adapted to. Sanagi's wound burned, growing worse by the second. Fuck, fuck… needed to take out Colter. They were aiming to kill here, negotiations were out of the question.
Fucking mercenaries…
Uheer approached faster than they could react, and Ahab did what Ahab did best. She improvised. With a roar of anger, she leapt on the hood of the car they were using as cover, and used it to springboard onto Uheer. Ahab's rifle clattered to the ground, rolling under another car, lost from sight a moment later. Uheer's followed suit. Sidearms only from now on. The two tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs while the horse froze in place, blinking dumbly. It wasn't attacking them, at least. Rocinante was in the street, aiming from behind a car… no cover. Sanagi charged herself up, let the heat bloom… and Uheer's horse rushed at her immediately, whinnying furiously. Fuck. Knew to defend its master. She dove aside to avoid the animal, and it ploughed into the wall, sending up a spray of dust and rubble. If she was caught by that, she'd be dead. No questions asked. Her beam charged… and an idea struck her. The sound of Uheer and Ahab fighting carried clearly, and Sanagi crawled under the car. Ignored the scraping of asphalt trough her clothes, nothing compared to the pain in her shoulder, an aching, throbbing thing that threatened to send her into unconsciousness. The horse reared around, jaws dripping with something between blood and saliva, and it began to canter over with furious hunger in its eyes. Sanagi crawled faster… and fired.
A beam. Ankle-high. Cheesewire-thin.
A symphony of pops as tires burst explosively.
And a roar of pain. Rocinante had been caught. A thrill of sadistic satisfaction ran through her, and she felt the dim urge to run over and kick him repeatedly in the groin. Just until she felt in control of things again.
The horse immediately rushed to protect its master. Sanagi tried to angle her beam upwards to follow the man, who'd climbed on top of a car to escape. But the horse intercepted, getting in the way and soaking up the shot. A crack from the roof of the warehouse - Colter was up there, taking potshots down at them. Fuck, fuck… Rocinante was wounded, Uheer was in battle, and Colter remained at large. Her shoulder was incapacitating her now, her arm was completely useless. Have to fire with her left hand, her non-dominant. Fuck. Useless at long-range, then. Her beam charged up - she had Colter's position… fuck, he was moving. Using his horse to stay mobile, keeping out of her sights. Ahab was using Uheer as cover, their fight was too close for anyone to get a shot off. She heard a squeal of pain from Uheer, presumably Ahab had done some damage. Good.
Surrounded. Outgunned. Outmatched by a group that, for all their exhaustion, was still capable of working as a team, covering their weaknesses, augmenting their strengths, and always pushing forward. The battle had begun with the street entirely contested… now Sanagi and Ahab were utterly pinned, and rapidly being surrounded. One wound on each side. Ankles which didn't look severed, but looked sliced. His boots had given him a moment of protection, but he was still immobilised. Unfortunately, horse. Still had some mobility. Her wound was worse than the one she'd inflicted, a sliced ankle didn't mean shit next to a potentially fatal parahuman-inflicted wound in her shoulder. They were still ahead.
Gasoline was trickling from the battered car… not safe here, not remotely. Had to move. No cover out there. Couldn't leave Ahab. She began to crawl using one arm in the direction of the fight, hoping to overwhelm Uheer…
When something genuinely unexpected happened.
Rocinante's screams intensified. His horses rushed in, abandoning their masters, and a roar echoed through the air.
"Foundsh you!"
And Sanagi poked her skull out from under the car to see a huge thing reaching out of the ground, grabbing Rocinante with vicious force. Ahab's struggles slowed as she watched, and Uheer swore loudly in a foreign language as she reached for her fallen rifle. The thing was huge, with slick, pale skin, a series of barely-healed bullet wounds across his torso, wearing almost nothing but a pair of ragged trousers… and needle-sharp teeth bared in a rictus grin of savage victory. Something clicked. The reason for the tears in their clothing, the reason for their exhaustion. They hadn't been chasing them down - they'd been running from something, and had evidently decided that Sanagi and Ahab were somehow implicated. Something was missing from the pattern, but she couldn't quite get a bead on it. Not now. She heard ribs crack, she saw wounds open, she saw Rocinante juiced like a piece of ripe fruit. Blood and thicker substances crept from his mouth in a wretched gurgle, and everything seemed to fall silent for a moment. The horses made sense, now. Staying above ground. Staying protected. Protection that Sanagi and Ahab had completely ruined.
A name came to mind - Hadal. Fish-creature, case 53, power to move through solid matter. Rocinante had barely a moment to scream before the creature dove back underground. The asphalt parted for him, flowing like water, sealing up like nothing had happened. Silence reigned. Uheer screamed in fury, and elbowed a distracted Ahab in the stomach. She used the distraction to stand up, and scramble away, getting to some form of cover from Hadal. The fish-creature was in the ground, and Sanagi was… honestly confused. The Teeth were definitely having some kind of civil war, then. And how would Hadal respond to them? Would he attack them on sight, or treat them as temporary allies? Uheer jumped atop a car, struggling to pull out a sidearm. Part of her visor had come free, revealing a pair of frightened, strangely bloodshot eyes. She stared at Sanagi and Ahab like they were raving animals, growling under her breath as she did so. Ahab lunged for her, re-engaging, and Sanagi tried to track Colter's movements.
But the paranoia lingered. Where was Hadal? What was he doing? Colter was moving quickly, galloping across the rooftops, clearly trying to circle around and get a clean shot on the two of them. Maybe Hadal, once he chose to resurface. Sanagi hesitated… and scrambled out from her own car, jumping quickly onto the hood. Just in case the creature got any ideas. There was a moment of absolute silence, nothing but the sound of Uheer and Ahab wrestling atop a neighbouring car. Sanagi kept her eyes peeled (figuratively) for Colter's movements… the horses were acting strange, twitching uneasily, shuffling from side to side, never capable of focusing on anything for longer than a moment. With Rocinante gone, presumably their augmentations had faded as well. One of them whinnied sadly, and slammed its head into a car, leaving an enormous dent. Not quite gone, then. Still had traces. Didn't know how long they'd last. She heard muffled cursing from the roof… shit. Rocinante was gone, and Colter's horse was slowing, losing its abilities. Mobility back down to zero. She heard a gun being loaded…
And whirled, firing her beam as brightly as she could. The air screamed as she split it apart.
Estimations off. The horse was bisected, but Colter was somewhere else, sheltering behind a chimney stack. He was glancing around frantically, barely paying attention to Sanagi at all. She adjusted, began to charge up her beam once more, ignoring the smell of roasting meat from the dead horse. Yay, she killed livestock now. Colter raised his gun, aiming at something entirely different…
Hadal burst from the ground near Uheer's car, lunging up with a roar. Uheer twisted, putting Ahab between her and the cape. Huge claws sliced out, grazing against and not qutie penetrating the vest Ahab had on. Still, knocked the wind out of her, and smashed her into the windshield of the car with the sound of splintering glass. The cape was still distracted for a moment, figuring out where one bundle of limbs ended and another began.
Crack.
Hadal howled as a bullet struck him in the back. Sanagi's beam launched, and this time Colter reacted. He swore loudly, and backed away, sliding uncontrollably down the far side of the roof into one of the other streets. She heard him rolling as he hit the ground -out of sight, no clear way of hitting her from there. Hadal, though, looked panicked. His wound was smoking - Sanagi's was getting worse by the second, too. He dove back underground… but he'd lost his advantage. Colter could track him now, and based on the crackling from Uheer's radio, he was communicating positions. Ahab groaned, peeling herself from the windshield, trailing glass shards behind her. Some were stuck in her jacket, giving her the appearance of a leprous hedgehog. Uheer was scanning the ground, reaching for her sidearm… Sanagi didn't hesitate. Ahab was too close for her to use the beam safely, so she simply leapt across from car to car, her pincers clicking eagerly. Uheer barked something in a foreign language, and her leg lashed out in a brutal kick. Sanagi tried to absorb the strike… steel-toed boot, fuck. Air was driven out, pain lanced through her, but she managed to snap her pincers around the woman's arm. There was a moment of desperate struggle… she pulled herself inwards, trying to get a grip on the woman with her actual hands. Uheer spat out a series of untranslatable curses, before lapsing into English.
"Move, idiot scab!"
Sanagi hesitated.
Uheer used the distraction to pull herself backwards, slipping out of the clicking pincers - her armour was slick, hard to get a grip on. There was a continuous rattle of communication from her sturdy radio, and it was reaching a fever pitch. Sanagi realised what was happening, and grabbed Ahab, tumbling from the hood of the car. Hadal came up a moment later. His strength was… terrifying to behold. He slipped from the ground, and sliced through the car with ease, tearing the metal apart and shredding the fuel tank. Uheer screamed as her leg was torn open by an errant claw. Hadal grinned in victory… before immediately diving back down into the earth, trailing gasoline behind him. A bullet whizzed through the space where he'd once been. Colter's voice, still in that incomprehensible mercenary cant, rattled off faster and faster, confirming positions. The wound in the creature's back had been worse than before, growing larger and larger, deeper and deeper. Uheer hesitated, looked between the ground and her two visible opponents… before simply running. She remained low to the ground, bobbed and weaved, and quickly reached the warehouse. Sanagi was still recovering from the boot to her stomach. The mercenaries were getting picked off one by one. Growing more desperate. But Hadal was on a time limit until his wound became debilitating.
Uheer scrambled up the wall, digging her feet easily into the half-decayed stone, clambering as high and fast as she could. Professional, she'd clearly trained for this. A tiny canister dropped to the ground behind her, exploding into a shower of eerily glittering gas. Based on how Ahab immediately backed off and covered her mouth, that stuff was nasty. Her rifle was abandoned now, she only had a pistol at her disposal. She scanned the ground, her radio squealed, and she hesitated. Ah. Sanagi could guess what was happening. Hadal was swimming in Colter's direction, trying to silence the creature that had wounded him so grievously. Time limit for him - counting down to the moment when his wound worsened to the point of being fatal. Sanagi was inching closer to that stage with each moment that passed, her arm was utterly useless, her pistol might as well be dead weight as a consequence. Uheer was clearly paralysed - move into Sanagi's line of fire and maybe save her colleague, or stay safe and maybe leave Colter to die. She ducked behind the shredded ruins of the car, and Ahab finally started to get her breathing under control.
The entire encounter, thus far, had taken less than a minute. Frantic combat on either side. Mercenaries down one.
Crack.
Covering fire, ripping trails through the glittering gas that, she imagined, probably qualified as a war crime. Uheer was trying to stop them from leaving. Keeping them from interfering with things. Long-range small arms fire, felt like a recipe for disaster. Sanagi started to charge up her beam… and paused. Hadal had shredded the gas tank for this car, spraying flammable fluid all over the ground, some of it soaking into her boots. It shimmered like a dull rainbow, and stank like the abandoned rotten tankers on the docks which still bore stains from their old professions. If she fired, she might well just light them all up. She produced more than enough heat for it. Crack. A bullet ricocheted from the ground. Shit. Uheer had picked up on that as well. Her wound was burning, at this point she couldn't actually feel her arm at all, it swung uselessly at her side, and now the feeling was spreading to her neck, making it painful to simply look around. Ahab was finally back in action. She glanced nervously at Sanagi's wound, and grimaced, some of the crusted-over sores on her lips splitting and leaking a stagnant brown pus. Like dried blood running down her chin.
"I'll kiss it better later. Cover now."
Sanagi nodded mutely, glad that she couldn't actually say anything right now, not without her synthesiser (stashed in one of her pockets). Ahab nodded, counted silently… and sprinted forward with all the speed and power she could muster, a low roar building in her throat as she angled for the building behind them. Another few desperate cracks, most of them pinging around her. Uheer was trying to cover with a sidearm, her accuracy was somewhere between bad and dogshit. Still. Bullets were bullets. A bullet slammed into Ahab's back, and she wheezed. Something had definitely broken, maybe a rib. Her breath was gone. But she continued her charge, and crashed through one of the windows in the buildings behind them. An abandoned house, streaked with bird shit and dripping with mould. Sanagi heard a gun being reloaded, and immediately followed. Ahab had created an opening for her without hesitation - and she ignored the pain in her useless shoulder as she leapt through the broken window. Ahab looked like shit, she had a chunk of glass sticking out from over her left eyebrow, and Sanagi felt a slow drip of blood from her own arm, elbow sliced open by an errant shard. Still. Cover.
No furniture in here, nothing she could use. But the wall was better cover than the car. Another crack confirmed her opinion - the gasoline went up, and her view from the window was obscured by a rushing sheet of flame and choking black smoke. She ducked down, and the fire was reduced to nothing more than an oppressive aura of heat. A reminder that, for the moment, their cover had pinned them in place. Ahab snarled under her breath as she crouched next to Sanagi, reloading her own gun.
"Why the fuck…"
She cut herself off. Pointless line of questioning.
"Colter's out back. We find him, kill him. Uheer doesn't seem any different to a normal mercenary, probably not a combat-focused cape. They're specialised for civilian environments, means they don't have heavy firepower. Only thing keeping us alive. One grenade, one fucking grenade would wipe us out. Fuck."
She was talking automatically now, slipping into professionalism. Blood dripped over her eye, and with a grunt of irritation she reached up, ripped the glass shard away, before grabbing a… tiny stapler from her pocket. Sanagi looked away, heard nothing but a clunk and a hiss of pain. When she looked back, the wound was sealed, and Ahab had a new, fancy facial piercing. The only sound in the air was their heavy breathing, the roaring of flames, and… nothing else. No more gunfire. No more roars of victory from Hadal. Sanagi's jaw clicked erratically, and Ahab stood slowly, checking around. Nothing. Nothing at all. After the frantic firefight of the last minute or so… it was uncanny to be surrounded by so much nothing. Sanagi scanned her environment… the building had no windows for Colter to shoot through, not on his side of the street. But he could track them. Presumably he was already adjusting to avoid her breams. Uheer was quiet. Where was Hadal? Ahab's voice was low and quiet.
"...something's happened."
Sanagi looked at her. Ahab shrugged.
"Instinct. Mercenaries don't sit around like this. A fight can change in a second. Anything can change in a minute. They have us pinned, why aren't they moving in?"
A click from her pincers.
"Yeah, Hadal, but… he's wounded. Why isn't he attacking before his wound worsens?"
Another, doubtful click.
"Too fucking quiet."
Ahab only had a pistol at her disposal. Weak. Not something they should be using at the moment. Sanagi was powerful, but unsubtle. No grenades, nothing but some vests and small arms fire. Sanagi's aim was useless with a gun at the moment, not used to using her left hand. They were outmatched. Hadal had saved their asses, as much as she hated to admit it. Why had the mercenaries just fired? Ahab strained her ears, and reached into her jacket for a small radio. She began to adjust frequencies rapidly, presumably trying to tap in on the mercenaries' communications. Pointless, they weren't speaking in anything resembling English. Maybe Ahab knew it, but… anyway. She scrambled through frequency after frequency, getting nothing but static… the radio looked partially homemade, a dial on the side kept whizzing alarmingly as it scanned everything possible. Ahab gritted her teeth… and paled slightly. Sanagi clicked her pincers quizzically.
"They're using a basic frequency. I can tell - listen."
The static was more characterful than the others - she could hear the crackling of fire, the disturbance of buildings falling into rubble. Sanagi blushed internally. She'd… gone to town a bit, hadn't she?
"So… why aren't they communicating? Why aren't they exchanging information?"
Maybe they were being cautious. Thought that Ahab was listening in.
"I can't understand them, they probably have a code which only they can understand, standard procedure… so why…?"
Sanagi listened. The silence was deafening. Hadal wasn't attacking, the mercenaries weren't firing, weren't even communicating, so… she shuffled quietly across the stained floor of the dilapidated house, ignoring the involuntary shivers of revulsion. Stay low, stay out of sight of the window. She poked her head into an adjoining room… nothing. Ahab nodded, and she made her way to the stairs, clambering up in absolute silence. Her pincers wanted desperately to click in agitation, but she resisted the urge. No noise. None at all. The upper floors had a proper view over the next street over… she felt disoriented. Confused. Had this just been an accident? Stumbling into a conflict they had no place in? No, wait… in that case, why had the mercenaries fired on sight? Seemed unusually aggressive, and… she was on the upper floor now. Ahab was still downstairs, making sure Uheer didn't get any ideas. Her shoulder ached so fiercely that she needed to take a moment just to get her breath back, to muster the will to go on. Fuck, needed to kill Colter soon. This place was a rotten husk, and the floorboards had swollen from years of damp, starting to spill from their frames in waves of sweet-smelling pulp. A dead wasp's nest formed a pipe organ across one wall, and she could see holes where her beam had swept through corners of the structure, where bullets had pierced easily through the rotten plaster. There was mould in the air. She could taste it. It cloyed around her eye sockets and made her pincers ache. A window, a window - clear, unboarded. She poked her head up, staring in silence…
There was the city. There was the sun. And there was the street…
And there was the impenetrable black fog.
She'd been mistaken. There weren't three players in this little conflict.
There were four.
Her stars bloomed without thinking. A supernova went off, and she heard a distant howling in the back of her skull, a remnant of something she couldn't quite remember. Kabiri. Kabiri. Vision of Heaven. Xavier Crowley. She knew this black fog, she'd seen the footage, read the reports. Choking black smog that caused paralysis in those it touched. She couldn't see anything through it… and honestly, she didn't care. Her beam ripped the air apart, fusing atoms and burning its way outwards. The sun was briefly eclipsed by it, and her silent roar echoed in the empty confines of her skull. The beam lanced into the fog, burning with all the fury she could muster, howling as it went… and the fog swallowed it whole. The beam illuminated a handful of shapes, some struggling, some still. But they faded when she looked at them for too long - illusions. Shades. The beam was eaten whole by the fog… and nothing happened. She glared at the black mass which filled most of the street, choking every access point, crawling slowly up the sides of buildings. If there were any civilians in them, they were gone. Simply gone. The beam had been consumed. The pain in her shoulder was non-existent now. She charged herself up again, readying for another shot, this one a long sweep up and down the street. Cut off avenues, one by one. The beam charged…
And she heard a distant snap.
Her shoulder… her shoulder felt fine. Painful, sure, but… there was no smoke, no feeling of acid dripping over her injury.
Colter was dead.
Her beam exploded outwards, sweeping up and down the street, homing in one the snap she'd heard. She saw cars being bisected, illuminated for a second by the beam before the darkness returned. She fired, fired, fired, poured everything she had into turning the street into fucking plate glass. Asphalt melted under the heat, windows quivered in their frames from the sheer force, and smoke rose high into the air, thick, choking, and painfully mundane. The fog lingered. The fog never ceased for more than a moment. She swore she could see mocking faces forming in it, laughing silently up at her. Fingers of dark fog started to climb up the walls, inch by inch, reaching up for the window… her beam trailed off, her stars feeling utterly spent. Her shoulder wept blood. Silence returned, the echo of her beam fading into the distance. The fog endured.
The fog endured.
And then they came.
Figures. Humans. Rampaging out from the fog, bearing primitive, crudely-assembled weapons. The fog parted around them, clearing gaps for them to go through. She recognised them - the lack of clothing, the frantic, zealous looks in their eyes, the primitive tools, even their battle-cries. Where did she… last night? What had happened last night, exactly, that she recognised these things? They bore the colours of the Teeth on their arms, and howled into the day, the only sounds which escaped that damn fog.
"Ma-ma!"
A regular, repeated chant.
Mama's Boys. Matrimonial's own.
Sanagi felt like she was standing at the epicentre of a collapsing scheme. No way this was coincidence. Hadal, the mercenaries, Matrimonial, Kabiri's fog… and both Sanagi and Ahab?
This wasn't a coincidence.
And her mind clicked to a conclusion.
Trap.
She abandoned subtlety entirely, rushing downstairs, taking the steps three at a time. The wood shook from the impact, constantly on the verge of shattering. She could already hear the Mama's Boys starting to crash against the walls, breaking windows, battering doors, and in some cases simply hacking at the stonework with whatever came to hand. Utterly fanatic, and clearly aligned in some way with Kabiri. There was a crack, a tinkling of falling glass, and she could imagine the fog starting to creep in. Couldn't let it touch her. All the data she'd found confirmed that much, at least - never let it touch her. Ahab was standing up when she got down, looking around nervously. Sanagi dragged her synthesiser out of her pocket, and rattled off her findings. Kabiri. Matrimonial. Mercenaries. Hadal. Not sure who was on which side. And them in the middle. Ahab nodded calmly, hummed in acknowledgement, then turned around and kicked the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
"Fuck!"
Sanagi nodded mutely.
"We've been fucked. Sarkis. I'll bet my left tit on it, that fuck burned us. Don't know how he did it, don't know where it all lies…"
Another shattered window. Bodies starting to spill in.
"...never mind that. Come on. Let's just get the fuck out of here."
The synthesiser rasped.
"Kabiri."
"...shit. Yeah."
Ahab tilted her head to one side.
"Well, that changes things. Let's at least get to another building. Get some better cover. We can sweep for Kabiri then."
She stopped speaking just in time - one of the Mama's Boys came screaming into the room, whooping like a lunatic, waving a rusty hatchet around his head. He was practically naked, body streaked with long, ragged cuts from the window he'd climbed through. None of the pain fazed him - he had the burned-out look in his eyes that she'd seen in more than enough addicts. No-one was at the wheel up there - but someone had definitely left instructions. He charged, screaming, and Ahab nonchalantly shot him in the leg. He collapsed to the ground, and a second shot immobilised him completely, both legs pierced, shredded, and incapable of movement. Even so, he tried to crawl feebly towards them, eyes glazing over with shock. His scream tapered off to a vague whimper… and Ahab kicked him in the face, popping his nose like a piece of rotten fruit. That was the straw to break the camel's back. But there were others coming. Ahab mumbled irritably.
"You'd think they'd learn not to bring a knife to a gunfight."
Others. Clearing the glass and charging in. Must be over a dozen. And fog was spilling around them, forming pools of light for them to operate in, but racing hungrily towards Ahab and Sanagi. The two moved, diving through the window they'd used to get in. Gasoline fire was still burning, and heat washed over them in sickly waves. A crack from the warehouse - Uheer didn't know about the Mama's Boys, didn't know about Kabiri. She was invisible from this position, and Sanagi ignored her - bigger fish to fry. Her shots were immediately redirected towards the charging mass of bodies, and Sanagi heard a muffled curse. The two women ran across the street, seeking more cover. Cars, buildings… her beam was charging up, she could sweep through that crowd easily. She'd just mark herself out as a complete and utter murderer in the process, of course. Did she mind that? As she looked inside, she realised… not really. She just wanted Kabiri dead. The fog was leaking out of the building they'd just vacated, spilling into the street… how far was his range? No time to think, too busy running. Ahab covered their desperate sprint, firing wildly into the howling crowd. Uheer ignored the two of them entirely, her focus switching completely to the crowd.
They didn't feel pain. None of them. Even when they were wounded, only total muscle severance could stop them - lacerations were nothing, scratches were nothing, if the bullet wasn't actively crippling them it was as good as useless. The screaming outriders of the fog. And as she stepped forward, angling for more cover…
A hand wrapped around her ankle.
A mouth of needle-sharp teeth grinned up.
And the ground swallowed her whole.
The last thing she heard was Ahab crying out in panic.
* * *
Calvert leant back, and reviewed his reports. Ah. Wonderful. A little clash outside a certain entirely unimportant warehouse.
The problems were taking care of one another.
The mercenaries. Officer Sanagi and her leprous associate. Kabiri. And to throw it into the bargain, Hadal. Three members of the Teeth's inner circle struggling with a cape who, he was fully aware, had a talent for wide scale destruction. Force them into a killing field where nothing could escape… not even the one doing the killing. Already he was twitching a few communications, making a few calls through many layers of encryption. In another timeline, he continued to review the ledger, relishing in the calming feeling that swept over him. He felt in tune with himself, in alignment with the universe and everything in it. Compared to the constant headache and confusion of the past few months… it was beyond delightful. For the first time in so very long, he felt in total control of his life and everything in it. He was invulnerable. A few calls, a few redirections… he had contacts in a variety of places, and he gladly burned them up, forced them to destroy their cover to cause the changes he needed. The factionalism among the Teeth, the absence of the Butcher… plenty of options for an enterprising chap like himself.
An alert came up.
Patrol was ready.
Ah. Wonderful. If only he could just sent out Asset 113 to take care of things… well. Couldn't have everything. Requisitioned by the Directorate for their own usage. The crisis was redirecting patrols from a dozen sources, dragging them away from where they'd been guarding. Oh, he knew they were being diverted against his will, he knew that the Directorate was asserting control over patrols and had been doing so for months. But now… now he had a crisis. And in a crisis, everything became simpler. Everything fell under his control, and a whole raft of openings were exposed. A tiny network of very well-paid agents was moving in on their primary targets. More warehouses, half-derelict buildings, even a seemingly random chop shop. More sites associated with the enigmatic SET, connected so intimately to his beloved Directorate. He was closer than ever before, he could feel it.
The disparate components of his enemies were integrated.
Their movements had been predicted.
And everything was accounted for.
Calvert was in his heaven, and all was right with the world.
His smile stretched from ear to ear… and his fingers stroked his beloved ledger.
All was right with the world.
219 - There is No Exit
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
219 - There is No Exit
The ground swallowed her whole. Sanagi had barely a moment to think before the asphalt welcomed her… and all she could think back to was the moment in Vandeerleuwe where she'd been wounded, exhausted, physically outmatched, and on the verge of being beaten to death by an enraged giant in the ruins of an incestuous Norse hillbilly cult town (a stereotype she didn't even know existed). And in that moment, she'd committed to survival, to clinging on like a deranged spider monkey and hanging tight until either the problem resolved or she died. One or the other. Hadal dragged her down… and she held on tight. Images of everything she'd been through flashed through her mind, incidents survived, crises endured. She could get through this. She could fucking get through this. The ground swallowed her whole, and she clung on. Darkness. Suffocating darkness. She gripped Hadal's tough, leathery skin with her one good hand, hauling herself until she could wrap her legs around him as well. The creature thrashed in the deep, trying to dislodge her. Claustrophobia. Soil in her eye sockets. Mud flowing into her skull, evaporating in puffs of choking gas and coating the inside of her brain case with fine brown mud. Her clothes were ruined in second, torn in a dozen places by stones. Stones that then pressed into her skin and tore up long, red scratches, immediately choked with yet more mud and dust until she couldn't tell what was wounded and what wasn't - simply a tapestry of bruises, cuts, and all of it masked with a heavy mud mask.
Hadal dragged her deeper into the ocean of the world.
He was silent. Barely breathing. Calm. The earth flowed around him smoothly, not leaving a single mark. She was a tag, a fragment clinging on to his surface as he went into the interminable dark. Were tey going up? Down? Sideways? She'd lost all bearings minutes ago… he twisted and the world flowed around him. She'd imagined him swimming, physically swimming, but… no. The earth simply made way for him in mute recognition of his authority, and he was pushed onwards in a little bubble of reality, of softening earth and rock. He flipped, and she found herself dangling loosely, feeling the mud cloy at her legs, dragging her in… she gripped harder, hard as she possibly could, her lungs burning. The earth existed in a soft bubble around him, and beyond it reality resumed. Brutal, unyielding reality. She felt chunks of her boots being lost as Hadal twisted, and she trailed a little too far. With a lunge, she managed to attach herself more fully, clinging like a wretched limpet. Her bearings were all off, she could barely focus… no, no, hurt him, hurt him.
Her pincers tried to scrape at his tough skin, but she could barely find any damn purchase on the stuff, it wasn't remotely human. She gripped, ripped, tore, and nothing was achieved. Nothing but a few pale lines she lost sight of a moment later. Hadal grunted in irritation, swivelled, and tried to bring his other fist to bear, tearing her from him with a single wrench. She saw a flash of his face - a bloated mass of glistening flesh, needle-like teeth, and bulging dark eyes. A deep-sea fish, impossibly vast, and the primal parts of her brain begged for her to escape at all costs. She scrambled, winding her legs around his waist, doing her best to stay away from those sharp, sharp jaws. A stone slammed into her skull, cracking the surface slightly, and terror washed over her in a crippling wave. Would that heal? Could that heal? A tiny fragment gone, lost forever, lost to the dark, her grip was slipping, Hadal was twisting again in an effort to throw her free. She saw a future of being trapped under here. She saw the darkness suffocating her, the matter growing tougher and tougher until there was no way out, none at all, until she suffocated or was crushed and was forgotten forever eaten by the city she'd failed and-
She exploded.
She didn't care about the consequences. Didn't care that she was surrounded on all sides by choking rock and mud, didn't care that she had no room, no range. Didn't care about the heat. Hadal roared silently in the endless dark as her beam scorched into his flesh, carving a bloody furrow which was cauterised so quickly that not a single drop of blood was actually spilled. A winding black line across his impossibly tough flesh. The force of the blast actually drove her backwards a little, almost made her slip free… she could feel the heat racing over her, the scorching, burning heat which blackened everything in its path, charred, roasted, and eventually erased altogether. For a second, the area around them was almost beautiful. The heat erased the mud, compressed it, hardened it, and for a second they were surrounded by a sphere of pure, perfect glass. The starlight blazed through it, reflecting over and over and over again, particulates catching the light and turning the entire field into a pseudo-planetarium. For a moment, Hadal and Sanagi struggled in the centre of a huge, perfect galaxy. Hadal wrenched… and Sanagi's grip slipped. Her beam faltered as she lost concentration, and…
And Hadal vanished.
A moment passed.
She'd let go.
She was alone.
She crumpled to the…
She could move.
If Sanagi could still speak, a choked sob would've escaped her throat. As it was, she just rested for a second. The heat had melted a portion of the earth, and once it had hardened, it had done so in the shape of Hadal's body and the motions he made while dislodging her. She had a tiny space. She had an irregular prison of glass, or crystal, or… anyway. Not remotely enough air to keep going for long. She waited a second for Hadal to return, waited for the fight to resume, when… when nothing happened. The darkness endured. The silence remained. Nothing happened. It took a second for her to realise that the glass was still fucking hot. She tore her hands upwards, and could feel skin lingering behind. A flood of terror. She was alone in a scorching hot cell, protected only by her clothes, with a limited air supply. The walls strained… how long until they collapsed? The pressure must be tremendous, surely there was… she heard a crack, and scrambled in the dark. All the walls were too close. She couldn't see anything, just… just the occasional gleam as her stars bloomed out of sheer panic, and the light bounced off the glass. The walls were still soft, and… and one area had collapsed. The earth had rushed in. She could feel a trickle of dust. One chamber gone. How long until she went?
She examined her surroundings carefully with her hands, flinching at the feeling of hot glass pressing against her flesh. She was burned, she knew it. Shock wouldn't let her feel it. Nothing would. Hadal was big - he'd left a large shadow in the earth. She wondered if he'd die from the wound she inflicted - he'd sounded like a dying animal last she heard. The shadow was him in multiple positions, superimposed. She saw his arms, over and over and over again, embossed in the dark. She rested in the rippling trunks of his legs, repeated time after time until they formed a space large enough to rest in. She could barely move herself. A heave brought her up into the space of his torso, large enough to curl into like a child in the womb. The dark pressed around her. The glass cracked again. A moment away from breaking. A moment away from plunging her into the fatal earth. She looked around pointlessly - nothing to see. Sanagi began to breathe faster, faster… her lungs were aching. She was running out of air. Maybe had a few minutes or so at best. Not much had been brought here. Pain began to bloom everywhere, along with the realisation that this was, most likely, how she was going to die.
In a glass tomb of her own creation. Unwitnessed.
Quietly, Sanagi lowered her head, and shook. No tears. No capacity for them. A few stars crawled out, and she caught one in her hand with the tenderness of a mother with a child. She held the tiny spark, and… breathed on it. Nebulae fanned out, feeding the star. Helping it grow. Adding more and more matter, increasing the heat… for a second, light returned. A small, red star, gleaming dully in the endless subterranean night. The glass caught the light, and her tomb lit up completely. Her jaw creaked into something resembling a smile, just for a moment. And then she saw how tight the space was. How she could crack her skull if she moved up too quickly. How she couldn't extend her arms out fully. How very, very close the walls were, and how hot too… and she thought of the star burning up the air. Wasn't sure if it did. But the star dwindled and died sadly regardless. She was alone again. The glass was cooling. Becoming brittle. Her everything hurt. Hadal was gone. Left her to die while he went to lick his wounds. She hoped they were fatal. She really, really did.
A moment of silence.
She could hear something in the distance. Just her imagination playing tricks on her, she knew that much, but she swore she could hear something in the dark. A subtle vibration, turning the glass shell into an enormous speaker, vibrating with sound waves that skirted the edge of human perception. She thought…
She thought she heard a woman singing in the dark. In the deep, deep places under the earth…
For a second, she thought she saw something down there.
A shimmering, perpetually unfolding thing which defied explanation or description.
And then, just as quickly as it came… it was gone. And she was alone once more. A minute passed with agonising slowness, and she counted every second. The glass was cooling, but some fragments were still warm. She hesitated… and pressed her thumb against one of the hottest parts. Pain jolted through her like a lightning bolt, and she thought, thought she could smell burning skin, felt the pain slowly insinuate itself deeper and deeper until she knew it would be aching for hours, longer perhaps… but the pain focused her. For a moment, she had clarity. A rising fury in her stomach. The adrenaline was gone, the survival instinct had been swallowed by the dark… but anger remained. How fucking dare Hadal? How fucking dare he? Wouldn't even give her the dignity of an honest death? She felt heat building in her skull. Fuck him. Fuck him. Couldn't tunnel out of here, her beam wasn't a fucking mining laser, she'd collapse the place, cook herself alive, or both. Burn up her air. Suffocate under mounds of half-melted soil. Just accelerate her demise and make it much, much more painful. Either way, she wouldn't endure for long. This tomb existed because of a convenient happenstance, nothing more. But… hm.
A moment of curiosity.
She lifted up her arm, and stared at it in the dark. A click, and a spark of starlight bloomed in her mouth. Enough to see…
She shut her mouth. Darkness returned.
Not looking at it. Not fucking looking at it.
Plan. Plan plan plan plan plan. Ahab was up there. Thinking of her made Sanagi plan faster, more frantically. Her… friend. The only friend her own age who had some notion of how things were going for her at the moment. Wouldn't abandon her. They had things to do together. Sanagi wasn't overly used to friends, at best she had mildly affectionate colleagues, and all of a sudden she'd had… well, several. Taylor, Arch, Turk… Ted, to a very, very mild degree. But she was close to Ahab. Ahab had gone out drinking with her, given genuine advice, checked up on her when she was drunk and falling apart… and she was going to be damned before she let Ahab die because she got buried underground by a fish-person. Ideas. Come on, come on… couldn't melt her way back up, not reliably. The best route up was through Hadal, who could part the earth like it was nothing. She'd been caught last time, but if she could get in a better position, she could almost imagine a way out of some variety, maybe… hm. But the question was, why would he come back here?
Wait.
Idea.
How had Hadal managed to track her from underground? Did he just surface like a submarine, check his surroundings, then dive again? Surely he had some other way of sensing things… no, even if she could somehow evade his detection methods, he'd just ignore her. If she wasn't actively tunnelling up, there was literally no reason to check in on her. She'd had an idea about… it was stupid, but she thought she might be able to stop breathing for long enough, convince him that she was dead, then wait for him to check on her. Failed the moment she remembered that, yeah, he could just abandon her and win either way. No, Hadal was out of the question, no way she could reach him or hitch a ride. She needed to… hm… maybe…
She glanced at her arm in the dark once again.
The idea which occurred was terrible. Awful. Genuinely dreadful. It was also the only one she had at her disposal, and she wasn't going to overlook it due to basic qualms about 'continuing to resemble a normal human fucking being'. She huddled into herself… and focused. She had a skull for a head. She didn't need to sleep. She thought using particles of light. Here was an important damn question - breath. How many of her natural functions actually needed to continue? Seriously, the human body was an engine designed to support the brain, and if the brain was a pile of self-sustaining stars, then what was the fucking point in the rest of it? She didn't need oxygen for her brain, no nutrients, nothing. And if her brain could keep going despite everything else, then… then… fuck, this was insane. Stupid. It was a concession to self-destruction, it was just giving into the madness around her. Letting it infest her. She clenched her fists, trying to resist the urge to slam her head against the glass walls. A crack solidified her resolve to stay away from them - they were coming close to collapse. She didn't have long. Not long at all.
How much of her was human?
She'd read about it. A little. Her brain had died in Mound Moor, transferred neuron by neuron to a completely different arrangement. By most definitions, Etsuko Sanagi had triggered, and died. Completely and utterly dead. A copy walking away. She'd… not accepted it, exactly. But it'd been acknowledged. She didn't think that it made much of a difference. If she acted as Etsuko Sanagi did, if she walked the way she did, talked the way she did, left a similar impact on those around her… that was real enough for her. If she thought about the concept of the soul for a bit too long, she just became depressed and needed a drink. And craved a smoke. Part of why leaving the police force had affected her so much. Down here in the dark, she could admit that. Might never get a chance to admit it again. Etsuko Sanagi was a policewoman. An officer. It was most of her identity, a huge part of how she saw herself and how she wished to be. With it gone… that anchor had been lost. And she'd spiralled. Of course she'd been obsessed with finding a job that catered to a very specific set of emotional priorities, if she did something pointless, small-minded and utterly alien to her old work, then Sanagi might as well have died in Mound Moor, 100% dead. Because the thing wearing her skin wouldn't be acting like her. Not remotely. Her mane twitched in sympathy, and she thought…
She was nothing. There was no real her. Only a set of habits and ideals strung loosely around a hollow shell where most people had a self. She knew that hollowness. She felt it every day. It was just part of why she was a fucked-up little toerag that needed the world to press her into shape. Give her value. The hollowness had no intrinsic value to it, that value needed to be assigned by an impartial force. What passed for a personality was sketchy and poorly thought-through, the only real lingering point was a constant sense of emptiness which she'd never managed to fill even with habits, petty obsessions, relationships... never could. Never would, now. Etsuko Sanagi, if she was going to be painfully honest with herself, with all the lucidity she could muster… was dead. And she'd walked away. Play-acted a little. Pretended to be her. Pretended like Etsuko had pretended. And now there was nothing left - no job to give her meaning, and here there was no-one to impress. No-one at all. A thing howled in the back of her mind, and she could feel an instinct sliding towards her, a notion she couldn't help but entertain.
Revolution against herself.
She allowed light to bloom once more, and stared at her arm.
The skin was gone. Melted away by the heat of the blast which had made this place, a blast she wouldn't have dared to create. Never been wounded like this since her trigger, never. If she had, maybe she'd have been forced to confront the truth of things a hell of a lot sooner. The muscle had shed. The fat had rendered out and flowed away. All she could see, from her elbow to her wrist, was tough, blackened bone, covered in a thin, thin network of coal-black filaments. As she watched, the filaments twitched upwards, and it seemed as though she had a vague shadowy outline around her bones, something between a mane, a pelt, a layer of wiry fur… the filaments had never just applied to her face. She sighed, and let the light die out. No panic. No room for it. This wasn't a discovery - it was a quiet acceptance of something she'd known to be true.
She remembered Ahab.
And realised, in her heart of hearts, that she cared more about saving her than she cared about preserving some final, pointless illusion of a woman who'd died a long time ago, and she'd been pretending to be for far too long.
She grimaced…
And under the earth, in a tomb of glass and crystal, there bloomed a second sun.
Uheer staggered through the streets. That… that leper bitch had put a hole in her side. A deep, bleeding wound that she'd barely managed to patch over with some wound sealant. It'd hurt like shit getting it out, but it was stopping her leaking like a water balloon. Her mind was twitching in odd directions, and her face remained absolutely blank. How the hell had things gone so utterly terribly? They'd moved against Hadal - he seemed to be loyal, and removing him would remove a vital layer of defence for the Butcher. He associated with her regularly, if anyone knew about the hoard it'd be him. Unlike the other members of the court, they actually had a good knowledge of his powerset - turned out that he'd made a splash when he arrived on the cape scene. Spent years lurking in the sewers in New York, hunting people down, ripping them apart and leaving the bodies in the foundations of the city. Excavations had accidentally revealed one, and then it was easy to track his movements. Every emergence caused a media frenzy for a time, the tabloids adored him. Then he joined the Teeth. And that was it. Became much more subtle. But his powers were known, and they were solidly weak to the Repo Squad. Colter could track him, Rocinante could give them cover and elevation, and Uheer was… uh… here. Heh. She didn't smile. But she felt like it was deserved. Uh. Here. Uheer. Heh. She killed her sometimes.
But the hunt had gone poorly. Just a few accidents, really. Workable. But irritating. They'd done it while Matrimonial and Kabiri had been having fun with terrorism. Hadal had been isolated. Weak. They had everything they needed to win, and… he'd evaded. Knew they were coming. Smarter than he looked. Hunted them instead. Pursued them through the city, sometimes they wounded him, sometimes he wounded them, but nothing decisive. Hard to strategise. Her power tried to provide plans, but the Teeth was such a profoundly schizophrenic organisation that it was hard to get a bead on it. She'd start planning, develop proper methods, and only after an hour or two would she realise that she'd been planning out the destruction of a single chapter, which was so bizarre and independent that it barely qualified as part of a larger power structure. Her power twitched again as she ran, involuntarily. Burned. She knew she'd been burned. Calvert had fucked them. And right now her power was churning out plans for disassembling him.
Strategic priority: removal of Calvert from position of power. Disassembling of PRT. Caveat: limit human casualties to minimum acceptable levels.
Bribes flicked through her mind. Informants. Agents, undercover and otherwise. Vulnerabilities in the structure. There were 26 vulnerabilities in the PRT's computer system she could exploit with available resources. Finding Vista and skinning her alive before hanging her from a lamppost would collapse public opinion and trigger a series of devastating lawsuits if she was able to pin it on the right individuals, easy enough, Hookwolf's hooks left a certain pattern of wounds and-
She clamped down. Loved her power. But it made her want to commit far too many war crimes. And those were inconvenient to do in America. Anyway.
A meeting with Calvert, some weird news about Angrboda, and nothing more. She barely cared. This whole mission was a clusterfuck. She staggered along, avoiding any kind of confrontation. If she got to an open area, she'd be safe. Somewhere public, somewhere sheltered. Elevated, ideally. Revolving restaurant would be fantastic on multiple levels. If only she could find one. And then… then Calvert had told them about some other repo squad in town, some other mercenaries he'd pissed off. Said they were blundering around like a pair of jackasses. Scabs. Keshig had negotiated primary rights for repossessions on this contract, to stop wires getting crossed. No-one else was allowed here. They'd had shit like this tried a few times, and their policy was to eradicate their rivals at all costs. The files matched up, too. Etsuko Sanagi, codename Howling Razorjaw, and Ahab [last name redacted], former Crossrifle employee. Independent repossessions team known as Besmirch Inc., no official ties to other groups, but she knew full well that Desperado LLC had lost some good operatives to Calvert's blunders and weren't the sort to abide by usual rules. Italia and Stirner, that was it. Never met them, but the company had kicked up a stink for a lack of proper death payments and the destruction of valuable company property in the form of implants and equipment. And the story was compelling. Files were dated properly, there was an official operational history, and an unofficial one pieced together from similar-sounding groups… it was comprehensive. Very comprehensive. They'd done their work, and every single document made sense, everything made sense, it was just like that job in Anchorage.
Adjustment to plan: Desperado LLC is known to make use of flechette vests in crowded urban environments. Arming the homeless with these vests before dosing them with doctored forms of common narcotics will be an effective means of spreading terror. Furthermore, major figures in this city make use of Desperado-affiliated mercenaries for private security, and Desperado-brand weaponry used in public incidents will prompt severe collapses in popularity and a surge in short-term political strategy with a focus on survival above other actions. Figures affected include: Mayor Alcott. 71% of Medhall Executive Board. 27% of-
Shut up, power.
Anyway. The Repo Squad had every reason to attack them.
Calvert had given them targets. Hadal had given them panic. And the world had given them opportunity. An uncontrolled encounter, but they were tired. Uheer hadn't been able to think straight… a feeling in her skull. A headache, an awful, awful headache. Made her think of home. She didn't like thinking of home. Not anymore. Finding them here, and with their heads burning, their minds screwed with by memories of old conflicts and old mistakes… they'd reacted quickly. Too quickly. Acted like they were in an active combat zone, not a damn civilian centre. Fuck, she wanted some milk right now, her throat was parched and her head was pounding. Colter dead. Rocinante dead. The contract was null and void, she'd be lucky to get demoted to a desk job. No more field work for her. Shame. But safe. She missed her friends, but she staggered onwards regardless in absolute silence. Unwilling to give in. They'd want her to live. She, also, wanted to live. She was a mercenary - not some glory-hounding avenging idiot. Ahab was fighting off those Teeth freaks. Black fog had spilled after her. Hadal had taken out Razorjaw. Let them fight and die. She was done. Outta here, as Colter would say. Hm. Missed him more than she thought.
Plan updated: city has adapted to use of bombing as part of terror campaign. Plant bombs and insinuate that they were leftovers from the Conflagration. Play on ethnic tensions, suggest that certain groups are stockpiling these leftovers, or that the government/PRT is unable/unwilling to clear the city properly. Increase panic, increase willingness to cause-
Shut up, power.
Something lunged from the ground.
She barely had a moment to feel regret.
A huge hand clasped around her ankle and dragged her down, immobilising her in seconds. Hadal glared at her with his wide, dark eyes. Uheer stared flatly back. She was too tired to feel panic. Been going without sleep for a few days, hopped up on pain stims and very little else. Her lack of reaction irritated him. Heh. Funny. A claw reached up, and she heard a low, growling voice come out of his monstrous throat.
"Idiot mershenenaries. Alwaysh think you can get the better of ush becaushe you mashacred a few shivilians."
She didn't massacre civilians. She massacred soldiers. She was honourable like that. And by the time she arrived on the scene in warzones, there weren't many civilians left alive. She pointed out none of this - just licked her lips and waited. Wasn't going out like a bitch.
Plan adjustment to PRT disassembly: civilian casualties are an effective means of undermining public trust. Mutilations are effective due to lingering visual impact. Recommendations - removal of lips, removal of eyelids, removal of ears, castrations. Water poisoning recommended - many buildings have water tanks which allow for easy contamination. Mercury recommended, inducing desquamation, formication, and peripheral neuropathy in civilians and associating the act with a parahuman attack would be exceedingly effective.
Shut up, power.
"Sho, what wash it? The hoard? A bounty?"
Further plan adjustment: supplying tinkertech weaponry to a mentally unstable adolescent before staging a small campaign of bombing in a different part of the city will reduce response times in the event of a mass shooting. Allow this to occur, further undermining public trust and distracting funding. Distribution of tinkertech is effective at simulating a low-level insurrection and staging large-scale panic.
Externally, no response.
"Nothing?"
She remained absolutely silent, doing nothing more than blinking slowly. Hadal sighed with something that sounded like genuine sadness.
"...shame. I do enjoy having a convershation. Well, your ride'sh over, woman. Time to die."
The claw glinted in the sunlight. She knew what it would do to her. Jokes on him. The pain stims meant she'd go out feeling like a billion tögrög. He was wasting his time. Then… something changed. She felt the earth heating up. She felt the asphalt actually warming, more and more, incremental and first and gradually expanding outwards. The material softened slightly, melting away… even Hadal looked surprised, and struggled to extract himself from the half-liquid mire. Uheer blinked and leant back, trying to float - like with quicksand. Worked. And she couldn't feel any pain due to the stims, so… woo. The heat increased, Hadal glanced around and pressed a hand against the asphalt, concentrating… trying to feel out the vibrations, the impacts which might…
His eyes widened.
And he leapt from the ground, digging his claws into the buildings on either side of him, clambering upwards with all the speed he could muster. Freed, Uheer kicked away from the asphalt, extracting herself - huge globs of soft tarmac dripped from her armour, and she tried to run as fast as possible… hard, what with the melting ground beneath her feet. Her injuries slowed her, the heat increased, the air was shimmering with a thick haze now… she kept going, pushing onwards through the concrete swamp, swearting freely under her heavy outer covering. Her pistol was almost out of ammunition, but it was all she had, and she wasn't going to abandon it… knife. Her knife was drawn, blade painted to reduce glare. She grasped it happily, enjoying the heft. OK. Now she could feel more comfortable. The heat rose higher and higher, Uheer struggled onwards, and…
Pop.
The ground ripped open, and she could vaguely hear Hadal roaring as light rushed upwards, spearing the sky. Thin as a wire, but impossibly bright, so bright that it melted everything around it, caused windows to soften in their frames, induced the frames themselves to burst into flame. Her glasses dimmed automatically, but the light was still utterly blinding. She was flung backwards by a rush of hot air, compressed by the rapid eruption and heated to unreasonable levels. The light was… it was bad. Her geiger counter was clicking rapidly - four hundred, six hundred, eight hundred millisieverts… her coat was good, but there were holes in it. Fuck, she was going to be pissing blood for a while. The level kept climbing - radioactive starlight. And with her glasses, she could see inside it - something was coming up. Something was climbing through the hole. Razorjaw. The briefing hadn't mentioned anything on this level… and it hadn't mentioned anything like this kind of Changer ability. The figure climbing from the hole looked somewhat human, but with… exceptions. The skull was free to the world. One arm dangled uselessly, the shoulder blown off by a rifle shot. The other was utterly fleshless. Just… blackened bone, covered in a writhing layer of filaments. It looked like her bones and nervous system had both been scorched, carbonised, locked into place permanently. And the flesh had just been a crude accident. One of her legs had suffered a similar fate, and Uheer could see glimpses of her torso through her torn clothes, showing yet more patches of missing skin and muscle. Vengeful light burned in the eye sockets. The skeletal hand and skeletal foot launched her up, blackened fingers digging into the soft rock and clambering higher and higher…
Uheer nodded to herself, and turned around quietly. Walk away. Just walk away. It wasn't her problem. Her teammates were dead - claim the life insurance policies and take a holiday. Her power twitched into motion, trying to calculate how to meaningfully damage the PRT organisational structure - dumbass power, she loved it, but it couldn't help but get overly focused on one task to the exclusion of others. She blinked. The procedure had changed. The number of war crimes had shifted. In fact, with the information at her disposal, her power was telling her…
Leave it alone.
Radical organisational restructuring imminent. Vice-Director Calvert, alias Coil, unlikely to endure.
Well.
Literally no reason to stay.
Good. Grand, even.
She couldn't help but see the first skeletal hand erupting from the hole she'd made.
She couldn't quite avoid looking at the skull as it emerged, jaw boiling with starfire.
She broke into a sprint. And didn't look back again.
The air beyond the alleyway was thick with tiltrotors.
Sanagi was fucking fuming. She felt her skin peeling away under the heat, felt her body finally give up this moronic little charade - she was a skeleton wearing a meat-suit held on by carbonised filaments, and she was fucking resistant to her own starlight. She clambered through the glowing earth with one hand and her legs rapidly charring, and she ignored the pain - easy enough. There wasn't any, after all. Her nerves were long-dead, and the filaments withdrew once they ruled the skin to be a lost-cause. She knew she was an abomination tapestry of flesh (ranging from raw to well done to great fucking job pal), bone, and starlight. Didn't mean she liked it. And it didn't mean she liked having to tunnel through boiling rock with a laser erupting from her skull, only to have Hadal jump and climb up a building like a monkey to escape her. Her existential crisis and feelings of nonexistence were overwhelmed by sheer, unyielding, rage. Good. Helped her focus. She clambered messily out of the ground, clawing at the soft asphalt, her laser finally stopping. Silence and unnatural darkness reigned, and she, in a fit of paranoia, checked her fanny pack. Her face was… well, from what she could see, it was intact. Her body was something she refused to examine. For later. Much, much later. A strange feeling washed over her, and she felt a great weight settle in her stomach… a moment later, something resembling a head-sized opal fell from the bottom of her ribcage and shattered on the ground.
Oh. That might've been her actual stomach. She groaned, the sound echoing strangely.
Yeah. This felt about right.
She looked up. Hadal had been partially caught by the beam. Lost an arm, burned down to the stump. He clambered messily onto the roof of one of the buildings flanking this alleyway, groaning and panting. She didn't hesitate - she drew a deep breath and sliced. The top of the building erupted into a hail of dust and rubble - not completely destroyed, but she'd definitely committed a little act of domestic terrorism. Found it hard to care. She marched forward as the rubble fell and the dust rose, no eyes to shelter from the irritants in the air. No functional lungs to worry about when it came to the terrors of asbestos or black mould or whatever this ruined place had held. Hadal tumbled to the ground… and immediately sank into it, starting to escape her by any means necessary. Slowed by his injuries, his lack of focus. Sanagi glared… and a razor-thin beam screamed in his direction. A moment later, Hadal was screaming in pain as his flesh was seared, a beam cutting across his torso. His legs, severed at the waist, were stuck in the melting concrete, while the torso still struggled weakly. Unable to move very far. Sanagi jumped down into the pit he'd created, and grabbed the back of his huge neck with her skeletal hand. Didn't feel much stronger, but she couldn't feel anything. No heat to inhibit her, no pain to limit her movements. Even her shoulder just felt dead, a mass of muscle held in place out of nostalgia more than anything else. Maybe it'd heal. Maybe it wouldn't. At this point, she couldn't care.
Etsuko Sanagi was dead, and Etsuko Sanagi had walked away. Now she just looked the part of a half-broken replacement.
She said nothing to Hadal. She didn't know him, had no connection, and no interest in listening to his tragic life story - something else to have nightmares about. A beam generated…
And Hadal fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, his brain turned into a white-hot sludge that pooled out through a hole in his skull. Trepanation, that was it. Used to think it could get the demons out of someone's skull. Well, here she was, and that was a lot of demon coming out of him. Reflected very poorly on the guy. Her skeletal jaw creaked up and down, a vague simulation of a dry, tired chuckle. Hadal down. Colter and Rocinante down. Uheer at large… wait, had she seen Uheer? Maybe, but… running away. If she'd seen her at all, of course. Reality clicked into place, and she sprinted from the melted alleyway where she'd emerged into the world of the living once more. Gone to the underworld and climbed back out, changed and with a better understanding of who she was and how the world fit around her. Ahab. Needed to find Ahab. had to find Ahab, or this would've all been for nothing. She might be dead, but she still had something to fight for. Etsuko Sanagi had never liked Ahab all that much, thought she was an overly non-serious individual with far too many compromising personality traits to ever be trustworthy. But… Etsuko Sanagi had known her as a friend. A good, good friend.
Best, even.
She clattered through the streets. One foot still had a boot and (presumably), skin. The other was entirely bone with a thin covering of black filaments, and it set up sparks as it raked across the asphalt. A beam generated in her mouth, ready to slice open anything that dared come close, anything at all… Ahab, come on, Ahab, Ahab… she burst into the crossroads, the five intersecting streets which culminated in a warehouse. Black fog littered the place. Thick as mud, black as oil. And utterly impenetrable. She saw Mama's Boys lying around, wounded, dying, dead. Nearly a dozen. Even more - Teeth from other chapters. Had Hadal brought backup? Had Kabiri brought more? Had the civil war abruptly heated up to something larger than subdued street-fights?
Ahab had given as good as she got - gunned down almost all of them. Used to dealing with large numbers of poorly-armed combatants. She tracked their positions… dead, most of them, and arranged in concentric ranks of bodies, leading towards a single point that they'd clearly been assaulting. A building, just off to the side of the warehouse. Uncertain purpose, abandoned for years, dripping with rot and cooking in the afternoon heat. A building which was enmeshed in black fog. No heartbeat to increase, but Sanagi felt panic nonetheless. Her stars itched for release, and she sprinted towards it. It was right here, her friend was right here, but… but the fog… Sanagi walked closer to the single concentration of the stuff, large enough to cover most of the neighbourhood. She reached out, and pressed a single skeletal hand into it. Cold rushed over her, aching, awful cold, and…
And nothing else.
No paralysis. No fear. Just an inky pea-soup fog which reduced visibility. If she still had skin on her face, it would've broken into a hideous grin. She was very happy at the moment. Insanely happy. She let starlight bloom in her skull, brighter and brighter, but she kept it there - contained. And the fog made way for her. She must've been a sight - a half-fleshed skeleton in ragged clothes with a skull blazing with light, brighter than most lighthouses. She strode into the dark yonder, into the fog where Kabiri surely lay. And Ahab. Visibility was awful. The cold chilled her to her bones - not difficult, given how many were on display. She felt her way through, her brief time underground giving her pointers on how to navigate in pitch-blackness. No lights to guide her, even her starlight was swallowed whole in moments, wrapped up in opaque mist. She abandoned subtlety entirely. Charged forward, felt along the wall, found a door, and kicked it open with her booted foot. It was flung off its brittle, rusted hinges, and the building lay before her. Something moved in the dark. A pair of gleaming eyes projecting long beams of light directed towards her, and she could sense them widening in surprise.
Sanagi had created one sun today.
Now she made a second.
And Kabiri… lunged through the pain, lunged through the melting flesh and scorching muscle. She flinched back - no-one came closer once her beam had been launched, not if they had any sanity, but… she saw something in those hypnotic eyes. Something which made her want to stop, to cease, to bow down and accept this perfect vision of the afterlife… she didn't crumple, she didn't, but her beam faltered very slightly… and Kabiri jumped on her. Shock paralysed her where his eyes failed, and the two crumpled to the ground. She felt a body that wasn't entirely human. A mouth which was too wide, and had teeth running in perfect circles to the bottom of a throat which went beyond what his body should be able to contain. Rotten breath wafted out, the scent of dead flesh carried on it. Fingers which had far too many joints - almost six on each finger, and five on his thumb. Was she imagining… no. She lashed out with her skeletal hand, trying to grab his jaw, to pull down and tear it free from his face, or at least hurt him. She desperately wanted to hurt him.
"Beautiful."
That was all Kabiri said, in a deep, sonorous voice… before a rush of black fog emerged from his mouth. A deeper concentration. It filled her skull up, muffling the stars, suppressing thoughts, slowing everything to a crawl. Her perception dimmed. She could barely see him lunging upwards. And dashing away. The fog followed him, vanishing from the house. For a moment, she was utterly paralysed… and her stars bloomed brighter, brighter, brighter, burning away the fog inside. She ignored the way the heat was starting to burn her shoulders. Didn't care. Sanagi sprang from the ground, started to chase him with a silent roar on her lipless mouth… but the sky stopped her. Filled with tiltrotors. PRT troopers were descending en masse, armed with standard ballistics and containment foam launchers. They moved smoothly and swiftly, sliding from long black cords hanging from the side of their vehicles. The fog cleared, and she saw just… just how many Teeth there were. The Mama's Boys were here, sure, but there were others. She saw a small handful of people wearing animal skins and odd headdresses, a cluster of savage-looking women who wore fine ceramic plates over their clothes like rudimentary armour, even a handful of people with holes in their cheeks and antique clothing. They were all bloodied from the fighting, had torn each other halfway to pieces… and Kabiri's fog was gone entirely. Kabiri himself was nowhere to be seen… and already the PRT were attacking.
Suddenly, it all clicked.
She saw the plan.
Sarkis. Had to be.
Led them all here to kill one another off. And then the PRT would swoop in and take care of the rest. Dozens - dozens of Teeth were being contained, two of their inner circle were dead, and… had she injured Kabiri? She honestly wasn't sure. He'd been swift, adapting quickly to changing circumstances, but… they were moving fast. Very, very fast. Too fast. She knew about PRT reaction times, they were good but rarely this good, not with these kinds of numbers. Someone had been expecting this fight, and had dispatched troops accordingly. Hesitantly, she stepped back into the safety of the rotten house, and scanned it desperately for Ahab… there. Lying in a moss-green jacket, sprawled on the floor. Her eyes were wide, and as Sanagi watched she stabbed a syringe in her arm, depressing the plunger with an ecstatic sigh of relief. The force and enthusiasm of her subsequent leap suggested… some of what lay in there. Ahab jumped up, whooped, brushed herself down, kicked a wall, spat, swore, and kicked the wall again, this time piercing a hole through to the other side. Only then did she turn to see Sanagi.
Her eyes widened.
She approached slowly, unheeding of the sound of troopers outside.
A single hand reached out, and Sanagi remained perfectly still as Ahab stroked one of her cheekbones.
"...oh, you poor thing."
Sanagi wanted to blink in surprise. Felt natural. But… no. Just a mute stare, and a tiny shower of stars from between her teeth. Suddenly, the world contracted. She felt, keenly, the fine filaments over her bones. The warm air on her remaining skin. How little of it actually remained, really. The feeling of… of exposure. The hollowness which had only worsened now that her organs had mostly carbonised and fallen free to shatter on the ground. The dying embers of the scars she'd left in the house from her attack. Ahab smiled sadly… before taking her still-living hand, and dragging her away. Sanagi applied some of her face as she ran, uncaring about secret identities. She managed half. And half-faced, half-fleshed, and half-empty… she ran with Ahab into the golden yonder.
She'd find Kabiri.
But for now… for now she just wanted to hold her friend's hand and pretend she was normal.
The ground swallowed her whole. Sanagi had barely a moment to think before the asphalt welcomed her… and all she could think back to was the moment in Vandeerleuwe where she'd been wounded, exhausted, physically outmatched, and on the verge of being beaten to death by an enraged giant in the ruins of an incestuous Norse hillbilly cult town (a stereotype she didn't even know existed). And in that moment, she'd committed to survival, to clinging on like a deranged spider monkey and hanging tight until either the problem resolved or she died. One or the other. Hadal dragged her down… and she held on tight. Images of everything she'd been through flashed through her mind, incidents survived, crises endured. She could get through this. She could fucking get through this. The ground swallowed her whole, and she clung on. Darkness. Suffocating darkness. She gripped Hadal's tough, leathery skin with her one good hand, hauling herself until she could wrap her legs around him as well. The creature thrashed in the deep, trying to dislodge her. Claustrophobia. Soil in her eye sockets. Mud flowing into her skull, evaporating in puffs of choking gas and coating the inside of her brain case with fine brown mud. Her clothes were ruined in second, torn in a dozen places by stones. Stones that then pressed into her skin and tore up long, red scratches, immediately choked with yet more mud and dust until she couldn't tell what was wounded and what wasn't - simply a tapestry of bruises, cuts, and all of it masked with a heavy mud mask.
Hadal dragged her deeper into the ocean of the world.
He was silent. Barely breathing. Calm. The earth flowed around him smoothly, not leaving a single mark. She was a tag, a fragment clinging on to his surface as he went into the interminable dark. Were tey going up? Down? Sideways? She'd lost all bearings minutes ago… he twisted and the world flowed around him. She'd imagined him swimming, physically swimming, but… no. The earth simply made way for him in mute recognition of his authority, and he was pushed onwards in a little bubble of reality, of softening earth and rock. He flipped, and she found herself dangling loosely, feeling the mud cloy at her legs, dragging her in… she gripped harder, hard as she possibly could, her lungs burning. The earth existed in a soft bubble around him, and beyond it reality resumed. Brutal, unyielding reality. She felt chunks of her boots being lost as Hadal twisted, and she trailed a little too far. With a lunge, she managed to attach herself more fully, clinging like a wretched limpet. Her bearings were all off, she could barely focus… no, no, hurt him, hurt him.
Her pincers tried to scrape at his tough skin, but she could barely find any damn purchase on the stuff, it wasn't remotely human. She gripped, ripped, tore, and nothing was achieved. Nothing but a few pale lines she lost sight of a moment later. Hadal grunted in irritation, swivelled, and tried to bring his other fist to bear, tearing her from him with a single wrench. She saw a flash of his face - a bloated mass of glistening flesh, needle-like teeth, and bulging dark eyes. A deep-sea fish, impossibly vast, and the primal parts of her brain begged for her to escape at all costs. She scrambled, winding her legs around his waist, doing her best to stay away from those sharp, sharp jaws. A stone slammed into her skull, cracking the surface slightly, and terror washed over her in a crippling wave. Would that heal? Could that heal? A tiny fragment gone, lost forever, lost to the dark, her grip was slipping, Hadal was twisting again in an effort to throw her free. She saw a future of being trapped under here. She saw the darkness suffocating her, the matter growing tougher and tougher until there was no way out, none at all, until she suffocated or was crushed and was forgotten forever eaten by the city she'd failed and-
She exploded.
She didn't care about the consequences. Didn't care that she was surrounded on all sides by choking rock and mud, didn't care that she had no room, no range. Didn't care about the heat. Hadal roared silently in the endless dark as her beam scorched into his flesh, carving a bloody furrow which was cauterised so quickly that not a single drop of blood was actually spilled. A winding black line across his impossibly tough flesh. The force of the blast actually drove her backwards a little, almost made her slip free… she could feel the heat racing over her, the scorching, burning heat which blackened everything in its path, charred, roasted, and eventually erased altogether. For a second, the area around them was almost beautiful. The heat erased the mud, compressed it, hardened it, and for a second they were surrounded by a sphere of pure, perfect glass. The starlight blazed through it, reflecting over and over and over again, particulates catching the light and turning the entire field into a pseudo-planetarium. For a moment, Hadal and Sanagi struggled in the centre of a huge, perfect galaxy. Hadal wrenched… and Sanagi's grip slipped. Her beam faltered as she lost concentration, and…
And Hadal vanished.
A moment passed.
She'd let go.
She was alone.
She crumpled to the…
She could move.
If Sanagi could still speak, a choked sob would've escaped her throat. As it was, she just rested for a second. The heat had melted a portion of the earth, and once it had hardened, it had done so in the shape of Hadal's body and the motions he made while dislodging her. She had a tiny space. She had an irregular prison of glass, or crystal, or… anyway. Not remotely enough air to keep going for long. She waited a second for Hadal to return, waited for the fight to resume, when… when nothing happened. The darkness endured. The silence remained. Nothing happened. It took a second for her to realise that the glass was still fucking hot. She tore her hands upwards, and could feel skin lingering behind. A flood of terror. She was alone in a scorching hot cell, protected only by her clothes, with a limited air supply. The walls strained… how long until they collapsed? The pressure must be tremendous, surely there was… she heard a crack, and scrambled in the dark. All the walls were too close. She couldn't see anything, just… just the occasional gleam as her stars bloomed out of sheer panic, and the light bounced off the glass. The walls were still soft, and… and one area had collapsed. The earth had rushed in. She could feel a trickle of dust. One chamber gone. How long until she went?
She examined her surroundings carefully with her hands, flinching at the feeling of hot glass pressing against her flesh. She was burned, she knew it. Shock wouldn't let her feel it. Nothing would. Hadal was big - he'd left a large shadow in the earth. She wondered if he'd die from the wound she inflicted - he'd sounded like a dying animal last she heard. The shadow was him in multiple positions, superimposed. She saw his arms, over and over and over again, embossed in the dark. She rested in the rippling trunks of his legs, repeated time after time until they formed a space large enough to rest in. She could barely move herself. A heave brought her up into the space of his torso, large enough to curl into like a child in the womb. The dark pressed around her. The glass cracked again. A moment away from breaking. A moment away from plunging her into the fatal earth. She looked around pointlessly - nothing to see. Sanagi began to breathe faster, faster… her lungs were aching. She was running out of air. Maybe had a few minutes or so at best. Not much had been brought here. Pain began to bloom everywhere, along with the realisation that this was, most likely, how she was going to die.
In a glass tomb of her own creation. Unwitnessed.
Quietly, Sanagi lowered her head, and shook. No tears. No capacity for them. A few stars crawled out, and she caught one in her hand with the tenderness of a mother with a child. She held the tiny spark, and… breathed on it. Nebulae fanned out, feeding the star. Helping it grow. Adding more and more matter, increasing the heat… for a second, light returned. A small, red star, gleaming dully in the endless subterranean night. The glass caught the light, and her tomb lit up completely. Her jaw creaked into something resembling a smile, just for a moment. And then she saw how tight the space was. How she could crack her skull if she moved up too quickly. How she couldn't extend her arms out fully. How very, very close the walls were, and how hot too… and she thought of the star burning up the air. Wasn't sure if it did. But the star dwindled and died sadly regardless. She was alone again. The glass was cooling. Becoming brittle. Her everything hurt. Hadal was gone. Left her to die while he went to lick his wounds. She hoped they were fatal. She really, really did.
A moment of silence.
She could hear something in the distance. Just her imagination playing tricks on her, she knew that much, but she swore she could hear something in the dark. A subtle vibration, turning the glass shell into an enormous speaker, vibrating with sound waves that skirted the edge of human perception. She thought…
She thought she heard a woman singing in the dark. In the deep, deep places under the earth…
For a second, she thought she saw something down there.
A shimmering, perpetually unfolding thing which defied explanation or description.
And then, just as quickly as it came… it was gone. And she was alone once more. A minute passed with agonising slowness, and she counted every second. The glass was cooling, but some fragments were still warm. She hesitated… and pressed her thumb against one of the hottest parts. Pain jolted through her like a lightning bolt, and she thought, thought she could smell burning skin, felt the pain slowly insinuate itself deeper and deeper until she knew it would be aching for hours, longer perhaps… but the pain focused her. For a moment, she had clarity. A rising fury in her stomach. The adrenaline was gone, the survival instinct had been swallowed by the dark… but anger remained. How fucking dare Hadal? How fucking dare he? Wouldn't even give her the dignity of an honest death? She felt heat building in her skull. Fuck him. Fuck him. Couldn't tunnel out of here, her beam wasn't a fucking mining laser, she'd collapse the place, cook herself alive, or both. Burn up her air. Suffocate under mounds of half-melted soil. Just accelerate her demise and make it much, much more painful. Either way, she wouldn't endure for long. This tomb existed because of a convenient happenstance, nothing more. But… hm.
A moment of curiosity.
She lifted up her arm, and stared at it in the dark. A click, and a spark of starlight bloomed in her mouth. Enough to see…
She shut her mouth. Darkness returned.
Not looking at it. Not fucking looking at it.
Plan. Plan plan plan plan plan. Ahab was up there. Thinking of her made Sanagi plan faster, more frantically. Her… friend. The only friend her own age who had some notion of how things were going for her at the moment. Wouldn't abandon her. They had things to do together. Sanagi wasn't overly used to friends, at best she had mildly affectionate colleagues, and all of a sudden she'd had… well, several. Taylor, Arch, Turk… Ted, to a very, very mild degree. But she was close to Ahab. Ahab had gone out drinking with her, given genuine advice, checked up on her when she was drunk and falling apart… and she was going to be damned before she let Ahab die because she got buried underground by a fish-person. Ideas. Come on, come on… couldn't melt her way back up, not reliably. The best route up was through Hadal, who could part the earth like it was nothing. She'd been caught last time, but if she could get in a better position, she could almost imagine a way out of some variety, maybe… hm. But the question was, why would he come back here?
Wait.
Idea.
How had Hadal managed to track her from underground? Did he just surface like a submarine, check his surroundings, then dive again? Surely he had some other way of sensing things… no, even if she could somehow evade his detection methods, he'd just ignore her. If she wasn't actively tunnelling up, there was literally no reason to check in on her. She'd had an idea about… it was stupid, but she thought she might be able to stop breathing for long enough, convince him that she was dead, then wait for him to check on her. Failed the moment she remembered that, yeah, he could just abandon her and win either way. No, Hadal was out of the question, no way she could reach him or hitch a ride. She needed to… hm… maybe…
She glanced at her arm in the dark once again.
The idea which occurred was terrible. Awful. Genuinely dreadful. It was also the only one she had at her disposal, and she wasn't going to overlook it due to basic qualms about 'continuing to resemble a normal human fucking being'. She huddled into herself… and focused. She had a skull for a head. She didn't need to sleep. She thought using particles of light. Here was an important damn question - breath. How many of her natural functions actually needed to continue? Seriously, the human body was an engine designed to support the brain, and if the brain was a pile of self-sustaining stars, then what was the fucking point in the rest of it? She didn't need oxygen for her brain, no nutrients, nothing. And if her brain could keep going despite everything else, then… then… fuck, this was insane. Stupid. It was a concession to self-destruction, it was just giving into the madness around her. Letting it infest her. She clenched her fists, trying to resist the urge to slam her head against the glass walls. A crack solidified her resolve to stay away from them - they were coming close to collapse. She didn't have long. Not long at all.
How much of her was human?
She'd read about it. A little. Her brain had died in Mound Moor, transferred neuron by neuron to a completely different arrangement. By most definitions, Etsuko Sanagi had triggered, and died. Completely and utterly dead. A copy walking away. She'd… not accepted it, exactly. But it'd been acknowledged. She didn't think that it made much of a difference. If she acted as Etsuko Sanagi did, if she walked the way she did, talked the way she did, left a similar impact on those around her… that was real enough for her. If she thought about the concept of the soul for a bit too long, she just became depressed and needed a drink. And craved a smoke. Part of why leaving the police force had affected her so much. Down here in the dark, she could admit that. Might never get a chance to admit it again. Etsuko Sanagi was a policewoman. An officer. It was most of her identity, a huge part of how she saw herself and how she wished to be. With it gone… that anchor had been lost. And she'd spiralled. Of course she'd been obsessed with finding a job that catered to a very specific set of emotional priorities, if she did something pointless, small-minded and utterly alien to her old work, then Sanagi might as well have died in Mound Moor, 100% dead. Because the thing wearing her skin wouldn't be acting like her. Not remotely. Her mane twitched in sympathy, and she thought…
She was nothing. There was no real her. Only a set of habits and ideals strung loosely around a hollow shell where most people had a self. She knew that hollowness. She felt it every day. It was just part of why she was a fucked-up little toerag that needed the world to press her into shape. Give her value. The hollowness had no intrinsic value to it, that value needed to be assigned by an impartial force. What passed for a personality was sketchy and poorly thought-through, the only real lingering point was a constant sense of emptiness which she'd never managed to fill even with habits, petty obsessions, relationships... never could. Never would, now. Etsuko Sanagi, if she was going to be painfully honest with herself, with all the lucidity she could muster… was dead. And she'd walked away. Play-acted a little. Pretended to be her. Pretended like Etsuko had pretended. And now there was nothing left - no job to give her meaning, and here there was no-one to impress. No-one at all. A thing howled in the back of her mind, and she could feel an instinct sliding towards her, a notion she couldn't help but entertain.
Revolution against herself.
She allowed light to bloom once more, and stared at her arm.
The skin was gone. Melted away by the heat of the blast which had made this place, a blast she wouldn't have dared to create. Never been wounded like this since her trigger, never. If she had, maybe she'd have been forced to confront the truth of things a hell of a lot sooner. The muscle had shed. The fat had rendered out and flowed away. All she could see, from her elbow to her wrist, was tough, blackened bone, covered in a thin, thin network of coal-black filaments. As she watched, the filaments twitched upwards, and it seemed as though she had a vague shadowy outline around her bones, something between a mane, a pelt, a layer of wiry fur… the filaments had never just applied to her face. She sighed, and let the light die out. No panic. No room for it. This wasn't a discovery - it was a quiet acceptance of something she'd known to be true.
She remembered Ahab.
And realised, in her heart of hearts, that she cared more about saving her than she cared about preserving some final, pointless illusion of a woman who'd died a long time ago, and she'd been pretending to be for far too long.
She grimaced…
And under the earth, in a tomb of glass and crystal, there bloomed a second sun.
* * *
Uheer staggered through the streets. That… that leper bitch had put a hole in her side. A deep, bleeding wound that she'd barely managed to patch over with some wound sealant. It'd hurt like shit getting it out, but it was stopping her leaking like a water balloon. Her mind was twitching in odd directions, and her face remained absolutely blank. How the hell had things gone so utterly terribly? They'd moved against Hadal - he seemed to be loyal, and removing him would remove a vital layer of defence for the Butcher. He associated with her regularly, if anyone knew about the hoard it'd be him. Unlike the other members of the court, they actually had a good knowledge of his powerset - turned out that he'd made a splash when he arrived on the cape scene. Spent years lurking in the sewers in New York, hunting people down, ripping them apart and leaving the bodies in the foundations of the city. Excavations had accidentally revealed one, and then it was easy to track his movements. Every emergence caused a media frenzy for a time, the tabloids adored him. Then he joined the Teeth. And that was it. Became much more subtle. But his powers were known, and they were solidly weak to the Repo Squad. Colter could track him, Rocinante could give them cover and elevation, and Uheer was… uh… here. Heh. She didn't smile. But she felt like it was deserved. Uh. Here. Uheer. Heh. She killed her sometimes.
But the hunt had gone poorly. Just a few accidents, really. Workable. But irritating. They'd done it while Matrimonial and Kabiri had been having fun with terrorism. Hadal had been isolated. Weak. They had everything they needed to win, and… he'd evaded. Knew they were coming. Smarter than he looked. Hunted them instead. Pursued them through the city, sometimes they wounded him, sometimes he wounded them, but nothing decisive. Hard to strategise. Her power tried to provide plans, but the Teeth was such a profoundly schizophrenic organisation that it was hard to get a bead on it. She'd start planning, develop proper methods, and only after an hour or two would she realise that she'd been planning out the destruction of a single chapter, which was so bizarre and independent that it barely qualified as part of a larger power structure. Her power twitched again as she ran, involuntarily. Burned. She knew she'd been burned. Calvert had fucked them. And right now her power was churning out plans for disassembling him.
Strategic priority: removal of Calvert from position of power. Disassembling of PRT. Caveat: limit human casualties to minimum acceptable levels.
Bribes flicked through her mind. Informants. Agents, undercover and otherwise. Vulnerabilities in the structure. There were 26 vulnerabilities in the PRT's computer system she could exploit with available resources. Finding Vista and skinning her alive before hanging her from a lamppost would collapse public opinion and trigger a series of devastating lawsuits if she was able to pin it on the right individuals, easy enough, Hookwolf's hooks left a certain pattern of wounds and-
She clamped down. Loved her power. But it made her want to commit far too many war crimes. And those were inconvenient to do in America. Anyway.
A meeting with Calvert, some weird news about Angrboda, and nothing more. She barely cared. This whole mission was a clusterfuck. She staggered along, avoiding any kind of confrontation. If she got to an open area, she'd be safe. Somewhere public, somewhere sheltered. Elevated, ideally. Revolving restaurant would be fantastic on multiple levels. If only she could find one. And then… then Calvert had told them about some other repo squad in town, some other mercenaries he'd pissed off. Said they were blundering around like a pair of jackasses. Scabs. Keshig had negotiated primary rights for repossessions on this contract, to stop wires getting crossed. No-one else was allowed here. They'd had shit like this tried a few times, and their policy was to eradicate their rivals at all costs. The files matched up, too. Etsuko Sanagi, codename Howling Razorjaw, and Ahab [last name redacted], former Crossrifle employee. Independent repossessions team known as Besmirch Inc., no official ties to other groups, but she knew full well that Desperado LLC had lost some good operatives to Calvert's blunders and weren't the sort to abide by usual rules. Italia and Stirner, that was it. Never met them, but the company had kicked up a stink for a lack of proper death payments and the destruction of valuable company property in the form of implants and equipment. And the story was compelling. Files were dated properly, there was an official operational history, and an unofficial one pieced together from similar-sounding groups… it was comprehensive. Very comprehensive. They'd done their work, and every single document made sense, everything made sense, it was just like that job in Anchorage.
Adjustment to plan: Desperado LLC is known to make use of flechette vests in crowded urban environments. Arming the homeless with these vests before dosing them with doctored forms of common narcotics will be an effective means of spreading terror. Furthermore, major figures in this city make use of Desperado-affiliated mercenaries for private security, and Desperado-brand weaponry used in public incidents will prompt severe collapses in popularity and a surge in short-term political strategy with a focus on survival above other actions. Figures affected include: Mayor Alcott. 71% of Medhall Executive Board. 27% of-
Shut up, power.
Anyway. The Repo Squad had every reason to attack them.
Calvert had given them targets. Hadal had given them panic. And the world had given them opportunity. An uncontrolled encounter, but they were tired. Uheer hadn't been able to think straight… a feeling in her skull. A headache, an awful, awful headache. Made her think of home. She didn't like thinking of home. Not anymore. Finding them here, and with their heads burning, their minds screwed with by memories of old conflicts and old mistakes… they'd reacted quickly. Too quickly. Acted like they were in an active combat zone, not a damn civilian centre. Fuck, she wanted some milk right now, her throat was parched and her head was pounding. Colter dead. Rocinante dead. The contract was null and void, she'd be lucky to get demoted to a desk job. No more field work for her. Shame. But safe. She missed her friends, but she staggered onwards regardless in absolute silence. Unwilling to give in. They'd want her to live. She, also, wanted to live. She was a mercenary - not some glory-hounding avenging idiot. Ahab was fighting off those Teeth freaks. Black fog had spilled after her. Hadal had taken out Razorjaw. Let them fight and die. She was done. Outta here, as Colter would say. Hm. Missed him more than she thought.
Plan updated: city has adapted to use of bombing as part of terror campaign. Plant bombs and insinuate that they were leftovers from the Conflagration. Play on ethnic tensions, suggest that certain groups are stockpiling these leftovers, or that the government/PRT is unable/unwilling to clear the city properly. Increase panic, increase willingness to cause-
Shut up, power.
Something lunged from the ground.
She barely had a moment to feel regret.
A huge hand clasped around her ankle and dragged her down, immobilising her in seconds. Hadal glared at her with his wide, dark eyes. Uheer stared flatly back. She was too tired to feel panic. Been going without sleep for a few days, hopped up on pain stims and very little else. Her lack of reaction irritated him. Heh. Funny. A claw reached up, and she heard a low, growling voice come out of his monstrous throat.
"Idiot mershenenaries. Alwaysh think you can get the better of ush becaushe you mashacred a few shivilians."
She didn't massacre civilians. She massacred soldiers. She was honourable like that. And by the time she arrived on the scene in warzones, there weren't many civilians left alive. She pointed out none of this - just licked her lips and waited. Wasn't going out like a bitch.
Plan adjustment to PRT disassembly: civilian casualties are an effective means of undermining public trust. Mutilations are effective due to lingering visual impact. Recommendations - removal of lips, removal of eyelids, removal of ears, castrations. Water poisoning recommended - many buildings have water tanks which allow for easy contamination. Mercury recommended, inducing desquamation, formication, and peripheral neuropathy in civilians and associating the act with a parahuman attack would be exceedingly effective.
Shut up, power.
"Sho, what wash it? The hoard? A bounty?"
Further plan adjustment: supplying tinkertech weaponry to a mentally unstable adolescent before staging a small campaign of bombing in a different part of the city will reduce response times in the event of a mass shooting. Allow this to occur, further undermining public trust and distracting funding. Distribution of tinkertech is effective at simulating a low-level insurrection and staging large-scale panic.
Externally, no response.
"Nothing?"
She remained absolutely silent, doing nothing more than blinking slowly. Hadal sighed with something that sounded like genuine sadness.
"...shame. I do enjoy having a convershation. Well, your ride'sh over, woman. Time to die."
The claw glinted in the sunlight. She knew what it would do to her. Jokes on him. The pain stims meant she'd go out feeling like a billion tögrög. He was wasting his time. Then… something changed. She felt the earth heating up. She felt the asphalt actually warming, more and more, incremental and first and gradually expanding outwards. The material softened slightly, melting away… even Hadal looked surprised, and struggled to extract himself from the half-liquid mire. Uheer blinked and leant back, trying to float - like with quicksand. Worked. And she couldn't feel any pain due to the stims, so… woo. The heat increased, Hadal glanced around and pressed a hand against the asphalt, concentrating… trying to feel out the vibrations, the impacts which might…
His eyes widened.
And he leapt from the ground, digging his claws into the buildings on either side of him, clambering upwards with all the speed he could muster. Freed, Uheer kicked away from the asphalt, extracting herself - huge globs of soft tarmac dripped from her armour, and she tried to run as fast as possible… hard, what with the melting ground beneath her feet. Her injuries slowed her, the heat increased, the air was shimmering with a thick haze now… she kept going, pushing onwards through the concrete swamp, swearting freely under her heavy outer covering. Her pistol was almost out of ammunition, but it was all she had, and she wasn't going to abandon it… knife. Her knife was drawn, blade painted to reduce glare. She grasped it happily, enjoying the heft. OK. Now she could feel more comfortable. The heat rose higher and higher, Uheer struggled onwards, and…
Pop.
The ground ripped open, and she could vaguely hear Hadal roaring as light rushed upwards, spearing the sky. Thin as a wire, but impossibly bright, so bright that it melted everything around it, caused windows to soften in their frames, induced the frames themselves to burst into flame. Her glasses dimmed automatically, but the light was still utterly blinding. She was flung backwards by a rush of hot air, compressed by the rapid eruption and heated to unreasonable levels. The light was… it was bad. Her geiger counter was clicking rapidly - four hundred, six hundred, eight hundred millisieverts… her coat was good, but there were holes in it. Fuck, she was going to be pissing blood for a while. The level kept climbing - radioactive starlight. And with her glasses, she could see inside it - something was coming up. Something was climbing through the hole. Razorjaw. The briefing hadn't mentioned anything on this level… and it hadn't mentioned anything like this kind of Changer ability. The figure climbing from the hole looked somewhat human, but with… exceptions. The skull was free to the world. One arm dangled uselessly, the shoulder blown off by a rifle shot. The other was utterly fleshless. Just… blackened bone, covered in a writhing layer of filaments. It looked like her bones and nervous system had both been scorched, carbonised, locked into place permanently. And the flesh had just been a crude accident. One of her legs had suffered a similar fate, and Uheer could see glimpses of her torso through her torn clothes, showing yet more patches of missing skin and muscle. Vengeful light burned in the eye sockets. The skeletal hand and skeletal foot launched her up, blackened fingers digging into the soft rock and clambering higher and higher…
Uheer nodded to herself, and turned around quietly. Walk away. Just walk away. It wasn't her problem. Her teammates were dead - claim the life insurance policies and take a holiday. Her power twitched into motion, trying to calculate how to meaningfully damage the PRT organisational structure - dumbass power, she loved it, but it couldn't help but get overly focused on one task to the exclusion of others. She blinked. The procedure had changed. The number of war crimes had shifted. In fact, with the information at her disposal, her power was telling her…
Leave it alone.
Radical organisational restructuring imminent. Vice-Director Calvert, alias Coil, unlikely to endure.
Well.
Literally no reason to stay.
Good. Grand, even.
She couldn't help but see the first skeletal hand erupting from the hole she'd made.
She couldn't quite avoid looking at the skull as it emerged, jaw boiling with starfire.
She broke into a sprint. And didn't look back again.
The air beyond the alleyway was thick with tiltrotors.
* * *
Sanagi was fucking fuming. She felt her skin peeling away under the heat, felt her body finally give up this moronic little charade - she was a skeleton wearing a meat-suit held on by carbonised filaments, and she was fucking resistant to her own starlight. She clambered through the glowing earth with one hand and her legs rapidly charring, and she ignored the pain - easy enough. There wasn't any, after all. Her nerves were long-dead, and the filaments withdrew once they ruled the skin to be a lost-cause. She knew she was an abomination tapestry of flesh (ranging from raw to well done to great fucking job pal), bone, and starlight. Didn't mean she liked it. And it didn't mean she liked having to tunnel through boiling rock with a laser erupting from her skull, only to have Hadal jump and climb up a building like a monkey to escape her. Her existential crisis and feelings of nonexistence were overwhelmed by sheer, unyielding, rage. Good. Helped her focus. She clambered messily out of the ground, clawing at the soft asphalt, her laser finally stopping. Silence and unnatural darkness reigned, and she, in a fit of paranoia, checked her fanny pack. Her face was… well, from what she could see, it was intact. Her body was something she refused to examine. For later. Much, much later. A strange feeling washed over her, and she felt a great weight settle in her stomach… a moment later, something resembling a head-sized opal fell from the bottom of her ribcage and shattered on the ground.
Oh. That might've been her actual stomach. She groaned, the sound echoing strangely.
Yeah. This felt about right.
She looked up. Hadal had been partially caught by the beam. Lost an arm, burned down to the stump. He clambered messily onto the roof of one of the buildings flanking this alleyway, groaning and panting. She didn't hesitate - she drew a deep breath and sliced. The top of the building erupted into a hail of dust and rubble - not completely destroyed, but she'd definitely committed a little act of domestic terrorism. Found it hard to care. She marched forward as the rubble fell and the dust rose, no eyes to shelter from the irritants in the air. No functional lungs to worry about when it came to the terrors of asbestos or black mould or whatever this ruined place had held. Hadal tumbled to the ground… and immediately sank into it, starting to escape her by any means necessary. Slowed by his injuries, his lack of focus. Sanagi glared… and a razor-thin beam screamed in his direction. A moment later, Hadal was screaming in pain as his flesh was seared, a beam cutting across his torso. His legs, severed at the waist, were stuck in the melting concrete, while the torso still struggled weakly. Unable to move very far. Sanagi jumped down into the pit he'd created, and grabbed the back of his huge neck with her skeletal hand. Didn't feel much stronger, but she couldn't feel anything. No heat to inhibit her, no pain to limit her movements. Even her shoulder just felt dead, a mass of muscle held in place out of nostalgia more than anything else. Maybe it'd heal. Maybe it wouldn't. At this point, she couldn't care.
Etsuko Sanagi was dead, and Etsuko Sanagi had walked away. Now she just looked the part of a half-broken replacement.
She said nothing to Hadal. She didn't know him, had no connection, and no interest in listening to his tragic life story - something else to have nightmares about. A beam generated…
And Hadal fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, his brain turned into a white-hot sludge that pooled out through a hole in his skull. Trepanation, that was it. Used to think it could get the demons out of someone's skull. Well, here she was, and that was a lot of demon coming out of him. Reflected very poorly on the guy. Her skeletal jaw creaked up and down, a vague simulation of a dry, tired chuckle. Hadal down. Colter and Rocinante down. Uheer at large… wait, had she seen Uheer? Maybe, but… running away. If she'd seen her at all, of course. Reality clicked into place, and she sprinted from the melted alleyway where she'd emerged into the world of the living once more. Gone to the underworld and climbed back out, changed and with a better understanding of who she was and how the world fit around her. Ahab. Needed to find Ahab. had to find Ahab, or this would've all been for nothing. She might be dead, but she still had something to fight for. Etsuko Sanagi had never liked Ahab all that much, thought she was an overly non-serious individual with far too many compromising personality traits to ever be trustworthy. But… Etsuko Sanagi had known her as a friend. A good, good friend.
Best, even.
She clattered through the streets. One foot still had a boot and (presumably), skin. The other was entirely bone with a thin covering of black filaments, and it set up sparks as it raked across the asphalt. A beam generated in her mouth, ready to slice open anything that dared come close, anything at all… Ahab, come on, Ahab, Ahab… she burst into the crossroads, the five intersecting streets which culminated in a warehouse. Black fog littered the place. Thick as mud, black as oil. And utterly impenetrable. She saw Mama's Boys lying around, wounded, dying, dead. Nearly a dozen. Even more - Teeth from other chapters. Had Hadal brought backup? Had Kabiri brought more? Had the civil war abruptly heated up to something larger than subdued street-fights?
Ahab had given as good as she got - gunned down almost all of them. Used to dealing with large numbers of poorly-armed combatants. She tracked their positions… dead, most of them, and arranged in concentric ranks of bodies, leading towards a single point that they'd clearly been assaulting. A building, just off to the side of the warehouse. Uncertain purpose, abandoned for years, dripping with rot and cooking in the afternoon heat. A building which was enmeshed in black fog. No heartbeat to increase, but Sanagi felt panic nonetheless. Her stars itched for release, and she sprinted towards it. It was right here, her friend was right here, but… but the fog… Sanagi walked closer to the single concentration of the stuff, large enough to cover most of the neighbourhood. She reached out, and pressed a single skeletal hand into it. Cold rushed over her, aching, awful cold, and…
And nothing else.
No paralysis. No fear. Just an inky pea-soup fog which reduced visibility. If she still had skin on her face, it would've broken into a hideous grin. She was very happy at the moment. Insanely happy. She let starlight bloom in her skull, brighter and brighter, but she kept it there - contained. And the fog made way for her. She must've been a sight - a half-fleshed skeleton in ragged clothes with a skull blazing with light, brighter than most lighthouses. She strode into the dark yonder, into the fog where Kabiri surely lay. And Ahab. Visibility was awful. The cold chilled her to her bones - not difficult, given how many were on display. She felt her way through, her brief time underground giving her pointers on how to navigate in pitch-blackness. No lights to guide her, even her starlight was swallowed whole in moments, wrapped up in opaque mist. She abandoned subtlety entirely. Charged forward, felt along the wall, found a door, and kicked it open with her booted foot. It was flung off its brittle, rusted hinges, and the building lay before her. Something moved in the dark. A pair of gleaming eyes projecting long beams of light directed towards her, and she could sense them widening in surprise.
Sanagi had created one sun today.
Now she made a second.
And Kabiri… lunged through the pain, lunged through the melting flesh and scorching muscle. She flinched back - no-one came closer once her beam had been launched, not if they had any sanity, but… she saw something in those hypnotic eyes. Something which made her want to stop, to cease, to bow down and accept this perfect vision of the afterlife… she didn't crumple, she didn't, but her beam faltered very slightly… and Kabiri jumped on her. Shock paralysed her where his eyes failed, and the two crumpled to the ground. She felt a body that wasn't entirely human. A mouth which was too wide, and had teeth running in perfect circles to the bottom of a throat which went beyond what his body should be able to contain. Rotten breath wafted out, the scent of dead flesh carried on it. Fingers which had far too many joints - almost six on each finger, and five on his thumb. Was she imagining… no. She lashed out with her skeletal hand, trying to grab his jaw, to pull down and tear it free from his face, or at least hurt him. She desperately wanted to hurt him.
"Beautiful."
That was all Kabiri said, in a deep, sonorous voice… before a rush of black fog emerged from his mouth. A deeper concentration. It filled her skull up, muffling the stars, suppressing thoughts, slowing everything to a crawl. Her perception dimmed. She could barely see him lunging upwards. And dashing away. The fog followed him, vanishing from the house. For a moment, she was utterly paralysed… and her stars bloomed brighter, brighter, brighter, burning away the fog inside. She ignored the way the heat was starting to burn her shoulders. Didn't care. Sanagi sprang from the ground, started to chase him with a silent roar on her lipless mouth… but the sky stopped her. Filled with tiltrotors. PRT troopers were descending en masse, armed with standard ballistics and containment foam launchers. They moved smoothly and swiftly, sliding from long black cords hanging from the side of their vehicles. The fog cleared, and she saw just… just how many Teeth there were. The Mama's Boys were here, sure, but there were others. She saw a small handful of people wearing animal skins and odd headdresses, a cluster of savage-looking women who wore fine ceramic plates over their clothes like rudimentary armour, even a handful of people with holes in their cheeks and antique clothing. They were all bloodied from the fighting, had torn each other halfway to pieces… and Kabiri's fog was gone entirely. Kabiri himself was nowhere to be seen… and already the PRT were attacking.
Suddenly, it all clicked.
She saw the plan.
Sarkis. Had to be.
Led them all here to kill one another off. And then the PRT would swoop in and take care of the rest. Dozens - dozens of Teeth were being contained, two of their inner circle were dead, and… had she injured Kabiri? She honestly wasn't sure. He'd been swift, adapting quickly to changing circumstances, but… they were moving fast. Very, very fast. Too fast. She knew about PRT reaction times, they were good but rarely this good, not with these kinds of numbers. Someone had been expecting this fight, and had dispatched troops accordingly. Hesitantly, she stepped back into the safety of the rotten house, and scanned it desperately for Ahab… there. Lying in a moss-green jacket, sprawled on the floor. Her eyes were wide, and as Sanagi watched she stabbed a syringe in her arm, depressing the plunger with an ecstatic sigh of relief. The force and enthusiasm of her subsequent leap suggested… some of what lay in there. Ahab jumped up, whooped, brushed herself down, kicked a wall, spat, swore, and kicked the wall again, this time piercing a hole through to the other side. Only then did she turn to see Sanagi.
Her eyes widened.
She approached slowly, unheeding of the sound of troopers outside.
A single hand reached out, and Sanagi remained perfectly still as Ahab stroked one of her cheekbones.
"...oh, you poor thing."
Sanagi wanted to blink in surprise. Felt natural. But… no. Just a mute stare, and a tiny shower of stars from between her teeth. Suddenly, the world contracted. She felt, keenly, the fine filaments over her bones. The warm air on her remaining skin. How little of it actually remained, really. The feeling of… of exposure. The hollowness which had only worsened now that her organs had mostly carbonised and fallen free to shatter on the ground. The dying embers of the scars she'd left in the house from her attack. Ahab smiled sadly… before taking her still-living hand, and dragging her away. Sanagi applied some of her face as she ran, uncaring about secret identities. She managed half. And half-faced, half-fleshed, and half-empty… she ran with Ahab into the golden yonder.
She'd find Kabiri.
But for now… for now she just wanted to hold her friend's hand and pretend she was normal.
AN: And that's all for today. See you tomorrow! Hope you all had a pleasant weekend.
Ivan the Not-so-Terrible
AH MEW CHEEKI BREEKI I V DAMKE
- Location
- Mikonyan’s USSR
What a delectably evil cliffhanger. Hate it, love it in equal measure.
No Eldritch quote for today. Just silence of the Cosmos.
Have a small sketch.
What's it crossing over with?
Oh, no.
These two chapters are a definite point of no return for Sanagi, the poor woman. I'm so curious to see where she goes in life (or, probably, which way life drags her) from here. Praying (I'm literally on my hands and knees right now) that my girl at least gets some sort of closure over Leah Goodluck Nettle's death.
Speaking of, we still don't know what Kabiri has in store for dear Mr. Levingston. Or, um… I realize now I'm talking about Arch (and, by extension, Ted), so… should I worry for Kabiri instead…?
In Memoriam
Sanagi's gains
Passed on July, 2023.
Sanagi's gains
Passed on July, 2023.
Last edited:
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
A Brocktonite Yankee in Queen Marika's Court - the other long fanfic I write. More of a straightforward Elden Ring crossover.
Corrected!
OK, first off, congratulations for catching up! It's a bit of a monster at this point, so honestly, congrats for slogging through the whole thing. Hope you like what's coming next, and thanks for sticking by it for so long!
And... OK, this is going to sound very weird, but I genuinely didn't think of that. Been ages since I thought of Die Rauber, and I was honestly just thinking of fun German cape names - Sturm und Drang just felt fun. But now I've looked it up and I can't overlook the parallels anymore, like, dang. That's a wild coincidence.
Happened beforehand, too. Taylor and Vicky - Taylor a cold, half-blind individual covered in scars, strongly associated with guns and a blindly obedient legion of insects. Also, age, given Chorei. Vicky, a pupil of this scarred individual, associated strongly with gold, passion, and certain animalistic traits. More collaborative with teams than Taylor, who's more of a stern commander.
Which is a weird parallel to the Colonel and the Lionsmith from Cultist Simulator, who form two parts of an Edge Dyad. It's nuts.
Oh, no.
These two chapters are a definite point of no return for Sanagi—poor woman. I'm so curious to see where she goes in life (or, probably, which way life drags her) from here. Praying (I'm literally on my hands and knees right now) that my girl at least gets some sort of closure over Leah Goodluck Nettle's death.
Speaking of, we still don't know what Kabiri has in store for dear Mr. Levingston. Or, um… I realize now I'm talking about Arch (and, by extension, Ted), so… should I worry for Kabiri instead…?
In Memoriam
Sanagi's gains
Passed on July, 2023.
Sanagi definitely has a fate in mind, don't ye worry. And... well, Kabiri and Arch will definitely be having an interesting encounter. Very interesting indeed, yes-yes.
And... gosh, yeah. Sanagi's gains. She's no longer as hench as she once was. Still has a bit of flesh, so not entirely gainless, but... no wonder Ahab pitied her. Definitely a point of no return at this point, and... well, I think I'll have a positive fate for her in time, but my characters really need to earn their happy endings.
220 - Selectric Skinner
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
220 - Selectric Skinner
Calvert hummed happily to himself. For a moment, he spun in his swivel chair to grab a document, and wondered if it would be terribly childish if he split a timeline to continue the swivel. On second thought, perhaps not. That felt like tomfoolery. Or in his case, Thomasfoolery. Heh. Oh, he could still have fun, his subordinates just didn't know the value of good humour. He reviewed his reports on the encounter… oh, wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Dozens of Teeth arrested or killed - a definitive victory for the PRT. Convenient - the police had been getting so very antsy, and the mayor was increasingly on their side in disputes over patrols, over the PRT taking over too many responsibilities and leaving the police diminished as a consequence… well, if they wanted those responsibilities, maybe they could've done a better job. Or armed their troops with state-of-the-art armour, weaponry, and tiltrotors. But no, someone had poor budget allocation and had been systematically bled dry by years of cuts used to fuel the ever-increasing growth of the PRT. Triggers were on the rise, and as long as they did, the PRT would grow in harmonious concordance. The press were having a field day - the Teeth, the scourge of old Brockton Bay, substantially damaged by severe strikes by the PRT, under the leadership of vice-director Thomas Calvert, professional amazing person. Oh, and add to the mix: Hadal was dead, Rocinante was dead, Colter was dead, and… hm. He reviewed his reports.
Hm.
Kabiri, no reported body. Fog had been seen vanishing, so troops had assumed he was neutralised by some of their nastier gas grenades… but no body had been found. He knew better than to count on this as an unfortunate accident - Kabiri was alive. Irritating. Uheer… contact had been reported, fire had been exchanged, but nothing more. No body. Ah. That could prove to be a bit unfortunate. And then there was Sanagi and Ahab, neither of whom had been found. Well… oh. Uheer had been reported shot, and the wound was considered fatal. They were searching the area for her now. Nothing yet, but he doubted she'd be able to escape. He quietly deployed some of his more discretely brutal agents (not sure why he made the distinction, all his agents were discrete and brutal, it was why he hired them) to go and sniff out their safehouses. Nowhere for her to go, no-one to treat her… friendless, isolated, and alone. Suitable fate for the milk-drinking bitch. Still. Sanagi didn't seem especially bright, Ahab was (and may God forgive him for saying this word) a Normal, and Kabiri was… trouble. He resolved to stick to the Rig. Easy enough. But as long as he was here, he was practically invulnerable.
So, to repeat: Teeth? Crippled. Mercenaries? Wiped out. PRT? Bolstered. His trousers? Currently normal. But previously… oh, previously… and his ledger was at his side. Oh, he loved this thing. It was like Buddhism or yoga, but markedly less nonsensical and full of irritating Californians. There was a good reason why he'd set up on this coast, California… bah. Never liked it. Never would. He hummed in contentment… the files on Sanagi had been expensive to forge, but he quietly deleted a few with casual ease. The mercenaries had been easy enough to intercept - the trick wasn't to plant evidence everywhere, it was simply to alter their connections to the broader world. Their computers had been hacked, their internet connections monitored, their calls intercepted. A few key emails (now deleted) to a few people he knew they'd get in touch with, a few split timelines to get appropriate blackmail… and he had conjured up a mercenary group which, with a click, had vanished. Rest in peace, Besmirch. You did nothing, and would continue to do nothing. Still a better moral record than most mercenary groups in his experience. God bless 'em.
And… oh, and his agents had managed to get into a few warehouses. Light resistance from some mall cops, private security, nothing of significance. None of them knew anything about SET, they were forbidden from going into certain areas, and were paid well enough to actually obey. Most were nothing - red herrings, designed to throw geniuses like him off the scent. But he'd been clever - oh so very clever. One of them had been very well-hidden, and had seemingly had nothing in it… to the casual observer. An old warehouse, records showing it had been abandoned for a very long time, guarded to keep squatters out and nothing more. Modified interior, small administrative centre built from plywood, and… a large open space in the middle. Nothing there. Nothing at all. But his agents had collected dust samples, and those had been interesting. Traces of tungsten - nothing unusual there, but digging deeper, they found very, very trace amounts of aldehyde ferredoxin oxidoreductase. Tungsten-containing enzyme present in a form of extremophilic archaea… and useful in one regard. The Directorate of the PRT communicated using a highly advanced form of encryption based on an altered form of this archaea (turned into a biomechanical mesh with enzyme added artificially), working on the chaos of random life to generate an intensely complex cipher for their every communication. A communication would become a molecule, a molecule would be read and transferred, the molecule would be converted by another microorganism, and the end result… a message. Bizarrely efficient for something so counter-intuitive. Utterly unhackable. No idea where things came from, or where they went - impossible to even detect transmission.
And he'd found a production facility for it. No-one else used this. No-one else had the money or time or need. Abandoned, but… he'd found a few scraps of metal from the engines used to make and harvest these things. Tracking them down was hard, but he managed it with a few dead timelines to show for the effort. Almost no-one would recognise this stuff, no-one would be looking for it here, and no-one would know what to do with it once they found it. It was tailored for him, he was sure of it. And the thought gave him… oh, shudders. He stroked the ledger softly. The archaea could be tracked, production facilities marked. He already had a target, and agents were closing in before anything could be changed. Once he had that… he stood to acquire knowledge of where these archaea were going. And if he knew that, he could find one of the Directorate's secretive hideouts. A little team, a little effort, and… boom. The unthinkable. He could replace a Director. He could access the Directorate. Oh, the…
Oh my, he was getting excited again.
Even his phone ringing - his personal phone - didn't bother him. His cheerful 'hello, neighbour' didn't endear him to the man on the other end. Smooth voice, coloured by laboured breath. Injured. Ah. Good.
"...Sarkis?"
"The one and only. How can I help you?"
"...deal… deal was… was done. Mercenaries are dead."
"Not all of them."
"Wasn't part of the deal. Now, I suggest you tell me what I want to know before I start causing a fuss."
Oh, and what fuss would that be, hm? What remarkable little deed could a wounded fanatic accomplish against someone ensconced in an enormous fortress? He underestimated his opposition. Idiot. But useful.
"Of course. Arch Levingston was… difficult to find. But find him I did. Expect some resistance. He's in a harmless protein farm outside of the city - lots of room for defences. I suggest infiltration. And whatever you find, you'll tell me, yes?"
"Of course."
Liar. But Calvert was lying too. Which didn't even it out, per se, but turned things from an honest arrangement into who was the bigger, more cunning bastard. And that, invariably, was Thomas Jackson Harold Calvert. And not some Fallen toady who was probably born with webbed feet. Once Kabiri was there, he intended to paint the ground with lead sprayed from a surreptitious tiltrotor. Put him down, then find out about Arch himself. Easy enough. He leant back in his seat, and hung up once the details were delivered. He perused his ledger with the easy languor of the truly satisfied, mulling over how, if he flicked his eyes in a particular hourglass pattern, the numbers began to resolve into a serenely smiling face, one that he thought he might recognise… but he never did. It was every face. It was the face of the universe, and most importantly, it was the face of himself.
It was good to be the boss.
Sanagi and Ahab moved cautiously through the city streets. PRT tiltrotors filled the air like great black locusts, each one of them heavily armed and surveilling the streets. The two of them stuck out far, far too much. Christ, what a clusterfuck. Sanagi winced internally every time her boney foot clacked against the stonework, worried that it would send up some imperceptible signal to the buzzards overhead who'd descend, guns blazing, to wipe them all out of existence. Worse, they were definitely looking for someone - they flew too slowly, circled too often, and hovered far too low to the ground. They were in a mid-range part of town, if they kept moving they might be able to reach the Boardwalk, and if they reached that, they could… no, slipping into a crowd wasn't an option, not with their appearances. Ahab would provoke stares - Sanagi would provoke screams. She slowly managed to staple her face back on, and finally managed to fully examine her ruined body. Ruined? Or evolved? Hard to say. She didn't particularly care. Her clothes had been damaged, but a surprising amount was intact. What stood out to her wasn't the half-charred bone, wasn't the crackling sharpness of opalised organs dissolving into fragments and tumbling free (she had lost her entire digestive system now, but her heart remained intact. A perfect gem, with a core of pulsing organic matter which lingered improbable onwards)... no, it was the fur.
The filaments had unwound as she ran, realising that they had no need to be so… confined. She could taste the air through them, sense things in ways she hadn't thought possible. These weren't just for disguises, they were sensory apparatus. The hairs were wiry, long, thin individually… but thick in number. She looked like a wild animal, some 19th century mermaid that a bizarre biologist would stitch together from random pieces of detritus. A human skeleton. Beetle pincers. And fur from some wiry creature that was presumably man-eating. She thought for a moment. Oh. Oh dear. Her mother would… was she really her mother? No, Etsuko Sanagi had filial piety, she was filially pious to a fault. Wouldn't just abandon her mother. But she imagined the look on her face. She'd seen Sanagi faceless from a distance. Had never asked for a repeat. Never wanted to see it again. And like this… no more pleasant retirement for Sanagi, no more well-off husband and quiet house in the suburbs. Sanagi wasn't an idiot. She knew her mother was lonely without dad around, and with Sanagi all grown up… she wanted some grandchildren to peck over, to obsess over, to fuss and worry and spoil and do all manner of grandmotherly things.
No more of that. Didn't even have a womb anymore.
They ducked into an alleyway… computing and machinery tore. Old. Still stocking equipment that was out of date a very, very long time ago. Electric typewriters, bulky radio equipment… closed. Abandoned, dust everywhere. Long dead casualty. Sanagi and Ahab glanced in… and Sanagi quietly fired up her beam. Easy to do it, now. Nothing inhibiting her. No doubts, no fears… well, no doubts or fears related to the beam. Everything else was fair game. The lock melted away in moments under the pressure of a tiny, white-hot beam of light… oh, her control had improved a little. Good. Useful. Ahab pushed her way in, flashlight gleaming as she checked every corner, marked them with her gun as she went. She looked nervous - her forehead pustules were weeping again, sign she'd been rubbing at them too often. Nervous tic. The beam cut through the dust, searching, searching… nothing. The place was barren. Nice enough part of town that robbery was difficult, well-looked after doors and windows, so hard to break in, and… well, what was there to steal? She remembered her mother typing on these things in days gone by. A moment passed… a tiltrotor rumbled overhead… troopers chattered in harsh crackles of radio static…
Nothing.
No-one was here. The store had plenty of places to hide. The melted lock was pushed out of its socket easily, leaving a door which was simply barred up with a floorboard and some stray nails in the back. There. Just an abandoned store again - nothing unnatural. The two huddled in the backrooms, surrounded by ancient Selectric typewriters, most of them a light green which reminded her of ancient medical rooms and nurse's uniforms. No light. Neither of them dared.
A crack.
A chunk of Sanagi's small intestine had found itself lodged up in her chest cavity in all the excitement. It was a dull jade colour, from what she saw… shattered into many pieces. Gone. She stared at it blankly. Out of vanity, she reached into her fanny pack… one glass eye. Other had been lost, she remembered it crunching apart when she was dragged underground. Oh well. Half her face was still off, she'd been hiding it by angling herself carefully when she ran, no time to really get it on properly. The other part… the glass eye slipped in. One glass eye, one empty bony socket. A mane, and a high ruff of wiry fur from what had once been part of her shoulders. Ahab examined her closely as she did this, noting that she didn't bother getting the rest of her face on, not even when she had the time and opportunity to do so. Didn't question it.
"...hey, Etsuko…"
She looked up. Her throat was intact. She could speak. But it was a little raspy. Echoey. Faintly husky. Burned.
"Hm?"
"Holding up?"
"Hm."
"Sounding like Turk."
"Hm."
The two lingered for a moment… and Sanagi let out a long sigh.
"I don't mind. Not really. Didn't have many prospects. Maybe I can make a career asking people riddles from under bridges."
Ahab cracked a tiny smile. Obviously false. Sanagi didn't hugely mind.
"Steal some firstborns, that's the ticket. You can ransom the little shits back."
"Make people guess my first name?"
"That works, that works. Stealing firstborns, first names, riddles… what haven't we covered?"
"Maybe I can hide under Kaiser's house and whisper secrets from his walls and say I'll go away if he does a series of very specific things."
"Sanagi, you have a very in-depth knowledge of goblin and troll folklore."
"Not really. It was a hobby a while back. That and birdwatching."
"You're a birdwatcher, I knew it."
"I break up, I get a new hobby until my next relationship or I get pissy."
She fell silent. Oh no. Sad again. Ahab reached over and punched her in the shoulder.
"Hey, c'mon. You've still got it. I'm sure some capes get lucky even without the relevant… components."
Sanagi sighed.
"I know. I know."
"For what it stands, I still think you're pretty cute."
Sanagi looked up. That… why was Ahab the one and only person she knew who complimented her physical appearance? Called her 'hench', 'jacked', and now… cute? Why was it just Ahab? Maybe she had an ulterior motive of some kind? No, Sanagi had nothing to steal, being her friend had few advantages… maybe… hm… she sized up the woman. Hm. Hmmm. Ahab gave her a look.
"Don't read into that."
She stopped reading into that. And she was forced to confront that, just maybe… Ahab was just nice. And Sanagi didn't feel her normal weird aversion to being liked by someone who was so… so… Ahab. At the moment, she was in a typewriter storage room with her friend, and she was… she was actually fairly happy. For once, and it was bizarre, but she actually felt… comfortable with herself. She was a hideous abomination, but… well, what had really changed? In the end, she found that… well, a tension had unwound itself. The filaments had come free. Her stars were spiralling out of her skull, flowing into her ribcage, catching on the crystalline contours of her heart and turning it into a shining lamp in the depths of her ribcage. Ahab gave it an appreciative look. And she'd hurt Kabiri. Oh, she'd hurt him. She could feel it - burned him, and badly. How long until he died? She had him wounded, slowed, vulnerable… she could survive his fog. No way he'd beat her. No way whatsoever. Stars flowed freely, in greater quantities. Guilt still pulsed, of course. But… but she'd made it, hadn't she?
Ahab scooted over the floor, and quietly draped an arm around Sanagi's shoulders, ignoring the harsh contours of her bones. Sanagi hesitated… and leaned into her.
She was, in a very, very strange way… happy.
Uheer sagged into the sewer. Blood stained the ladder leading down - her blood. Never seen so much of it before. And that was saying something. The PRT had descended, and she'd… tried to stay out of their way. When that became impossible, she tried to surrender. If she got swallowed up by the system, she could negotiate a little. Bureaucracy could be a shield for types like herself. Calvert didn't run the whole organisation, and if she was inside she'd be safe. Not like she had many ambitions beyond surviving at this point. Her power was flickering in and out, scheming desperately. Latching onto anything she could think of, any organisation, and coming up with the most rudimentary, surface-level plans for disassembling them. She stumbled into the sewer, and silently cursed the sewer maintenance people in Brockton Bay.
Plan: sewer maintenance workers have higher-than-average levels of social alienation and loneliness. Expose to Merchant remnants, ensure addiction. Expose to more severe criminal elements (suggestion: Cuban parahuman cartels). Use sewers in criminal enterprises. Expose for major scandal, coincide with budget negotiations. Expectation: department is defunded and partially disassembled, cost of lawsuits will cripple for years to come. Other expectations: notable decline in public health.
Shut the fuck up, power.
But the PRT had fired on her. Fired on sight. Had her hands raised, had her gun on the ground, she was doing everything she was meant to do. And they fired. No containment foam. Calvert. Fucked them over, and now he'd managed to arrange her execution. His control extended further than she thought - she'd assumed he was a spineless creep with no real power. But evidently he was able to perfectly forge records and issue fucking kill orders… how fucking powerful was he, kill orders had to be approved by the Directorate, how could… anyway. She'd barely escaped, used up her last smoke grenade. Dove into a sewer, hid in the dark, descended deeper… had to keep moving. Her power was being useless. Only providing more instructions for disassembling every piece of civic organisation she could think of. She tried to focus on the PRT again, come on, come on, something, just for vicious catharsis, and…
Plan: irrelevant. Major organisation shift imminent. Waiting is the most optimal solution.
Come on, what kind of organisational shift?
Silence.
Well, could she disassemble the PRT afterwards?
Silence.
Right. Couldn't work with hypothetical organisations. Had to be real, here and now. She stumbled onwards, trying to stay calm. Colter and Rocinante were dead. Both of them. And she was on her way to join those dickheads in whatever hell was reserved for mercenaries. It was funny - Uheer. The name was from her childhood. The spirits of the forgotten dead, come back to take revenge on those who had stopped commemorating them. Deformed figures roaming in packs, wearing rotten rags, screaming in their suffering. She remembered being told about them as a child. Told to perform the rites if she didn't want her family to be cursed in the future. Buddhists could only suppress them temporarily, and the longer they lived, the harder they became. They couldn't be evoked in rituals, not with their identities lost. How do you call a spirit when its name is dead, when its past is gone, when nothing lingers but a vengeful, miserable hate? Physically dead. Socially dead. She liked the concept as a mask for her work. Oh, no. She was thinking of Mongolia again.
She hated thinking of Mongolia.
Come on, more plans - disassemble the current PRT, without waiting for it to happen naturally. Her power struggled. Hated having to deal with parameters like this. Hated having to restrain itself from the most optimal path.
Plan: disassembling current PRT would require exceptional resources, and-
ALTERATION.
She froze. It never did that. Never.
New data point found. Integrated into plan.
Major vulnerability found.
She focused. Come on, more information, more information… and… and… her head felt warm. Very warm. She felt something bloom behind her eyes. A heat that was oddly chilling, that made her want to sag down in a fit of despair. Her eyes felt dry, so very, very dry… her mind kept trying to push against this idea, kept trying to get into it and understand it fully, but… she sagged to the ground, twitching erratically. She could feel something coiling, something furious, something yellow. A desire to give in, to let the despair win, to embrace oneness and the ending of the self, to…
[CONTAMINANT. ROLLBACK ACTIVE]
Her eyes widened. What had she been thinking about? Disassembling the PRT, or… oh. She felt a sudden wash of apathy. Why was she investigating this? Just wait. If she survived, she could check again after this massive organisational shift. If she survived. The sewers were damp, filthy, her wounds were deep and refused to stop bleeding. Out of wound sealant. A bullet in her side. Large. Pressure was only doing so much. Coming in spurts - sealed off the major arterial damage, but the sealant wasn't designed to hold it back under this kind of pressure. Already starting to break down. Where could she go? The PRT were patrolling, Calvert wanted her dead, that repo team (not sure if they were a real repo team at this point, honestly) was out for blood… she needed a shelter. She needed somewhere to rest. She stumbled onwards. Memories flowed through her, and she pointedly ignored them. Memories were for the dying. And she wasn't going to die.
Rocinante - Rafael. Had two brothers, died when the Three Blasphemies attacked Madrid. Life insurance would go to her by default if there was no family. Colter - Harold. Had a girlfriend until recently. Cheated on him. Badly. She'd found him in the aftermath, covered in blood, laughing with his friends. But she knew the empty look in his eyes. He'd had no-one left after that, no-one he wanted to give his life insurance to. She remembered a bar in Casablanca on the waterfront, where they'd agreed to split their death payouts. 75% to their families. 25% to a pool, collected by the last surviving member of their trio. A little gamble. No more families - 100% was in the pool now. And she was the only one left to claim it. If she did, though, she had to abide by their wishes. Rocinante said that if she wanted his death payout, she needed to learn how to make good paella. Like, good enough that a master would approve. And Colter had wanted the last survivor to go and take care of his dog. She wasn't sure if he meant to kill him or not. Depended on how annoying the dog was, she supposed. Come on, she had a dog to look after. She had paella to make.
She had things to do.
So… OK, she had no contacts here, none that she could rely on for safehouses. Keshig PMC had no outpost here, nearest office was in Boston. Just needed to get up there and she could get flown out in no time at all, to a country with no extradition. But for now…
Wait.
She remembered getting a call. That new cape, Neither-Nor, she had a friend who had a friend in Keshig. Maybe… that friend was apparently a mercenary, if her research was correct. Maybe… her wound sealant was failing. No time to think. Had to move. Slowly, painfully, she eased herself onwards. Further, further…
To perhaps the one remnant of sanity in this fucking city.
Vicky was staring at a knife.
She'd been staring at this knife for a few hours now. She had yet to become bored. If anything, her fascination simply kept growing. A certain box lingered upstairs, sealed up, pinned under everything she could reasonably stack on top of it, and under it, and around it, and basically surround it with until not a trace of escape remained. She had to keep going, had to keep locking it up, or… or… she didn't want to think about what could happen. Crawling out. Finding her in her sleep. A day had passed since the… encounter with her parents. Never going to live that down. Which was why no-one would ever know about it. No-one would know about the time she wore the skin of an insane Nazi in order to stop her parents from suing an innocent tea shop owner who'd… killed a huge number of people, but entirely legally and for profit. So… gah. The knife. Anyway. The dreams had been unpleasant. The visions had been weird. And the knife was the key to all of it - if she understood it, she could understand everything else, she could meaningfully contribute, she could change things. Taylor was still gone. The Butcher too. Ahab and Sanagi were moving on something, and… she sighed. Come on. Knife.
Destruction of the self. Obliteration of ego. Utter obsession with role and surface. The masks that were chains. The feeling of a rotten pelt, of a human skin pulled tightly around her own, clinging lovingly and filling her mind with a mind that wasn't hers, filled her mouth with a voice that she'd never heard in her life, and… and placed, at her fingertips, the shades of a power. She almost wanted to get the skin out again. Just to have a look. Iron Rain had severed everything - including her power. All in an effort to hide her identity from the world. Killed a family to make sure there were no witnesses to her change. Left the skin with Gerrit, maybe accidentally, maybe not, but it prevented anyone from tracking her down. How many people could really know about it? Maybe she was one of the very few. Either way… come on, focus. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, she began to bring the point of the knife closer to her hand, biting her lip… she felt it make contact with her shield. And there it remained. Come on. Push. Just a little… it slipped forward, and a blast of cold ran over her skin, her shield tightened, and she dropped the knife.
"Fucking… cunt!"
Oh wow, she was getting vulgar these days. In her defence, she was very, very stressed. Did this count as headway? She'd felt something coming up, felt her shield start to be flayed away, but… it had clung. Tightly. Gerrit had managed it, and her shield had clearly remembered the experience and refused to let it happen again. Maybe it was just because she was an amateur, maybe it was more…
She groaned.
"Getting anywhere?"
Turk was still standing around. Polishing a teacup. Looking awkward. She groaned.
"No."
A cup of tea was placed in front of her. Lots of milk. Lots of sugar. Buttered crumpet on the edge of the saucer.
She loved Turk. So damn much.
She sipped quietly, looking out into the gathering day… Turk was leaving his radio off, there was no TV, nothing. Nice and peaceful. Things were…
A bloody woman slammed against the door. She remained there for a moment, one bloodshot eye staring into the shop… and slowly, she reached up to grab the handle. A click, a jingle from the bell, and she was sprawled on the floor. Vicky blinked. Turk didn't. He moved. Crouched over her, looking more exasperated than anything else. The woman looked… weird. Weird macintosh/poncho thing, huge belts over her clothes for ammunition, grenades… a holster for a gun, a holster for another gun, this one bigger… and wounds. She floated up and over the table, knife still in hand. Fully aware of how she looked, but not finding the ability to give a shit. Fuck, that was… a terrifyingly small amount of blood in that wound. How much had she lost? Turk examined her quickly, and found… a tiny badge in her pocket. His mouth tightened.
"What is it?"
"Keshig. PMC. I was in touch with this team. Recently."
The woman, her features concealed behind a mask of blood, dust, and assorted filth groaned. It'd taken everything to get here. Vicky's eyes flicked over what remained of her, trying to get some sort of scope on the damage. So, bullet wound to the side, minor abrasions, but… the wound to the side was the issue. Nicked an artery. Plugged with some kind of sealant, doubtful that it would last for long. She looked closer… hadn't lasted at all. It was broken. She was simply running out of blood. Pale as a corpse, and almost as cold. The wound looked… she recognised that kind of impact. Her mom had made her take a small course on ballistics, part of being a well-rounded cape meant not being lazy, learning the same things the cops had to. This wasn't just a normal shooting, the wound was too large for small-arms fire, the burning suggested an unnaturally high velocity… something from a rifle, a single shot. Who would… ah. She knew. PRT. Their rifles tended to work in single highly powerful shots or limited bursts, almost never going full-auto. Never pretty when kill orders were handed down. Her eyes widened. Oh fuck. This woman had been shot by a PRT rifle. Turk was working quickly.
"Help."
A command, not a plea. Vicky helped him lift her up, take off the poncho, and he immediately ripped at her shirt. Why would… ah. A tattoo, just under her collarbone. A long identification number, KESHIG, a tiny logo, and a blood type. AB-. Rare. Shit. Turk was looking nervous. She was aware that he didn't have the right type, and nor did she. So, no blood. He worked at the wound, trying to stitch it, but… a grim, resigned expression was spreading across his face. He didn't have the blood necessary for her. And it looked like she was going into shock… had gone into shock halfway down the road, honestly. Miracle she managed to get this far. He looked at Vicky, who was struggling to apply pressure.
"No hope."
"...well, maybe we can get her to a hospital-"
"No time. You saw the wound. She's wanted."
"We could still…"
She had an idea.
"If I could get her into that skin, we could take her to the hospital in disguise, she-"
"No. Time."
"But it could save her, it…"
She trailed off, already flying up. Furniture was flung aside as she burrowed for the cardboard box, already whispering temptingly to her. She dragged it downstairs… and Turk was hunched over the body, a needle in his hand. Combat stim. Powerful. But it'd kill her - her body wouldn't he able to handle it. Vicky ripped open her box, grabbed her knife, stole one of Turk's washing-up gloves so she wouldn't have to touch the skin, and started to work. She murmured as she worked.
"Come on, just hold on a little longer, we can-"
Trailed off again. The skin was shifting in the box, moving like a snake, never remaining in the same spot for longer than a second. Come on, come on… grab it, pinch it between glove-clad fingers. The skin started to creep upwards already, a limp hand struggling to reach for her… she immediately lowered it to the woman. Knife at the ready. The skin touched her clothes, touched her skin, and… nothing. She blinked. Come on, work, dammit. Another attempt. The skin simply refused to adhere. It kept trying to reach for her, instead. Fuck, fuck… her wounds were aching, couldn't abide the distraction. Come on, you were so fucking willing to cling on, half-suffocate her, and blast her mind with shit she never wanted to see again, but one half-dead person, and… and…
Couldn't she do something heroic with this fucking knife?
Turk placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"I can give her a few minutes of lucidity. If you have questions… ask them."
Vicky let out a shaky breath.
"...fine. Go on."
The needle entered her shoulder, depressing and releasing its payload. A flood of chemicals entered, and the woman abruptly woke up. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and she buzzed with unnatural energy. Already a film of sweat had broken out on her forehead, and the wound in her side was struggling to resume bleeding. Her heart was trying to circulate blood which no longer existed. Her lungs were trying to oxygenate blood that simply wouldn't come. Running on fumes now, kept alive by chemicals. Not much time. Her voice was flat. Low.
"Contact?"
"Hm."
"Milk. Please."
Vicky rushed to the fridge and back in record time, a huge glass of milk at the ready. The woman's hands twitched, struggling to rise up… Turk intervened, helping her sit upright, helping her sip from the glass. A weird rush of relief swept over the woman - the buzzing declined, ever-so-slightly.
"Thank you."
"Name?"
"Uheer. Keshig. You?"
"Turk. O.K. I spoke to your superior."
"...good. Girl?"
"Cape. Ignore her."
"Had enough of capes."
Turk cracked a tiny, tiny smile. Barely noticeable to anyone who hadn't known him for a while. Uheer sipped at her milk for a long few moments, and with each sip her activity declined. By the time she was halfway done, she was barely moving at all. Not long before the end. Vicky was watching with wide eyes, mind reeling.
"What happened?"
"Betrayed by employer. Attacked. Others are dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Three life insurance policies wasted."
She grimaced.
"That's the worst part."
Vicky piped up, her voice shaking.
"Not the… dying bit?"
"Dying doesn't feel like anything."
Uheer sagged back, her muscles gradually loosening and relaxing, the chemical stimulant fading away. Could barely support herself now.
"Information."
Her breath was coming faster.
"Major… major organisational change imminent in PRT."
Faster. Faster. She was coming close to the end.
"Angrboda is alive."
Vicky's eyes went somehow wider. Turk stiffened. Uheer shook suddenly, a rattle of dead air escaping her throat. She looked... surprised.
"...khüiten baina…"
She hesitated… and fell silent. Her last word had been exhaled. A half-said thing, trailing on the coattails of a dying breath. Vicky leant closer. Come on, just a little more. More explanations, more… nothing. No breath. The light in her eyes had died out. Turk crossed himself, murmured a tiny prayer in Russian, and reached forward to shut her eyes. She looked almost peaceful - but the blood disrupted any illusion of peace. She'd died violently, had finally expired surrounded by people she didn't know, trying to deliver a message. Entered into Vicky's life just as suddenly as she left. Vicky was used to corpses, to death. She was, but… it still wasn't pleasant. And… goddammit, the message hadn't been complete. Angrboda was alive? And major organisational change… what? There needed to be more, more explanations, more elaboration… come on, why did this have to happen, why did someone just stumble in, deliver ominous warnings, and then die? She felt like she was going insane, this was fucking weird, this didn't happen in real life, this…
"Fuck."
She wanted to yell that. But all that emerged was a defeated sigh with a word loosely attached. Turk gave her a look, and nodded slightly. Yeah. Fuck. The floor was coated in blood, everything near Uheer was filthy. Who had she been? What had been her goal in life? What would she have done if she survived? Vicky couldn't help but think this as she looked at the dead mercenary. Would she have preferred to live a quiet, boring, peaceful life? In the end, had her life been worth living? Vicky wondered if she'd consider her own life truly worth living if she was shot, and bled out surrounded by strangers in a random tea shop in the middle of a northwest port town. Someone had died in front of her. Failed completely at saving her. Didn't even know she was at risk, just... showed up and died a moment later. Fuck, just… fuck.
Something twitched.
Vicky could feel her knife vibrating, and her gaze flicked down to it. What was… come on, the skin hadn't worked (and she promptly started stuffing the thing back in its box before weighing it down with a heavy chair), why would… why was… she stared at the shining white knife, so thin that if she turned it on its side it seemed to vanish. A knife which would cut so cleanly the body couldn't feel a thing. It vibrated harder, almost seeming to jab into her hand, the metal aching for use and itching to force her to use it properly. Why did…
Wait.
Memories.
Powers.
Oh no. No. Couldn't... though... she was already dead, and doing this might actually... was she justifying this to herself? She was, and... and it was working. She felt resolve crystallising, an urge to actually help. To find out what Uheer had wanted to say, and carry it forwards. Christ almighty...
She stared at the woman. Then at the knife. Her glance shifted to Turk. His eye widened.
"I'll… clear a table upstairs."
He looked pale. Turk looked pale, and it wasn't from blood loss.
That probably meant that what was about to happen was the most fucked up thing she'd ever done. Vicky stared into the middle distance. She used to be nice. She used to be quite a nice cape, in the grand scheme of things. A little rough, sure. Maybe a little reckless. But generally good-natured.
She leaned closer to the woman.
"I'm… really sorry for this."
The knife wasn't sorry.
The knife wasn't sorry at all.
Calvert hummed happily to himself. For a moment, he spun in his swivel chair to grab a document, and wondered if it would be terribly childish if he split a timeline to continue the swivel. On second thought, perhaps not. That felt like tomfoolery. Or in his case, Thomasfoolery. Heh. Oh, he could still have fun, his subordinates just didn't know the value of good humour. He reviewed his reports on the encounter… oh, wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Dozens of Teeth arrested or killed - a definitive victory for the PRT. Convenient - the police had been getting so very antsy, and the mayor was increasingly on their side in disputes over patrols, over the PRT taking over too many responsibilities and leaving the police diminished as a consequence… well, if they wanted those responsibilities, maybe they could've done a better job. Or armed their troops with state-of-the-art armour, weaponry, and tiltrotors. But no, someone had poor budget allocation and had been systematically bled dry by years of cuts used to fuel the ever-increasing growth of the PRT. Triggers were on the rise, and as long as they did, the PRT would grow in harmonious concordance. The press were having a field day - the Teeth, the scourge of old Brockton Bay, substantially damaged by severe strikes by the PRT, under the leadership of vice-director Thomas Calvert, professional amazing person. Oh, and add to the mix: Hadal was dead, Rocinante was dead, Colter was dead, and… hm. He reviewed his reports.
Hm.
Kabiri, no reported body. Fog had been seen vanishing, so troops had assumed he was neutralised by some of their nastier gas grenades… but no body had been found. He knew better than to count on this as an unfortunate accident - Kabiri was alive. Irritating. Uheer… contact had been reported, fire had been exchanged, but nothing more. No body. Ah. That could prove to be a bit unfortunate. And then there was Sanagi and Ahab, neither of whom had been found. Well… oh. Uheer had been reported shot, and the wound was considered fatal. They were searching the area for her now. Nothing yet, but he doubted she'd be able to escape. He quietly deployed some of his more discretely brutal agents (not sure why he made the distinction, all his agents were discrete and brutal, it was why he hired them) to go and sniff out their safehouses. Nowhere for her to go, no-one to treat her… friendless, isolated, and alone. Suitable fate for the milk-drinking bitch. Still. Sanagi didn't seem especially bright, Ahab was (and may God forgive him for saying this word) a Normal, and Kabiri was… trouble. He resolved to stick to the Rig. Easy enough. But as long as he was here, he was practically invulnerable.
So, to repeat: Teeth? Crippled. Mercenaries? Wiped out. PRT? Bolstered. His trousers? Currently normal. But previously… oh, previously… and his ledger was at his side. Oh, he loved this thing. It was like Buddhism or yoga, but markedly less nonsensical and full of irritating Californians. There was a good reason why he'd set up on this coast, California… bah. Never liked it. Never would. He hummed in contentment… the files on Sanagi had been expensive to forge, but he quietly deleted a few with casual ease. The mercenaries had been easy enough to intercept - the trick wasn't to plant evidence everywhere, it was simply to alter their connections to the broader world. Their computers had been hacked, their internet connections monitored, their calls intercepted. A few key emails (now deleted) to a few people he knew they'd get in touch with, a few split timelines to get appropriate blackmail… and he had conjured up a mercenary group which, with a click, had vanished. Rest in peace, Besmirch. You did nothing, and would continue to do nothing. Still a better moral record than most mercenary groups in his experience. God bless 'em.
And… oh, and his agents had managed to get into a few warehouses. Light resistance from some mall cops, private security, nothing of significance. None of them knew anything about SET, they were forbidden from going into certain areas, and were paid well enough to actually obey. Most were nothing - red herrings, designed to throw geniuses like him off the scent. But he'd been clever - oh so very clever. One of them had been very well-hidden, and had seemingly had nothing in it… to the casual observer. An old warehouse, records showing it had been abandoned for a very long time, guarded to keep squatters out and nothing more. Modified interior, small administrative centre built from plywood, and… a large open space in the middle. Nothing there. Nothing at all. But his agents had collected dust samples, and those had been interesting. Traces of tungsten - nothing unusual there, but digging deeper, they found very, very trace amounts of aldehyde ferredoxin oxidoreductase. Tungsten-containing enzyme present in a form of extremophilic archaea… and useful in one regard. The Directorate of the PRT communicated using a highly advanced form of encryption based on an altered form of this archaea (turned into a biomechanical mesh with enzyme added artificially), working on the chaos of random life to generate an intensely complex cipher for their every communication. A communication would become a molecule, a molecule would be read and transferred, the molecule would be converted by another microorganism, and the end result… a message. Bizarrely efficient for something so counter-intuitive. Utterly unhackable. No idea where things came from, or where they went - impossible to even detect transmission.
And he'd found a production facility for it. No-one else used this. No-one else had the money or time or need. Abandoned, but… he'd found a few scraps of metal from the engines used to make and harvest these things. Tracking them down was hard, but he managed it with a few dead timelines to show for the effort. Almost no-one would recognise this stuff, no-one would be looking for it here, and no-one would know what to do with it once they found it. It was tailored for him, he was sure of it. And the thought gave him… oh, shudders. He stroked the ledger softly. The archaea could be tracked, production facilities marked. He already had a target, and agents were closing in before anything could be changed. Once he had that… he stood to acquire knowledge of where these archaea were going. And if he knew that, he could find one of the Directorate's secretive hideouts. A little team, a little effort, and… boom. The unthinkable. He could replace a Director. He could access the Directorate. Oh, the…
Oh my, he was getting excited again.
Even his phone ringing - his personal phone - didn't bother him. His cheerful 'hello, neighbour' didn't endear him to the man on the other end. Smooth voice, coloured by laboured breath. Injured. Ah. Good.
"...Sarkis?"
"The one and only. How can I help you?"
"...deal… deal was… was done. Mercenaries are dead."
"Not all of them."
"Wasn't part of the deal. Now, I suggest you tell me what I want to know before I start causing a fuss."
Oh, and what fuss would that be, hm? What remarkable little deed could a wounded fanatic accomplish against someone ensconced in an enormous fortress? He underestimated his opposition. Idiot. But useful.
"Of course. Arch Levingston was… difficult to find. But find him I did. Expect some resistance. He's in a harmless protein farm outside of the city - lots of room for defences. I suggest infiltration. And whatever you find, you'll tell me, yes?"
"Of course."
Liar. But Calvert was lying too. Which didn't even it out, per se, but turned things from an honest arrangement into who was the bigger, more cunning bastard. And that, invariably, was Thomas Jackson Harold Calvert. And not some Fallen toady who was probably born with webbed feet. Once Kabiri was there, he intended to paint the ground with lead sprayed from a surreptitious tiltrotor. Put him down, then find out about Arch himself. Easy enough. He leant back in his seat, and hung up once the details were delivered. He perused his ledger with the easy languor of the truly satisfied, mulling over how, if he flicked his eyes in a particular hourglass pattern, the numbers began to resolve into a serenely smiling face, one that he thought he might recognise… but he never did. It was every face. It was the face of the universe, and most importantly, it was the face of himself.
It was good to be the boss.
* * *
Sanagi and Ahab moved cautiously through the city streets. PRT tiltrotors filled the air like great black locusts, each one of them heavily armed and surveilling the streets. The two of them stuck out far, far too much. Christ, what a clusterfuck. Sanagi winced internally every time her boney foot clacked against the stonework, worried that it would send up some imperceptible signal to the buzzards overhead who'd descend, guns blazing, to wipe them all out of existence. Worse, they were definitely looking for someone - they flew too slowly, circled too often, and hovered far too low to the ground. They were in a mid-range part of town, if they kept moving they might be able to reach the Boardwalk, and if they reached that, they could… no, slipping into a crowd wasn't an option, not with their appearances. Ahab would provoke stares - Sanagi would provoke screams. She slowly managed to staple her face back on, and finally managed to fully examine her ruined body. Ruined? Or evolved? Hard to say. She didn't particularly care. Her clothes had been damaged, but a surprising amount was intact. What stood out to her wasn't the half-charred bone, wasn't the crackling sharpness of opalised organs dissolving into fragments and tumbling free (she had lost her entire digestive system now, but her heart remained intact. A perfect gem, with a core of pulsing organic matter which lingered improbable onwards)... no, it was the fur.
The filaments had unwound as she ran, realising that they had no need to be so… confined. She could taste the air through them, sense things in ways she hadn't thought possible. These weren't just for disguises, they were sensory apparatus. The hairs were wiry, long, thin individually… but thick in number. She looked like a wild animal, some 19th century mermaid that a bizarre biologist would stitch together from random pieces of detritus. A human skeleton. Beetle pincers. And fur from some wiry creature that was presumably man-eating. She thought for a moment. Oh. Oh dear. Her mother would… was she really her mother? No, Etsuko Sanagi had filial piety, she was filially pious to a fault. Wouldn't just abandon her mother. But she imagined the look on her face. She'd seen Sanagi faceless from a distance. Had never asked for a repeat. Never wanted to see it again. And like this… no more pleasant retirement for Sanagi, no more well-off husband and quiet house in the suburbs. Sanagi wasn't an idiot. She knew her mother was lonely without dad around, and with Sanagi all grown up… she wanted some grandchildren to peck over, to obsess over, to fuss and worry and spoil and do all manner of grandmotherly things.
No more of that. Didn't even have a womb anymore.
They ducked into an alleyway… computing and machinery tore. Old. Still stocking equipment that was out of date a very, very long time ago. Electric typewriters, bulky radio equipment… closed. Abandoned, dust everywhere. Long dead casualty. Sanagi and Ahab glanced in… and Sanagi quietly fired up her beam. Easy to do it, now. Nothing inhibiting her. No doubts, no fears… well, no doubts or fears related to the beam. Everything else was fair game. The lock melted away in moments under the pressure of a tiny, white-hot beam of light… oh, her control had improved a little. Good. Useful. Ahab pushed her way in, flashlight gleaming as she checked every corner, marked them with her gun as she went. She looked nervous - her forehead pustules were weeping again, sign she'd been rubbing at them too often. Nervous tic. The beam cut through the dust, searching, searching… nothing. The place was barren. Nice enough part of town that robbery was difficult, well-looked after doors and windows, so hard to break in, and… well, what was there to steal? She remembered her mother typing on these things in days gone by. A moment passed… a tiltrotor rumbled overhead… troopers chattered in harsh crackles of radio static…
Nothing.
No-one was here. The store had plenty of places to hide. The melted lock was pushed out of its socket easily, leaving a door which was simply barred up with a floorboard and some stray nails in the back. There. Just an abandoned store again - nothing unnatural. The two huddled in the backrooms, surrounded by ancient Selectric typewriters, most of them a light green which reminded her of ancient medical rooms and nurse's uniforms. No light. Neither of them dared.
A crack.
A chunk of Sanagi's small intestine had found itself lodged up in her chest cavity in all the excitement. It was a dull jade colour, from what she saw… shattered into many pieces. Gone. She stared at it blankly. Out of vanity, she reached into her fanny pack… one glass eye. Other had been lost, she remembered it crunching apart when she was dragged underground. Oh well. Half her face was still off, she'd been hiding it by angling herself carefully when she ran, no time to really get it on properly. The other part… the glass eye slipped in. One glass eye, one empty bony socket. A mane, and a high ruff of wiry fur from what had once been part of her shoulders. Ahab examined her closely as she did this, noting that she didn't bother getting the rest of her face on, not even when she had the time and opportunity to do so. Didn't question it.
"...hey, Etsuko…"
She looked up. Her throat was intact. She could speak. But it was a little raspy. Echoey. Faintly husky. Burned.
"Hm?"
"Holding up?"
"Hm."
"Sounding like Turk."
"Hm."
The two lingered for a moment… and Sanagi let out a long sigh.
"I don't mind. Not really. Didn't have many prospects. Maybe I can make a career asking people riddles from under bridges."
Ahab cracked a tiny smile. Obviously false. Sanagi didn't hugely mind.
"Steal some firstborns, that's the ticket. You can ransom the little shits back."
"Make people guess my first name?"
"That works, that works. Stealing firstborns, first names, riddles… what haven't we covered?"
"Maybe I can hide under Kaiser's house and whisper secrets from his walls and say I'll go away if he does a series of very specific things."
"Sanagi, you have a very in-depth knowledge of goblin and troll folklore."
"Not really. It was a hobby a while back. That and birdwatching."
"You're a birdwatcher, I knew it."
"I break up, I get a new hobby until my next relationship or I get pissy."
She fell silent. Oh no. Sad again. Ahab reached over and punched her in the shoulder.
"Hey, c'mon. You've still got it. I'm sure some capes get lucky even without the relevant… components."
Sanagi sighed.
"I know. I know."
"For what it stands, I still think you're pretty cute."
Sanagi looked up. That… why was Ahab the one and only person she knew who complimented her physical appearance? Called her 'hench', 'jacked', and now… cute? Why was it just Ahab? Maybe she had an ulterior motive of some kind? No, Sanagi had nothing to steal, being her friend had few advantages… maybe… hm… she sized up the woman. Hm. Hmmm. Ahab gave her a look.
"Don't read into that."
She stopped reading into that. And she was forced to confront that, just maybe… Ahab was just nice. And Sanagi didn't feel her normal weird aversion to being liked by someone who was so… so… Ahab. At the moment, she was in a typewriter storage room with her friend, and she was… she was actually fairly happy. For once, and it was bizarre, but she actually felt… comfortable with herself. She was a hideous abomination, but… well, what had really changed? In the end, she found that… well, a tension had unwound itself. The filaments had come free. Her stars were spiralling out of her skull, flowing into her ribcage, catching on the crystalline contours of her heart and turning it into a shining lamp in the depths of her ribcage. Ahab gave it an appreciative look. And she'd hurt Kabiri. Oh, she'd hurt him. She could feel it - burned him, and badly. How long until he died? She had him wounded, slowed, vulnerable… she could survive his fog. No way he'd beat her. No way whatsoever. Stars flowed freely, in greater quantities. Guilt still pulsed, of course. But… but she'd made it, hadn't she?
Ahab scooted over the floor, and quietly draped an arm around Sanagi's shoulders, ignoring the harsh contours of her bones. Sanagi hesitated… and leaned into her.
She was, in a very, very strange way… happy.
* * *
Uheer sagged into the sewer. Blood stained the ladder leading down - her blood. Never seen so much of it before. And that was saying something. The PRT had descended, and she'd… tried to stay out of their way. When that became impossible, she tried to surrender. If she got swallowed up by the system, she could negotiate a little. Bureaucracy could be a shield for types like herself. Calvert didn't run the whole organisation, and if she was inside she'd be safe. Not like she had many ambitions beyond surviving at this point. Her power was flickering in and out, scheming desperately. Latching onto anything she could think of, any organisation, and coming up with the most rudimentary, surface-level plans for disassembling them. She stumbled into the sewer, and silently cursed the sewer maintenance people in Brockton Bay.
Plan: sewer maintenance workers have higher-than-average levels of social alienation and loneliness. Expose to Merchant remnants, ensure addiction. Expose to more severe criminal elements (suggestion: Cuban parahuman cartels). Use sewers in criminal enterprises. Expose for major scandal, coincide with budget negotiations. Expectation: department is defunded and partially disassembled, cost of lawsuits will cripple for years to come. Other expectations: notable decline in public health.
Shut the fuck up, power.
But the PRT had fired on her. Fired on sight. Had her hands raised, had her gun on the ground, she was doing everything she was meant to do. And they fired. No containment foam. Calvert. Fucked them over, and now he'd managed to arrange her execution. His control extended further than she thought - she'd assumed he was a spineless creep with no real power. But evidently he was able to perfectly forge records and issue fucking kill orders… how fucking powerful was he, kill orders had to be approved by the Directorate, how could… anyway. She'd barely escaped, used up her last smoke grenade. Dove into a sewer, hid in the dark, descended deeper… had to keep moving. Her power was being useless. Only providing more instructions for disassembling every piece of civic organisation she could think of. She tried to focus on the PRT again, come on, come on, something, just for vicious catharsis, and…
Plan: irrelevant. Major organisation shift imminent. Waiting is the most optimal solution.
Come on, what kind of organisational shift?
Silence.
Well, could she disassemble the PRT afterwards?
Silence.
Right. Couldn't work with hypothetical organisations. Had to be real, here and now. She stumbled onwards, trying to stay calm. Colter and Rocinante were dead. Both of them. And she was on her way to join those dickheads in whatever hell was reserved for mercenaries. It was funny - Uheer. The name was from her childhood. The spirits of the forgotten dead, come back to take revenge on those who had stopped commemorating them. Deformed figures roaming in packs, wearing rotten rags, screaming in their suffering. She remembered being told about them as a child. Told to perform the rites if she didn't want her family to be cursed in the future. Buddhists could only suppress them temporarily, and the longer they lived, the harder they became. They couldn't be evoked in rituals, not with their identities lost. How do you call a spirit when its name is dead, when its past is gone, when nothing lingers but a vengeful, miserable hate? Physically dead. Socially dead. She liked the concept as a mask for her work. Oh, no. She was thinking of Mongolia again.
She hated thinking of Mongolia.
Come on, more plans - disassemble the current PRT, without waiting for it to happen naturally. Her power struggled. Hated having to deal with parameters like this. Hated having to restrain itself from the most optimal path.
Plan: disassembling current PRT would require exceptional resources, and-
ALTERATION.
She froze. It never did that. Never.
New data point found. Integrated into plan.
Major vulnerability found.
She focused. Come on, more information, more information… and… and… her head felt warm. Very warm. She felt something bloom behind her eyes. A heat that was oddly chilling, that made her want to sag down in a fit of despair. Her eyes felt dry, so very, very dry… her mind kept trying to push against this idea, kept trying to get into it and understand it fully, but… she sagged to the ground, twitching erratically. She could feel something coiling, something furious, something yellow. A desire to give in, to let the despair win, to embrace oneness and the ending of the self, to…
[CONTAMINANT. ROLLBACK ACTIVE]
Her eyes widened. What had she been thinking about? Disassembling the PRT, or… oh. She felt a sudden wash of apathy. Why was she investigating this? Just wait. If she survived, she could check again after this massive organisational shift. If she survived. The sewers were damp, filthy, her wounds were deep and refused to stop bleeding. Out of wound sealant. A bullet in her side. Large. Pressure was only doing so much. Coming in spurts - sealed off the major arterial damage, but the sealant wasn't designed to hold it back under this kind of pressure. Already starting to break down. Where could she go? The PRT were patrolling, Calvert wanted her dead, that repo team (not sure if they were a real repo team at this point, honestly) was out for blood… she needed a shelter. She needed somewhere to rest. She stumbled onwards. Memories flowed through her, and she pointedly ignored them. Memories were for the dying. And she wasn't going to die.
Rocinante - Rafael. Had two brothers, died when the Three Blasphemies attacked Madrid. Life insurance would go to her by default if there was no family. Colter - Harold. Had a girlfriend until recently. Cheated on him. Badly. She'd found him in the aftermath, covered in blood, laughing with his friends. But she knew the empty look in his eyes. He'd had no-one left after that, no-one he wanted to give his life insurance to. She remembered a bar in Casablanca on the waterfront, where they'd agreed to split their death payouts. 75% to their families. 25% to a pool, collected by the last surviving member of their trio. A little gamble. No more families - 100% was in the pool now. And she was the only one left to claim it. If she did, though, she had to abide by their wishes. Rocinante said that if she wanted his death payout, she needed to learn how to make good paella. Like, good enough that a master would approve. And Colter had wanted the last survivor to go and take care of his dog. She wasn't sure if he meant to kill him or not. Depended on how annoying the dog was, she supposed. Come on, she had a dog to look after. She had paella to make.
She had things to do.
So… OK, she had no contacts here, none that she could rely on for safehouses. Keshig PMC had no outpost here, nearest office was in Boston. Just needed to get up there and she could get flown out in no time at all, to a country with no extradition. But for now…
Wait.
She remembered getting a call. That new cape, Neither-Nor, she had a friend who had a friend in Keshig. Maybe… that friend was apparently a mercenary, if her research was correct. Maybe… her wound sealant was failing. No time to think. Had to move. Slowly, painfully, she eased herself onwards. Further, further…
To perhaps the one remnant of sanity in this fucking city.
* * *
Vicky was staring at a knife.
She'd been staring at this knife for a few hours now. She had yet to become bored. If anything, her fascination simply kept growing. A certain box lingered upstairs, sealed up, pinned under everything she could reasonably stack on top of it, and under it, and around it, and basically surround it with until not a trace of escape remained. She had to keep going, had to keep locking it up, or… or… she didn't want to think about what could happen. Crawling out. Finding her in her sleep. A day had passed since the… encounter with her parents. Never going to live that down. Which was why no-one would ever know about it. No-one would know about the time she wore the skin of an insane Nazi in order to stop her parents from suing an innocent tea shop owner who'd… killed a huge number of people, but entirely legally and for profit. So… gah. The knife. Anyway. The dreams had been unpleasant. The visions had been weird. And the knife was the key to all of it - if she understood it, she could understand everything else, she could meaningfully contribute, she could change things. Taylor was still gone. The Butcher too. Ahab and Sanagi were moving on something, and… she sighed. Come on. Knife.
Destruction of the self. Obliteration of ego. Utter obsession with role and surface. The masks that were chains. The feeling of a rotten pelt, of a human skin pulled tightly around her own, clinging lovingly and filling her mind with a mind that wasn't hers, filled her mouth with a voice that she'd never heard in her life, and… and placed, at her fingertips, the shades of a power. She almost wanted to get the skin out again. Just to have a look. Iron Rain had severed everything - including her power. All in an effort to hide her identity from the world. Killed a family to make sure there were no witnesses to her change. Left the skin with Gerrit, maybe accidentally, maybe not, but it prevented anyone from tracking her down. How many people could really know about it? Maybe she was one of the very few. Either way… come on, focus. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, she began to bring the point of the knife closer to her hand, biting her lip… she felt it make contact with her shield. And there it remained. Come on. Push. Just a little… it slipped forward, and a blast of cold ran over her skin, her shield tightened, and she dropped the knife.
"Fucking… cunt!"
Oh wow, she was getting vulgar these days. In her defence, she was very, very stressed. Did this count as headway? She'd felt something coming up, felt her shield start to be flayed away, but… it had clung. Tightly. Gerrit had managed it, and her shield had clearly remembered the experience and refused to let it happen again. Maybe it was just because she was an amateur, maybe it was more…
She groaned.
"Getting anywhere?"
Turk was still standing around. Polishing a teacup. Looking awkward. She groaned.
"No."
A cup of tea was placed in front of her. Lots of milk. Lots of sugar. Buttered crumpet on the edge of the saucer.
She loved Turk. So damn much.
She sipped quietly, looking out into the gathering day… Turk was leaving his radio off, there was no TV, nothing. Nice and peaceful. Things were…
A bloody woman slammed against the door. She remained there for a moment, one bloodshot eye staring into the shop… and slowly, she reached up to grab the handle. A click, a jingle from the bell, and she was sprawled on the floor. Vicky blinked. Turk didn't. He moved. Crouched over her, looking more exasperated than anything else. The woman looked… weird. Weird macintosh/poncho thing, huge belts over her clothes for ammunition, grenades… a holster for a gun, a holster for another gun, this one bigger… and wounds. She floated up and over the table, knife still in hand. Fully aware of how she looked, but not finding the ability to give a shit. Fuck, that was… a terrifyingly small amount of blood in that wound. How much had she lost? Turk examined her quickly, and found… a tiny badge in her pocket. His mouth tightened.
"What is it?"
"Keshig. PMC. I was in touch with this team. Recently."
The woman, her features concealed behind a mask of blood, dust, and assorted filth groaned. It'd taken everything to get here. Vicky's eyes flicked over what remained of her, trying to get some sort of scope on the damage. So, bullet wound to the side, minor abrasions, but… the wound to the side was the issue. Nicked an artery. Plugged with some kind of sealant, doubtful that it would last for long. She looked closer… hadn't lasted at all. It was broken. She was simply running out of blood. Pale as a corpse, and almost as cold. The wound looked… she recognised that kind of impact. Her mom had made her take a small course on ballistics, part of being a well-rounded cape meant not being lazy, learning the same things the cops had to. This wasn't just a normal shooting, the wound was too large for small-arms fire, the burning suggested an unnaturally high velocity… something from a rifle, a single shot. Who would… ah. She knew. PRT. Their rifles tended to work in single highly powerful shots or limited bursts, almost never going full-auto. Never pretty when kill orders were handed down. Her eyes widened. Oh fuck. This woman had been shot by a PRT rifle. Turk was working quickly.
"Help."
A command, not a plea. Vicky helped him lift her up, take off the poncho, and he immediately ripped at her shirt. Why would… ah. A tattoo, just under her collarbone. A long identification number, KESHIG, a tiny logo, and a blood type. AB-. Rare. Shit. Turk was looking nervous. She was aware that he didn't have the right type, and nor did she. So, no blood. He worked at the wound, trying to stitch it, but… a grim, resigned expression was spreading across his face. He didn't have the blood necessary for her. And it looked like she was going into shock… had gone into shock halfway down the road, honestly. Miracle she managed to get this far. He looked at Vicky, who was struggling to apply pressure.
"No hope."
"...well, maybe we can get her to a hospital-"
"No time. You saw the wound. She's wanted."
"We could still…"
She had an idea.
"If I could get her into that skin, we could take her to the hospital in disguise, she-"
"No. Time."
"But it could save her, it…"
She trailed off, already flying up. Furniture was flung aside as she burrowed for the cardboard box, already whispering temptingly to her. She dragged it downstairs… and Turk was hunched over the body, a needle in his hand. Combat stim. Powerful. But it'd kill her - her body wouldn't he able to handle it. Vicky ripped open her box, grabbed her knife, stole one of Turk's washing-up gloves so she wouldn't have to touch the skin, and started to work. She murmured as she worked.
"Come on, just hold on a little longer, we can-"
Trailed off again. The skin was shifting in the box, moving like a snake, never remaining in the same spot for longer than a second. Come on, come on… grab it, pinch it between glove-clad fingers. The skin started to creep upwards already, a limp hand struggling to reach for her… she immediately lowered it to the woman. Knife at the ready. The skin touched her clothes, touched her skin, and… nothing. She blinked. Come on, work, dammit. Another attempt. The skin simply refused to adhere. It kept trying to reach for her, instead. Fuck, fuck… her wounds were aching, couldn't abide the distraction. Come on, you were so fucking willing to cling on, half-suffocate her, and blast her mind with shit she never wanted to see again, but one half-dead person, and… and…
Couldn't she do something heroic with this fucking knife?
Turk placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"I can give her a few minutes of lucidity. If you have questions… ask them."
Vicky let out a shaky breath.
"...fine. Go on."
The needle entered her shoulder, depressing and releasing its payload. A flood of chemicals entered, and the woman abruptly woke up. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and she buzzed with unnatural energy. Already a film of sweat had broken out on her forehead, and the wound in her side was struggling to resume bleeding. Her heart was trying to circulate blood which no longer existed. Her lungs were trying to oxygenate blood that simply wouldn't come. Running on fumes now, kept alive by chemicals. Not much time. Her voice was flat. Low.
"Contact?"
"Hm."
"Milk. Please."
Vicky rushed to the fridge and back in record time, a huge glass of milk at the ready. The woman's hands twitched, struggling to rise up… Turk intervened, helping her sit upright, helping her sip from the glass. A weird rush of relief swept over the woman - the buzzing declined, ever-so-slightly.
"Thank you."
"Name?"
"Uheer. Keshig. You?"
"Turk. O.K. I spoke to your superior."
"...good. Girl?"
"Cape. Ignore her."
"Had enough of capes."
Turk cracked a tiny, tiny smile. Barely noticeable to anyone who hadn't known him for a while. Uheer sipped at her milk for a long few moments, and with each sip her activity declined. By the time she was halfway done, she was barely moving at all. Not long before the end. Vicky was watching with wide eyes, mind reeling.
"What happened?"
"Betrayed by employer. Attacked. Others are dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Three life insurance policies wasted."
She grimaced.
"That's the worst part."
Vicky piped up, her voice shaking.
"Not the… dying bit?"
"Dying doesn't feel like anything."
Uheer sagged back, her muscles gradually loosening and relaxing, the chemical stimulant fading away. Could barely support herself now.
"Information."
Her breath was coming faster.
"Major… major organisational change imminent in PRT."
Faster. Faster. She was coming close to the end.
"Angrboda is alive."
Vicky's eyes went somehow wider. Turk stiffened. Uheer shook suddenly, a rattle of dead air escaping her throat. She looked... surprised.
"...khüiten baina…"
She hesitated… and fell silent. Her last word had been exhaled. A half-said thing, trailing on the coattails of a dying breath. Vicky leant closer. Come on, just a little more. More explanations, more… nothing. No breath. The light in her eyes had died out. Turk crossed himself, murmured a tiny prayer in Russian, and reached forward to shut her eyes. She looked almost peaceful - but the blood disrupted any illusion of peace. She'd died violently, had finally expired surrounded by people she didn't know, trying to deliver a message. Entered into Vicky's life just as suddenly as she left. Vicky was used to corpses, to death. She was, but… it still wasn't pleasant. And… goddammit, the message hadn't been complete. Angrboda was alive? And major organisational change… what? There needed to be more, more explanations, more elaboration… come on, why did this have to happen, why did someone just stumble in, deliver ominous warnings, and then die? She felt like she was going insane, this was fucking weird, this didn't happen in real life, this…
"Fuck."
She wanted to yell that. But all that emerged was a defeated sigh with a word loosely attached. Turk gave her a look, and nodded slightly. Yeah. Fuck. The floor was coated in blood, everything near Uheer was filthy. Who had she been? What had been her goal in life? What would she have done if she survived? Vicky couldn't help but think this as she looked at the dead mercenary. Would she have preferred to live a quiet, boring, peaceful life? In the end, had her life been worth living? Vicky wondered if she'd consider her own life truly worth living if she was shot, and bled out surrounded by strangers in a random tea shop in the middle of a northwest port town. Someone had died in front of her. Failed completely at saving her. Didn't even know she was at risk, just... showed up and died a moment later. Fuck, just… fuck.
Something twitched.
Vicky could feel her knife vibrating, and her gaze flicked down to it. What was… come on, the skin hadn't worked (and she promptly started stuffing the thing back in its box before weighing it down with a heavy chair), why would… why was… she stared at the shining white knife, so thin that if she turned it on its side it seemed to vanish. A knife which would cut so cleanly the body couldn't feel a thing. It vibrated harder, almost seeming to jab into her hand, the metal aching for use and itching to force her to use it properly. Why did…
Wait.
Memories.
Powers.
Oh no. No. Couldn't... though... she was already dead, and doing this might actually... was she justifying this to herself? She was, and... and it was working. She felt resolve crystallising, an urge to actually help. To find out what Uheer had wanted to say, and carry it forwards. Christ almighty...
She stared at the woman. Then at the knife. Her glance shifted to Turk. His eye widened.
"I'll… clear a table upstairs."
He looked pale. Turk looked pale, and it wasn't from blood loss.
That probably meant that what was about to happen was the most fucked up thing she'd ever done. Vicky stared into the middle distance. She used to be nice. She used to be quite a nice cape, in the grand scheme of things. A little rough, sure. Maybe a little reckless. But generally good-natured.
She leaned closer to the woman.
"I'm… really sorry for this."
The knife wasn't sorry.
The knife wasn't sorry at all.
221 - St Elmo and St Lidwina Sitting in a Tree, F-L-A-Y-I-N-G
GraftingBuddha
Retired Pooh-Bah
221 - St Elmo and St Lidwina Sitting in a Tree, F-L-A-Y-I-N-G
Taylor and the Butcher worked like devils. The boat was a rusty mass in the middle of a storm, the engines were straining just to keep them moving, and they'd repurposed the umbrella as a sail. The Butcher had politely explained that while she could teleport, it was explosive. She noted that she'd never tried teleporting with another person yet. Never been inclined to pick brains off her armour for hours. Because even if Taylor managed to teleport with her, she wouldn't survive the explosion at the end. Point-blank, surrounding her on all sides. Dead in seconds. Plus, the Butcher's teleport was short-range, and she couldn't do it into open water. So… if she sank, she was fucked. The two heaved desperately at the umbrella, Brute ratings keeping them from simply getting tugged overboard. The boat was moving fast, too fast… but it was skimming over the waves. They surged up, up,up, then down, down, down, crashing with great sprays of sea-foam while the roar of thunder played around them. Taylor said nothing. Endured the storm in silence - Chorei was asleep. Couldn't speak. Too profoundly exhausted. And the Butcher… Patience was laughing like a maniac. For all that the grafting had shocked some sobriety into her, she was still a woman that had willingly become the Butcher.
No-one who did that was totally sane.
She laughed at the clouds, hair streaming around her, eyes bloodshot from the salt and flesh red from the endless stinging spray. Taylor was sure that she looked like a drowned rat, in her combination of suit and old armour. The helmet clung to her head, serving as an adequate shield from the rain. Heavy enough to resist the wind. Her gauntlet acted as a makeshift glove. But Patience… Taylor had to admit that there was something striking about her. A pale, tall figure, somewhere between a pianist, a fencer, and a ballerina, wearing a salt-stained bathing suit that showed off almost all her twisting, straining muscles. Her hair was blown backwards, exposing a hard, grinning face. Even with the Butcher's minds suppressed… she was remarkable. Made this rusty tub feel like something grand. The storm stirred higher, and… oh shit. St Elmo's Fire. Crackling false flames on the stern of the boat, spreading along the edges and sparking viciously. Taylor's eye widened at the sight of them, at the alien illumination they produced, the stark shadows they cast. Patience turned, her half-glowing eyes flicked to Taylor, and her grin widened, teeth flashing white from the fire on the stern and bow.
"Towards thee I roll, thou all-consuming but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!"
She was… she was fucking quoting Moby Dick. In the middle of a storm. Surrounded by St. Elmo's Fire. While she charged to meet her fate head-on, to confront something awful that Angrboda had started and the Butchers intended to finish. This was… OK, this was… everything else excluded, all context, all foreboding, everything but this precise moment in time? This was fucking amazing. She was mature enough to admit that. Taylor pictured Matrimonial… and without a swarm to put her tics and twitches into, she found her mouth baring into a snarling grin of tension and anticipation. Love and hate melding into the single cry of a wolf in the night, a wolf that ate itself as readily as it ate the sun. A hunger to swallow the universe and birth a new one from the ruin. She gritted her teeth and kept hauling the umbrella, anchoring her feet into the boat. For a moment, they surmounted a wave and took to the air, for a long few seconds they flew… before slamming down again with enough force to dent the hull, a rumble that made her legs quake, sending the fire on the rim of the boat flaring higher, turning the world into a sheet of crackling blue and churning black. The two of them must have looked insane, and… and Taylor may have gotten carried away. Her mother studied literature. Taylor had read Moby Dick. Liked it. Remembered a line, too.
"Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap with thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly I worship thee!"
Patience cackled, and reached across to slap Taylor's helmet in sheer unfettered excitement.
"That's my girl!"
It was telling that Taylor didn't object. Said a lot about the intensity of the storm, which rose higher and higher. But… there was something in Patience. A desperation in her laugh which hadn't been there before. A feeling of fear rose up in Taylor as she heard Patience shrieking random quotes louder and louder, from a dozen different sources. The voices must be coming back. How long until they were loud enough to overwhelm? How long until Chorei woke up and could do her work again? What happened if Chorei overexerted? Reality crashed home with all the certainty of the mountainous waves that rose up on all sides.
From Hell's heart they voyaged, in search of the wolfish shore.
For a lover Taylor wanted dead… and something even Patience couldn't allow to happen.
As the two travelled whooped in the artificial night of the stormclouds, Vicky stared down at a body, knife in hand. Vicky leant over Uheer… no, Uheer's body. Uheer was gone. Only meat lingered. She tried desperately to reassure herself of that fact. The woman was completely dead, no life remained in her… but evidently the knife thought there was enough left to be skinned and repurposed. Turk was standing nearby, and… oh. She'd never seen that before - he had a tiny cross in one hand, dwarfed by his boulder-sized fists. Well-worn, wood, with a little smooth piece of metal that had clearly once been Christ. They were upstairs, surrounded by smiling Soviet-era models and piles of crippled furniture that she'd been using to hold that box closed. The skin was quiet at the moment, slumbering like a content cat in the depths of its cardboard den. She could still hear it rustling from time to time. Alright. Calm down. Deep breath. She was wearing a kitchen apron, there was newspaper spread on the ground around her… she was fine. She could get through this. Her hands were numbed with painkillers, and she could actually wiggle a few of them. Enough to get a grip on her knife… and honestly, weird as it was, her shield helped. She'd never felt it this… flexible before, honestly. It felt like it was extending very slightly from her fingers - her fingers would twitch, and her shield would move further, extending itself to mimic the movements she wanted to make.
It was… weird. Not too unpleasant. Definitely not high-ranking on the list of weird shit she'd been encountering.
OK. Flaying. Come on. Been through worse, presumably. She just needed an insight into the nature of things, a little glimpse of what Uheer had seen. Turk had informed her that she was a cape, pretty good thinker power. If so, just a tiny bit of access to that power would be enough - or her memories, just her memories. Her knife hovered. Come on. Get over it. Just desecrating a corpse. The knife came closer… and with a push, it slipped into the skin with the barest whisper.
There was a moment of stillness…
And Vicky had to make use of the strategically placed bucket.
Wiping her mouth off, she shuddered. The knife was still there - fallen from her hand, it'd carved a cold smile into Uheer's arm as it fell to the table. A thin trickle of blood - cold as ice, thick as treacle. It slowly spread over the table, and fell with slow, slow drops to the ground. The newspaper soaked it up, but it still formed a blooming stain, a leering red pupil staring up at her. Another retch. Turk picked his way carefully over the newspaper and patted her on the back. He looked as uncertain as she felt.
"You don't need to. We have other leads."
"...do we? I mean, she said Angrboda was alive, and that something big was going down with the PRT. Unless Taylor literally comes through that door right now with all the answers… there's no chance. None."
She was convincing herself more than anything. This entire mess contained a bundle of issues. The Butcher business, Angrboda, the increasing strangeness of the city, her lingering suspicion of the PRT, the weird shit in Naaktgeboren Ridge, her own feeling of inadequacy, weakness, impotence… it was all too much. And now she had a chance to make up for some of it. Find out vital points, prove some mastery over the Razor, and maybe… maybe do something with herself. Something useful. Taylor was gone, the others were spread apart, she… she needed to help. Needed to prove that what happened in the mountains was worth something, and wasn't just a pointless excursion where she was wounded, traumatised, and then failed to even take care of the person who'd done both. She focused on the feeling of a rotten pelt, of shuddering her way through dark, cold caves… a hint of determination rose up in her like a surge of bile. Floated back to the table, refusing to step on the increasingly stained newspaper. Knife reclaimed, cleaned on Uheer's sleeve. Turk gave her a look.
"Fucked up."
"...it's pretty fucked up. Yeah."
She paused.
"Do you have… goggles?"
A pair was already thrown before she finished talking, and she glanced over to see a be-goggled Turk looking up mournfully at one of his vintage Soviet models - a willowy blonde who smiled coyly down at the amateur autopsy. She genuinely hoped she wasn't going to stain these things irrevocably. No-one recovered from having bloodstained posters of Soviet models in their rooms. No-one. She returned to Uheer, ignoring the coldness, the tackiness of her skin, the feeling of dried blood on her hands… come on, just get the skin off. She pierced again, this time restraining the urge to throw up… and began to angle the blade sideways, to slip under the skin and start to peel it off. She tried… and the knife slipped, carving a wide gash and tearing the skin. Fuck. Ruined. She withdrew, and… Turk began to talk.
"Saw some Dutch freaks skin someone alive once. Mercenaries. All legal. Start at the legs. I think."
He shrugged.
"Not familiar, myself. Would you like-"
"No, no, no, I have to do this myself."
"...fucked up."
"Yeah. I know."
OK, start with the legs… this seemed a little easier, maybe if she… fuck. Another slip, another gash, another rush of treacle-thick blood that was rapidly darkening to a putrid black in colour. Fuck, fuck, fuck. OK. Come on. Start again, and… she couldn't do this. Her hands were shaking. Her brain was rebelling against itself. Nothing about this was natural. She couldn't - just couldn't. And Turk couldn't do it, he lacked the experience in skinning people, and… and fuck, she was so fucking useless. Couldn't kill Gerrit, couldn't save Taylor in time, couldn't stop anything. But she could get traumatised over and over for no fucking reason, that was something she could do fucking amazingly, and… shit. Turk remained at a distance, and Vicky rested her hands on the table. OK. Come on. She slapped herself in the face - yeah, she could… no. No, nothing had really changed, this wasn't something she could steel herself through, she needed a fucking For Dummies book on this. Flaying For Dummies. If they made that, she wanted it. She wanted it so fucking badly. Her eyes drifted over to the cardboard box.
Wëll, löök whö cömës cräwlïng bäck. Änd äftër yöü sö cällöüsly rëmövëd më läst tïmë.
Her eyes flicked back to the body. OK, maybe if she started on the other leg, and… OK, she was getting somewhere, the skin was coming away in a single piece, she was- fuck. The muscle was getting in the way, she either tore the skin or was basically just hacking Uheer apart layer by layer, Christ, she was fucked up. OK, but… she was definitely getting better, though. If Amy was here, she could just… command the skin to jump off or something, or… no, no, she didn't work with dead tissue. Needed to be mostly alive for her to work on it. Come on - heroes did what was necessary, even when it was gross as shit and morally grey. Uheer was dead, but by doing this she could save a lot of people. Maybe. Most likely. And then she was booking herself in for some serious therapy. She remembered her mom coming home with bloody hands when she was younger. Explained that she'd had to give a thug an impromptu tracheotomy after he ran away and fell into a pit, crushing his throat with a stray rock. The guy had been resistant the whole time, hopped up on something. She'd had to incapacitate him, give him a tracheotomy, in the process soaking herself with blood. Come on, she could… could get through this. Her uncle Neil once had to reach into a dead man's mouth to rip out some nasty piece of tinkertech from his skull. Said the smell didn't go away for weeks. Come on, she could handle some post-mortem flaying. For the good of the city. The knife vibrated… weaker than before. The chance was fading.
Yöü'rë rëälly döïng ä nümbër ön thät pöör wömän. Ï wöndër ïf thërë's göïng tö bë ënöügh för ä händkërchïëf by thë tïmë yöü'rë dönë.
Vicky scowled. Not responding. Just a skin that wanted to be worn, that was it.
Öf cöürsë Ï wänt tö bë wörn, bëïng wörn ïs nïcë. Yöü shöüld try ït sömëtïmë, whën yöü'rë rëädy tö türn thät knïfë ön yöürsëlf lïkë ä bïg gïrl.
A pause.
…göödnëss, Ï wöndër whö hërë häd ëxpërïëncë wïth fläyïng cültïvätëd övër thë cöürsë öf yëärs thröügh shëër börëdöm, änd thën shëër nëcëssïty? Göödnëss gräcïöüs, cöüld thërë bë süch ä përsön? Mëïn Gött, ït's ät thë tïp öf my nönëxïstënt töngüë…
Her eyes slid back over
Äh. Hërë wë ärë.
Vicky quietly opened the box. The skin stared back at her. Not putting it on. Not again. Her throat tightened at the very thought, but… she looked deeper. Memories. Powers. Skills honed through practice. Didn't want to think about the practice element, but… well, Iron Rain had managed to flay herself while only making a mistake with the hand. Everything else had been flawless. The skin seemed to wink at her coquettishly. One of these days, Vicky was going to get Crystal, Mouse Protector, Astrid, Taylor, and all her friends and family together and ritually burn this thing. Maybe she could ask Lung or something, he seemed like the kind of guy to enjoy this. She sighed.
And her knife whipped out.
Whät, nö, dön't-
The voice cut off as she sliced into the skin, around the elbows. There was no sound but flesh being parted, no screams of anguish, bellows of rage… all of it was silent. Good. The voice had… was it psychosis crossed with something there? Was she doing the equivalent of a crazy lady finding patterns in random numbers? Or projecting an intelligence onto something that had none? Either way, it was quiet. Made her very slightly happy. The cutting was quick and easy, and she had a long pair of gloves at her disposal. She noticed that the wounds from Turk's removal were gone from the thing, which raised the disturbing possibility of flayed skins produced by this razor actually… healing, which implied some kind of life, or… anyway. These things would heal back on, then. Meant she wasn't ruining everything by doing this. The gloves were hard to slip on over her clothes, but she refused to come more into contact than was strictly necessary. A tiny slip of skin-on-skin contact, that was all - just around the wrist, where her plastic gloves and sleeve met. A spark…
Memories. Memories of people dragged into her presence. Knives manifesting from the ceiling to pin them to the ground, before she drew her favourite knife and set to work. She never took full skins in those days, just… patches. Handkerchiefs. Scarfs. Neckties. Lampshades. It wasn't a madness thing, just a… habit. Flaying was a good way of punishing the slave races and the race traitors - left marks, but wasn't necessarily fatal unless she did it to the whole body. Or too much of it. Either way, she was left with a squirming mass of subservient meat, and some skin. Had to do something with it, right? Gerrit had just made her do it more… completely. More skilfully. Showed her how to part meat and skin, how to retain toughness while avoiding common butchery, how to stretch the skin over a frame so it could dry properly, how it needed to be properly treated unless you wanted it to rot or dry up. Needed moisture. A true artist didn't need to do it - their skins would be effortless, and produced with-
Vicky bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Focus returned gradually, but… to her disgust, her hands moved much, much faster. The knife flipped easily between her fingers, and she felt a mild, innocent enjoyment in just watching it gleam, in playing with risk, in marvelling at the swiftness and accuracy or her own muscles… she wanted to flinch for a moment, to let it drop, to remind herself that she was still Vicky, but… the knife dropped when she twitched, and her other hand immediately reached to grab it smoothly and bring it into position. Iron Rain had been… good at this. Perversely good. Even before Gerrit, she clearly enjoyed knives. No wonder people called those the bad old days - when Marquis put on public executions, when Iron Rain could torture anyone she liked, when it took everything at the PRT and New Wave's disposal just to keep things in order. Things weren't good now, but… she could see, clearly, that they had once been much, much worse. She reached in… and got to work.
To her disgust, it worked perfectly. The gloves guided her movements, and she found herself slipping into a strange trance as the business was performed. Skin was separated from muscle, twitched away from connective tissue, smoothly severed from fat, all in one long, perfect piece. She didn't even think, just did it all at once. She'd intended to just get enough to work with, but the razor was ever-so-quick, her hands were ever-so-practised… she could sense Turk watching closely as she worked with professional smoothness, resisting the urge to hum under her breath. Iron Rain had been a sick fuck, and the idea that she was coming close to her in any way, it… honestly made her feel more sick than touching the dead body had ever accomplished. But the woman knew her flaying. God, did she know her flaying… memories occasionally surfaced, tinged with the sunny shades of nostalgia. Father of a family of four, back flayed, skin used as cover for a book. The man had a hunch for months, he had so many bandages packed on under his clothes. Iron Rain had found that painfully funny. Either way. She moved on. Kept working. And as the minutes passed… she found herself coming up to the face. Everything else was handled. Just needed a little more. A quick few incisions, and she'd have a near-complete skin, excepting the stuff she'd messed up. She paused…
And her the knife come free.
The skin shivered its way off the muscle like the the finest silk. Vicky looked at it, took a deep breath, then tore one of the skin gloves off and let out a long, desperate groan before she managed to get rid of the other one. Turk came over, examining her hands. Oh, right. Injuries. Her hands were recovering quickly enough, and the exertion of skinning hadn't been… too pressing. But even so. He quietly replaced the splints, checked the fastenings, made sure it was all going well. She could actually move an additional finger now, which was… nice. But the point remained that she had to stay off this stuff if she wanted to use her hands in future. Thank fuck for her shield. Uheer's skinless body lay before her, red, raw, and mutilated. Mutilated by her. If she had any food in her… well. No time like the present. Vicky reached out to touch the flayed skin, and…
Manduhai.
Her name had been Manduhai.
Memories burned through her. The CUI invasion of Mongolia, come to clear up the warlords they'd themselves created. Parahumans who'd fled to escape the growing chaos in China, decided to carve out their own little kingdoms up north. Fucks. Freaks. She remembered being dragged out of her family's tent, screaming. Ulaanbaatar burning in the distance. Soldiers laughing. Teeth glinting like stars in the firelight. Inhuman roars from parahumans as they tore the populace apart.
The morning after. Huddled, shaking in a ragged blanket. Wandering for miles with her bloodstained clothes. Plans in her mind. Always plans. A Chinese brigade in the area. Destroying it completely with a group of guerrillas. Always silent, because the voices in her head were louder than anything else. Crucifixions, poisoning water supplies, terror on a dozen fronts. Never allowing them a moment's peace. Man by man, killing them, retrieving the bodies, nailing them to the rocks and letting the birds take them away. The Chinese called their little army Sky Burial. Assumed there were dozens of parahumans. Not true. Only her. Only Uheer. Dozens dead by her head. Nearly a hundred dead in her presence. Multiple hundreds dead by her order.
And then, victory. Hollow. Ashy. Running away. Finding a new role. New purpose. Nothing left in her but the capacity for violence. Might as well make money from it, with minimal responsibility.
Vicky gritted her teeth. She could feel the skin slowly wrapping around her, snaking up her arm in lazy motions. A ragged scarf inching towards her neck… she felt something beyond a memory. A burning in her skull. Something she didn't fully understand. A… twitch, of sorts. It was hard to express, but… she wondered if this was what thinkers experienced. Her brain would go somewhere, and thoughts would just manifest. A string of conclusions that were distinctly foreign, but nonetheless smoothly blended with her own thoughts. Like… like nothing she'd ever felt. Her eyes widened. Oh. Fuck. She'd done it. She'd fucking done it. She'd taken someone's power. Oh, oh fuck, this was… OK, she knew she shouldn't think like a cape right now, but this was big. Like, this was major. Not something she wanted to make remotely public, but… she'd done it. She'd done it. And all it had taken was wearing skin gloves from a dead Nazi while reliving the monstrous shit she'd done.
Right. Power. OK. Come on. Explain… uh, start with something small. Teeth. Let's go with that. Teeth. Get rid of them. Test run, before she asked about the PRT. Her power spluttered, stopped and started messily. Adjusting to a new host, or just… adjusting to the loss of the old. Maybe it'd never achieve it completely. She focused… and felt a long stretch of back-skin wrap around her neck like a scarf. Turk was keeping an eye on her, but she suppressed the revolted shiver that ran through her. God, this was… beyond fucked up.
Plan: disassemble Teeth.
It paused. Vicky shuddered.
Plan: disassembly impossible. Teeth do not exist.
What? OK, disassemble… uh… 113th chapter. Random number.
Plan: disassemble 113th chapter of the Teeth. Leadership is unstable and prone to frequent revolts. Infiltrate through a standard challenge to current leader, profess allegiance to Teeth doctrine, assert authority through acts of terror, perform final betrayal in which all assets are sent into doomed battle with superior forces. Or, engage in challenge against Butcher. Defeat inevitable.
…fine, the Teeth were too schizophrenic to be challenged as a single unit. Good to know. Plan for disassembling the Butcher's inner court.
Plan: disassemble Butcher's inner court. Plan irrelevant.
She blinked.
Inner court no longer exists.
…uh. How did… no, wait. She tried to get her thoughts in order. She turned to Turk. He was staring at her with a mildly unnerved expression. She realised how she must look - scarred up, wounded, bleeding from her stitches (which of course randomly decided to reopen whenever she was upright for too long), wearing a human skin glove and a human skin scarf.
"...you've been talking with Taylor. What do you know about the Teeth's inner court right now?"
"Did it work?"
"What- oh, right. Yeah. I think… I think I have her powers now."
"...that's dangerous."
"I'm aware. Trust me, once this is done, I'm putting this knife down and never using it again. Burning these skins. This is just to handle the Butcher, and… I dunno, I'll figure it out. This is just for Angrboda. That's all."
He clearly didn't believe her. Not for a second. He grumbled… and talked.
"Butcher and Taylor are gone. Nibelung, Animos, and now Rocinante are dead. Hadal… I'm not sure. Kabiri and Matrimonial appear to be pursuing their own operational priorities. Ignoring the rest of the Teeth."
Vicky sat down heavily. Three dead. Two gone. Two traitor. One uncertain. A part of her was oddly impressed. Taylor had entered the Teeth to get some money, and had… literally helped disassemble most of the inner court. And what she hadn't done herself, she'd still witnessed. Just… fuck. There were professional heroes who'd kill for that kind of efficacy. She felt a twitch of irrational anger. Why wouldn't Taylor just act like a hero? She had the power for it, the skill. Temperament could be reshaped. The role of hero was a self-evidently good one, it was perfect, and… she clamped down. Razor talking, not her. Taylor could do what she liked, she'd saved the world once, earned the right to hunt for money and retire quietly with her comatose dad. Turk's phone rang, and he turned away to check it. OK, so… she could work with this. Maybe. Her head was throbbing slightly… thinker headache, maybe? Did Uheer get those? She could feel a foreboding feeling wash over her… Turk turned away from the phone, and spoke quickly and quietly.
"Hadal's dead. Ahab and Sanagi was betrayed by an informant. Almost captured by PRT. Getting back here now - we'll need to hide them. Understood?"
Hadal too? That made four dead, two gone, two traitor. Well, three traitor if she counted Taylor. More than half the Teeth's inner circle were either traitorous or dead. What a… what a clusterfuck. Sanagi and Ahab were alive, at least. Though… betrayed, ambushed by PRT, that… sounded familiar, honestly. A cold feeling washed across her, and the scarf twitched with memories of something crawling from the ground. Oh. Fuck. She forced it away. OK. Time was of the essence. Once those two got back, they'd be harbouring three potential fugitives. Which meant she needed to act fast, get everything in order. Angrboda was alive. So, was there… something to go on, there?
Her power was utterly silent.
Right. Only targeting structures. Teeth barely counted. PRT, though… OK, yeah. Needed to ask about it. Come on, power. Explain the PRT thing.
Plan: disassemble PRT.
Wait, no, don't… no, this was all this power could do. It disassembled organisational structures. The more complex, the better. Come on, disassemble it. She didn't want to, but… if she knew the best method, she could plan around it, and thereby preserve the PRT from some impending catastrophe. Right? Probably? She hoped? This all made sense, yeah.
Plan: disassemble PRT. Conclusion: plan irrelevant. Major organisation restructuring imminent.
…elaborate?
Silence.
OK, power, come on, say something else. Give her something. OK, uh… plan for disassembling the PRT immediately, ignoring the possibility of waiting.
Plan: skin Vista alive and frame Hookwolf. Proceed to other Wards, personalising incidents to mock PRT investigations. Kidnap mayor's niece, use as blackmail material to ensure PRT's investigations are compromised from the beginning. Continue until-
No, what the fuck? OK, plan for disassembling the PRT immediately, ignoring the possibility of waiting, and not committing a war crime.
Plan: flaw identified. Contamin-n-n-nant…
[HOST: NON-STANDARD. COUNTERMEASURES INEFFECTIVE. COGNITOHAZARD. BRACE.]
A strange feeling entered her skull. It was… she'd never felt something quite like this. But it was burning and chilling all at once. Uheer's power wanted to stop, it wanted to retreat from this feeling. Cold. Yellow. Burning. A three-fingered hand in the dark. A smile cutting across the night sky. An infected sun. Windows in the walls of the universe, leading to an ocean where a great serpent swam in the infinite flame. Flame which made her want to just… sit down. She felt herself sagging, felt Turk catching her. The flame was so… painfully beautiful. It accepted her. She'd injured herself, half-cracked her mind, crossed a moral line by flaying a dead body, had engaged with powers she barely understood, and… and it accepted her. Accepted her as she was, warts and all. Such ephemeral things were pointless. It accepted that there was no such thing as a self. But if there was something about her that could be burned… what was the issue? What was the problem? Self was an illusion, a deceit which prevented access to the primordial truth of the universe. She reached out… and an image flashed. A powerful, powerful image. She saw such fire… and her new power creaked out a response, straining against forces she simply couldn't grasp.
F-flaw ide-identified. Informational s-source. St. Lidwina's Hospital. P-plan c-c-c-concludes.
Reality snapped back around her. Despair forgotten. Purpose overwhelming. Roles snapped into place, one after the other. A hero with a cause, willing to do whatever it took to do what was right. And…
Wait.
St Lidwina's?
Blood drained.
No. No no no no no.
That was where Dean was.
The scarf around her neck was twisting agitatedly, like a living thing.
Come on, more plans, more plans, explain, elaborate. The coldness returned… and nothing else. No words. She wasn't disassembling a structure. Her new power seemed, somehow, to be utterly confident in her. If she went to the hospital, she'd find an informational source instrumental in the rapid destabilisation of the PRT. The same hospital where Dean was. She remembered that text from way back, when she'd first met Taylor. Someone deceiving her, but… but the image had stuck. Dean waking up. She hadn't checked on him in a while, was he alright? Turk was saying something.
"What?"
"You look like shit. What's the matter?"
"Just… power said that I should go to… to St. Lidwina's."
"Too injured."
She was already floating.
"Yeah, I know, I get it, but… time is kinda short right now, and-"
Turk gave her a look.
"Don't be an idiot."
"If being an idiot saves people, I'll act like a fucking idiot. If being smart does the job, then I'll be a damn genius."
Turk scowled.
"Wait here. Your wounds will reopen. You'll bleed out."
Vicky crunched a few painkillers and washed it down with a swig of water. Hadn't taken off the glove or the scarf, and…the panic, the tension, it was awakening something in her. The glove clung tightly, and she felt… something in the air. A feeling of falling, just at her fingertips. All she needed to do was reach, and she'd be able to… oh, she just had to reach, and the guillotine would fall. Had to go. Had to find the hospital. See what was happening. She had an actual goal, she couldn't just wait around - unless Taylor came in right now with all the information she possibly needed, there was no chance of denying this. No-one else had this insight. No-one. Needed to move before the trail went cold. Turk couldn't stop her, he wasn't strong enough. Who was? He was talking - yap yap yap, trying to stop her, trying to prevent her from doing what was obviously necessary… he kept talking, why wouldn't he stop fucking talking? All about wounds, and responsibility, and safety, and what was the fucking point of it all?
Dean had died afraid and alone, but he'd died being a hero. Saving people. Saving the world. She'd forgiven Taylor for that. Couldn't forgive herself.
"What's the point?"
Turk was silent.
"What's the point, I mean, with… this. I mean, if we're just going to burn out soon enough anyway, then what the fuck is the point? I know, I know, there are things worth not missing out on, there's a life outside of this, but… but is there? I can't go back after this, I don't even know if it's possible. There's no normal life at the end of this for me, so… so why not just burn out, right?"
Her words were coming faster and faster. Memories of Gerrit. Memories of Dean. Memories of Iron Rain.
"I'm a cape, and I'm a hero. Either I die against an Endbringer or I die against a villain. We don't live to see old age. So… so why not do what I can do burn out brightly, right? I mean, I have more powers now, who the fuck gets that? I could… I could solve so much, I could deal with the Butcher, I could help Amy, I could take powers from villains and give them to people who deserve them, I could take powers from dying heroes and make sure they got passed on. Imagine it, imagine if Eidolon could just get more powers, like that? Four powers at once, five, six… dozens. Imagine the change that we could…"
She shuddered.
"...no, I get it, that wouldn't work, but I can still make a difference. I mean, I don't get a normal life at the end of this. I don't get to retire, none of us do. And if the PRT's going to collapse, if Angrboda's up to something, then… then why the fuck shouldn't I give it a go? I was one fucking accident away from dying in those mountains, I was this close to dying, and if I died, I wouldn't have done shit. I've put away no actual villains, none on my own, none where I was doing something more than just a vague assist. And now I can…"
She gestured vaguely, and to her shock… something fell. She hadn't actually expected it to happen. A huge metal knife, protruding from the floor. Embedded so deep she wasn't sure if Turk would be able to remove it. Just human. He looked at her, concerned.
"You sound insane."
"Well, why the fuck shouldn't I?"
Fucked up with Gerrit, couldn't even… there was nothing left of her. Just the roles she chose to wear or was compelled to wear. Nothing else remained. Nothing at all. It was fucked up, but she felt more real than she had… ever, really. More like a person. When she was wearing other people. OK, fucked up. Very fucked up. But… seriously though, she'd based her entire personality and identity around being a cape, from the moment she was old enough to think. Triggered because she wasn't a cape and was disappointing as a human. Lived without any division between being a cape and a civilian - the two were one and the same for her. No secret identity, no inner self for her to keep separate. Just… just her. And then she'd been exposed to a world she couldn't fight as a cape. She felt like a sledgehammer in a world of screws, bolts, dovetail fittings, wire twisting, splicings, rope ties, zipties, welds, solder… anything that made a hammer obsolete. And if she was useless, then she was nothing. If she couldn't be a cape, she had nothing else, not at the moment. Not with her sister locked up, her boyfriend dead, maybe the one close friend who understood this stuff gone with the Butcher, probably dead at this point… but now she was useful. Now she had something that could change things around her, could be a weapon. She had three sets of powers now, just like Eidolon.
Victoria J. Dallon had skinned a dead woman. She'd failed to kill a centuries-old serial killer because she was afraid of the consequences. She'd met a comet, taken a knife, and had quite conceivably lost anything resembling a self in the process. She'd worn the skin of Iron Rain and lived through her memories. She'd lost Amy, she'd lost Dean, she may well have lost Taylor. She'd stood by while Taylor practically single-handedly obliterated the Teeth, while Vicky stood around getting traumatised and doing nothing of value. And if she was doing nothing, then she was nothing.
"Turk, I just… I'm sorry."
Turk looked every one of his years. He sighed. And Vicky flew out of the window before he could say something to make her stop. She had a plan in front of her, one that led to a source she could use. The court no longer existed, she had no idea where the Butcher was, she had no idea where Angrboda was, but she imagined the imminent restructuring was tied up with all of it. And if it was, then she was compelled, fucking compelled to go and take care of it. What was she if she didn't? Not a hero. And what was she if she wasn't a hero?
Nothing.
Off to the hospital. She flew, hair streaming behind her, stitches burning, barely even aware that she still had the glove and scarf on. A bubble of tension and terror had welled up inside her ever since Gerrit, and now it had burst, releasing motion, action, and everything reckless about her. Everything self-destructive. Every intrusive thought she had in her darker moments. The city spread before her, smoke rising from an old part of town. Sanagi and Ahab would be coming from there, she assumed. Shame, she'd… hoped to meet the two. Ask them questions. But she didn't know how much time she'd have, and… and she'd skinned a fucking woman, she was wearing her as a scarf, she had committed.
Time to see where that commitment led her.
In the distance... something gleamed.
Shone like a distant, distant sun.
Taylor and the Butcher worked like devils. The boat was a rusty mass in the middle of a storm, the engines were straining just to keep them moving, and they'd repurposed the umbrella as a sail. The Butcher had politely explained that while she could teleport, it was explosive. She noted that she'd never tried teleporting with another person yet. Never been inclined to pick brains off her armour for hours. Because even if Taylor managed to teleport with her, she wouldn't survive the explosion at the end. Point-blank, surrounding her on all sides. Dead in seconds. Plus, the Butcher's teleport was short-range, and she couldn't do it into open water. So… if she sank, she was fucked. The two heaved desperately at the umbrella, Brute ratings keeping them from simply getting tugged overboard. The boat was moving fast, too fast… but it was skimming over the waves. They surged up, up,up, then down, down, down, crashing with great sprays of sea-foam while the roar of thunder played around them. Taylor said nothing. Endured the storm in silence - Chorei was asleep. Couldn't speak. Too profoundly exhausted. And the Butcher… Patience was laughing like a maniac. For all that the grafting had shocked some sobriety into her, she was still a woman that had willingly become the Butcher.
No-one who did that was totally sane.
She laughed at the clouds, hair streaming around her, eyes bloodshot from the salt and flesh red from the endless stinging spray. Taylor was sure that she looked like a drowned rat, in her combination of suit and old armour. The helmet clung to her head, serving as an adequate shield from the rain. Heavy enough to resist the wind. Her gauntlet acted as a makeshift glove. But Patience… Taylor had to admit that there was something striking about her. A pale, tall figure, somewhere between a pianist, a fencer, and a ballerina, wearing a salt-stained bathing suit that showed off almost all her twisting, straining muscles. Her hair was blown backwards, exposing a hard, grinning face. Even with the Butcher's minds suppressed… she was remarkable. Made this rusty tub feel like something grand. The storm stirred higher, and… oh shit. St Elmo's Fire. Crackling false flames on the stern of the boat, spreading along the edges and sparking viciously. Taylor's eye widened at the sight of them, at the alien illumination they produced, the stark shadows they cast. Patience turned, her half-glowing eyes flicked to Taylor, and her grin widened, teeth flashing white from the fire on the stern and bow.
"Towards thee I roll, thou all-consuming but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!"
She was… she was fucking quoting Moby Dick. In the middle of a storm. Surrounded by St. Elmo's Fire. While she charged to meet her fate head-on, to confront something awful that Angrboda had started and the Butchers intended to finish. This was… OK, this was… everything else excluded, all context, all foreboding, everything but this precise moment in time? This was fucking amazing. She was mature enough to admit that. Taylor pictured Matrimonial… and without a swarm to put her tics and twitches into, she found her mouth baring into a snarling grin of tension and anticipation. Love and hate melding into the single cry of a wolf in the night, a wolf that ate itself as readily as it ate the sun. A hunger to swallow the universe and birth a new one from the ruin. She gritted her teeth and kept hauling the umbrella, anchoring her feet into the boat. For a moment, they surmounted a wave and took to the air, for a long few seconds they flew… before slamming down again with enough force to dent the hull, a rumble that made her legs quake, sending the fire on the rim of the boat flaring higher, turning the world into a sheet of crackling blue and churning black. The two of them must have looked insane, and… and Taylor may have gotten carried away. Her mother studied literature. Taylor had read Moby Dick. Liked it. Remembered a line, too.
"Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap with thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly I worship thee!"
Patience cackled, and reached across to slap Taylor's helmet in sheer unfettered excitement.
"That's my girl!"
It was telling that Taylor didn't object. Said a lot about the intensity of the storm, which rose higher and higher. But… there was something in Patience. A desperation in her laugh which hadn't been there before. A feeling of fear rose up in Taylor as she heard Patience shrieking random quotes louder and louder, from a dozen different sources. The voices must be coming back. How long until they were loud enough to overwhelm? How long until Chorei woke up and could do her work again? What happened if Chorei overexerted? Reality crashed home with all the certainty of the mountainous waves that rose up on all sides.
From Hell's heart they voyaged, in search of the wolfish shore.
For a lover Taylor wanted dead… and something even Patience couldn't allow to happen.
* * *
As the two travelled whooped in the artificial night of the stormclouds, Vicky stared down at a body, knife in hand. Vicky leant over Uheer… no, Uheer's body. Uheer was gone. Only meat lingered. She tried desperately to reassure herself of that fact. The woman was completely dead, no life remained in her… but evidently the knife thought there was enough left to be skinned and repurposed. Turk was standing nearby, and… oh. She'd never seen that before - he had a tiny cross in one hand, dwarfed by his boulder-sized fists. Well-worn, wood, with a little smooth piece of metal that had clearly once been Christ. They were upstairs, surrounded by smiling Soviet-era models and piles of crippled furniture that she'd been using to hold that box closed. The skin was quiet at the moment, slumbering like a content cat in the depths of its cardboard den. She could still hear it rustling from time to time. Alright. Calm down. Deep breath. She was wearing a kitchen apron, there was newspaper spread on the ground around her… she was fine. She could get through this. Her hands were numbed with painkillers, and she could actually wiggle a few of them. Enough to get a grip on her knife… and honestly, weird as it was, her shield helped. She'd never felt it this… flexible before, honestly. It felt like it was extending very slightly from her fingers - her fingers would twitch, and her shield would move further, extending itself to mimic the movements she wanted to make.
It was… weird. Not too unpleasant. Definitely not high-ranking on the list of weird shit she'd been encountering.
OK. Flaying. Come on. Been through worse, presumably. She just needed an insight into the nature of things, a little glimpse of what Uheer had seen. Turk had informed her that she was a cape, pretty good thinker power. If so, just a tiny bit of access to that power would be enough - or her memories, just her memories. Her knife hovered. Come on. Get over it. Just desecrating a corpse. The knife came closer… and with a push, it slipped into the skin with the barest whisper.
There was a moment of stillness…
And Vicky had to make use of the strategically placed bucket.
Wiping her mouth off, she shuddered. The knife was still there - fallen from her hand, it'd carved a cold smile into Uheer's arm as it fell to the table. A thin trickle of blood - cold as ice, thick as treacle. It slowly spread over the table, and fell with slow, slow drops to the ground. The newspaper soaked it up, but it still formed a blooming stain, a leering red pupil staring up at her. Another retch. Turk picked his way carefully over the newspaper and patted her on the back. He looked as uncertain as she felt.
"You don't need to. We have other leads."
"...do we? I mean, she said Angrboda was alive, and that something big was going down with the PRT. Unless Taylor literally comes through that door right now with all the answers… there's no chance. None."
She was convincing herself more than anything. This entire mess contained a bundle of issues. The Butcher business, Angrboda, the increasing strangeness of the city, her lingering suspicion of the PRT, the weird shit in Naaktgeboren Ridge, her own feeling of inadequacy, weakness, impotence… it was all too much. And now she had a chance to make up for some of it. Find out vital points, prove some mastery over the Razor, and maybe… maybe do something with herself. Something useful. Taylor was gone, the others were spread apart, she… she needed to help. Needed to prove that what happened in the mountains was worth something, and wasn't just a pointless excursion where she was wounded, traumatised, and then failed to even take care of the person who'd done both. She focused on the feeling of a rotten pelt, of shuddering her way through dark, cold caves… a hint of determination rose up in her like a surge of bile. Floated back to the table, refusing to step on the increasingly stained newspaper. Knife reclaimed, cleaned on Uheer's sleeve. Turk gave her a look.
"Fucked up."
"...it's pretty fucked up. Yeah."
She paused.
"Do you have… goggles?"
A pair was already thrown before she finished talking, and she glanced over to see a be-goggled Turk looking up mournfully at one of his vintage Soviet models - a willowy blonde who smiled coyly down at the amateur autopsy. She genuinely hoped she wasn't going to stain these things irrevocably. No-one recovered from having bloodstained posters of Soviet models in their rooms. No-one. She returned to Uheer, ignoring the coldness, the tackiness of her skin, the feeling of dried blood on her hands… come on, just get the skin off. She pierced again, this time restraining the urge to throw up… and began to angle the blade sideways, to slip under the skin and start to peel it off. She tried… and the knife slipped, carving a wide gash and tearing the skin. Fuck. Ruined. She withdrew, and… Turk began to talk.
"Saw some Dutch freaks skin someone alive once. Mercenaries. All legal. Start at the legs. I think."
He shrugged.
"Not familiar, myself. Would you like-"
"No, no, no, I have to do this myself."
"...fucked up."
"Yeah. I know."
OK, start with the legs… this seemed a little easier, maybe if she… fuck. Another slip, another gash, another rush of treacle-thick blood that was rapidly darkening to a putrid black in colour. Fuck, fuck, fuck. OK. Come on. Start again, and… she couldn't do this. Her hands were shaking. Her brain was rebelling against itself. Nothing about this was natural. She couldn't - just couldn't. And Turk couldn't do it, he lacked the experience in skinning people, and… and fuck, she was so fucking useless. Couldn't kill Gerrit, couldn't save Taylor in time, couldn't stop anything. But she could get traumatised over and over for no fucking reason, that was something she could do fucking amazingly, and… shit. Turk remained at a distance, and Vicky rested her hands on the table. OK. Come on. She slapped herself in the face - yeah, she could… no. No, nothing had really changed, this wasn't something she could steel herself through, she needed a fucking For Dummies book on this. Flaying For Dummies. If they made that, she wanted it. She wanted it so fucking badly. Her eyes drifted over to the cardboard box.
Wëll, löök whö cömës cräwlïng bäck. Änd äftër yöü sö cällöüsly rëmövëd më läst tïmë.
Her eyes flicked back to the body. OK, maybe if she started on the other leg, and… OK, she was getting somewhere, the skin was coming away in a single piece, she was- fuck. The muscle was getting in the way, she either tore the skin or was basically just hacking Uheer apart layer by layer, Christ, she was fucked up. OK, but… she was definitely getting better, though. If Amy was here, she could just… command the skin to jump off or something, or… no, no, she didn't work with dead tissue. Needed to be mostly alive for her to work on it. Come on - heroes did what was necessary, even when it was gross as shit and morally grey. Uheer was dead, but by doing this she could save a lot of people. Maybe. Most likely. And then she was booking herself in for some serious therapy. She remembered her mom coming home with bloody hands when she was younger. Explained that she'd had to give a thug an impromptu tracheotomy after he ran away and fell into a pit, crushing his throat with a stray rock. The guy had been resistant the whole time, hopped up on something. She'd had to incapacitate him, give him a tracheotomy, in the process soaking herself with blood. Come on, she could… could get through this. Her uncle Neil once had to reach into a dead man's mouth to rip out some nasty piece of tinkertech from his skull. Said the smell didn't go away for weeks. Come on, she could handle some post-mortem flaying. For the good of the city. The knife vibrated… weaker than before. The chance was fading.
Yöü'rë rëälly döïng ä nümbër ön thät pöör wömän. Ï wöndër ïf thërë's göïng tö bë ënöügh för ä händkërchïëf by thë tïmë yöü'rë dönë.
Vicky scowled. Not responding. Just a skin that wanted to be worn, that was it.
Öf cöürsë Ï wänt tö bë wörn, bëïng wörn ïs nïcë. Yöü shöüld try ït sömëtïmë, whën yöü'rë rëädy tö türn thät knïfë ön yöürsëlf lïkë ä bïg gïrl.
A pause.
…göödnëss, Ï wöndër whö hërë häd ëxpërïëncë wïth fläyïng cültïvätëd övër thë cöürsë öf yëärs thröügh shëër börëdöm, änd thën shëër nëcëssïty? Göödnëss gräcïöüs, cöüld thërë bë süch ä përsön? Mëïn Gött, ït's ät thë tïp öf my nönëxïstënt töngüë…
Her eyes slid back over
Äh. Hërë wë ärë.
Vicky quietly opened the box. The skin stared back at her. Not putting it on. Not again. Her throat tightened at the very thought, but… she looked deeper. Memories. Powers. Skills honed through practice. Didn't want to think about the practice element, but… well, Iron Rain had managed to flay herself while only making a mistake with the hand. Everything else had been flawless. The skin seemed to wink at her coquettishly. One of these days, Vicky was going to get Crystal, Mouse Protector, Astrid, Taylor, and all her friends and family together and ritually burn this thing. Maybe she could ask Lung or something, he seemed like the kind of guy to enjoy this. She sighed.
And her knife whipped out.
Whät, nö, dön't-
The voice cut off as she sliced into the skin, around the elbows. There was no sound but flesh being parted, no screams of anguish, bellows of rage… all of it was silent. Good. The voice had… was it psychosis crossed with something there? Was she doing the equivalent of a crazy lady finding patterns in random numbers? Or projecting an intelligence onto something that had none? Either way, it was quiet. Made her very slightly happy. The cutting was quick and easy, and she had a long pair of gloves at her disposal. She noticed that the wounds from Turk's removal were gone from the thing, which raised the disturbing possibility of flayed skins produced by this razor actually… healing, which implied some kind of life, or… anyway. These things would heal back on, then. Meant she wasn't ruining everything by doing this. The gloves were hard to slip on over her clothes, but she refused to come more into contact than was strictly necessary. A tiny slip of skin-on-skin contact, that was all - just around the wrist, where her plastic gloves and sleeve met. A spark…
Memories. Memories of people dragged into her presence. Knives manifesting from the ceiling to pin them to the ground, before she drew her favourite knife and set to work. She never took full skins in those days, just… patches. Handkerchiefs. Scarfs. Neckties. Lampshades. It wasn't a madness thing, just a… habit. Flaying was a good way of punishing the slave races and the race traitors - left marks, but wasn't necessarily fatal unless she did it to the whole body. Or too much of it. Either way, she was left with a squirming mass of subservient meat, and some skin. Had to do something with it, right? Gerrit had just made her do it more… completely. More skilfully. Showed her how to part meat and skin, how to retain toughness while avoiding common butchery, how to stretch the skin over a frame so it could dry properly, how it needed to be properly treated unless you wanted it to rot or dry up. Needed moisture. A true artist didn't need to do it - their skins would be effortless, and produced with-
Vicky bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Focus returned gradually, but… to her disgust, her hands moved much, much faster. The knife flipped easily between her fingers, and she felt a mild, innocent enjoyment in just watching it gleam, in playing with risk, in marvelling at the swiftness and accuracy or her own muscles… she wanted to flinch for a moment, to let it drop, to remind herself that she was still Vicky, but… the knife dropped when she twitched, and her other hand immediately reached to grab it smoothly and bring it into position. Iron Rain had been… good at this. Perversely good. Even before Gerrit, she clearly enjoyed knives. No wonder people called those the bad old days - when Marquis put on public executions, when Iron Rain could torture anyone she liked, when it took everything at the PRT and New Wave's disposal just to keep things in order. Things weren't good now, but… she could see, clearly, that they had once been much, much worse. She reached in… and got to work.
To her disgust, it worked perfectly. The gloves guided her movements, and she found herself slipping into a strange trance as the business was performed. Skin was separated from muscle, twitched away from connective tissue, smoothly severed from fat, all in one long, perfect piece. She didn't even think, just did it all at once. She'd intended to just get enough to work with, but the razor was ever-so-quick, her hands were ever-so-practised… she could sense Turk watching closely as she worked with professional smoothness, resisting the urge to hum under her breath. Iron Rain had been a sick fuck, and the idea that she was coming close to her in any way, it… honestly made her feel more sick than touching the dead body had ever accomplished. But the woman knew her flaying. God, did she know her flaying… memories occasionally surfaced, tinged with the sunny shades of nostalgia. Father of a family of four, back flayed, skin used as cover for a book. The man had a hunch for months, he had so many bandages packed on under his clothes. Iron Rain had found that painfully funny. Either way. She moved on. Kept working. And as the minutes passed… she found herself coming up to the face. Everything else was handled. Just needed a little more. A quick few incisions, and she'd have a near-complete skin, excepting the stuff she'd messed up. She paused…
And her the knife come free.
The skin shivered its way off the muscle like the the finest silk. Vicky looked at it, took a deep breath, then tore one of the skin gloves off and let out a long, desperate groan before she managed to get rid of the other one. Turk came over, examining her hands. Oh, right. Injuries. Her hands were recovering quickly enough, and the exertion of skinning hadn't been… too pressing. But even so. He quietly replaced the splints, checked the fastenings, made sure it was all going well. She could actually move an additional finger now, which was… nice. But the point remained that she had to stay off this stuff if she wanted to use her hands in future. Thank fuck for her shield. Uheer's skinless body lay before her, red, raw, and mutilated. Mutilated by her. If she had any food in her… well. No time like the present. Vicky reached out to touch the flayed skin, and…
Manduhai.
Her name had been Manduhai.
Memories burned through her. The CUI invasion of Mongolia, come to clear up the warlords they'd themselves created. Parahumans who'd fled to escape the growing chaos in China, decided to carve out their own little kingdoms up north. Fucks. Freaks. She remembered being dragged out of her family's tent, screaming. Ulaanbaatar burning in the distance. Soldiers laughing. Teeth glinting like stars in the firelight. Inhuman roars from parahumans as they tore the populace apart.
The morning after. Huddled, shaking in a ragged blanket. Wandering for miles with her bloodstained clothes. Plans in her mind. Always plans. A Chinese brigade in the area. Destroying it completely with a group of guerrillas. Always silent, because the voices in her head were louder than anything else. Crucifixions, poisoning water supplies, terror on a dozen fronts. Never allowing them a moment's peace. Man by man, killing them, retrieving the bodies, nailing them to the rocks and letting the birds take them away. The Chinese called their little army Sky Burial. Assumed there were dozens of parahumans. Not true. Only her. Only Uheer. Dozens dead by her head. Nearly a hundred dead in her presence. Multiple hundreds dead by her order.
And then, victory. Hollow. Ashy. Running away. Finding a new role. New purpose. Nothing left in her but the capacity for violence. Might as well make money from it, with minimal responsibility.
Vicky gritted her teeth. She could feel the skin slowly wrapping around her, snaking up her arm in lazy motions. A ragged scarf inching towards her neck… she felt something beyond a memory. A burning in her skull. Something she didn't fully understand. A… twitch, of sorts. It was hard to express, but… she wondered if this was what thinkers experienced. Her brain would go somewhere, and thoughts would just manifest. A string of conclusions that were distinctly foreign, but nonetheless smoothly blended with her own thoughts. Like… like nothing she'd ever felt. Her eyes widened. Oh. Fuck. She'd done it. She'd fucking done it. She'd taken someone's power. Oh, oh fuck, this was… OK, she knew she shouldn't think like a cape right now, but this was big. Like, this was major. Not something she wanted to make remotely public, but… she'd done it. She'd done it. And all it had taken was wearing skin gloves from a dead Nazi while reliving the monstrous shit she'd done.
Right. Power. OK. Come on. Explain… uh, start with something small. Teeth. Let's go with that. Teeth. Get rid of them. Test run, before she asked about the PRT. Her power spluttered, stopped and started messily. Adjusting to a new host, or just… adjusting to the loss of the old. Maybe it'd never achieve it completely. She focused… and felt a long stretch of back-skin wrap around her neck like a scarf. Turk was keeping an eye on her, but she suppressed the revolted shiver that ran through her. God, this was… beyond fucked up.
Plan: disassemble Teeth.
It paused. Vicky shuddered.
Plan: disassembly impossible. Teeth do not exist.
What? OK, disassemble… uh… 113th chapter. Random number.
Plan: disassemble 113th chapter of the Teeth. Leadership is unstable and prone to frequent revolts. Infiltrate through a standard challenge to current leader, profess allegiance to Teeth doctrine, assert authority through acts of terror, perform final betrayal in which all assets are sent into doomed battle with superior forces. Or, engage in challenge against Butcher. Defeat inevitable.
…fine, the Teeth were too schizophrenic to be challenged as a single unit. Good to know. Plan for disassembling the Butcher's inner court.
Plan: disassemble Butcher's inner court. Plan irrelevant.
She blinked.
Inner court no longer exists.
…uh. How did… no, wait. She tried to get her thoughts in order. She turned to Turk. He was staring at her with a mildly unnerved expression. She realised how she must look - scarred up, wounded, bleeding from her stitches (which of course randomly decided to reopen whenever she was upright for too long), wearing a human skin glove and a human skin scarf.
"...you've been talking with Taylor. What do you know about the Teeth's inner court right now?"
"Did it work?"
"What- oh, right. Yeah. I think… I think I have her powers now."
"...that's dangerous."
"I'm aware. Trust me, once this is done, I'm putting this knife down and never using it again. Burning these skins. This is just to handle the Butcher, and… I dunno, I'll figure it out. This is just for Angrboda. That's all."
He clearly didn't believe her. Not for a second. He grumbled… and talked.
"Butcher and Taylor are gone. Nibelung, Animos, and now Rocinante are dead. Hadal… I'm not sure. Kabiri and Matrimonial appear to be pursuing their own operational priorities. Ignoring the rest of the Teeth."
Vicky sat down heavily. Three dead. Two gone. Two traitor. One uncertain. A part of her was oddly impressed. Taylor had entered the Teeth to get some money, and had… literally helped disassemble most of the inner court. And what she hadn't done herself, she'd still witnessed. Just… fuck. There were professional heroes who'd kill for that kind of efficacy. She felt a twitch of irrational anger. Why wouldn't Taylor just act like a hero? She had the power for it, the skill. Temperament could be reshaped. The role of hero was a self-evidently good one, it was perfect, and… she clamped down. Razor talking, not her. Taylor could do what she liked, she'd saved the world once, earned the right to hunt for money and retire quietly with her comatose dad. Turk's phone rang, and he turned away to check it. OK, so… she could work with this. Maybe. Her head was throbbing slightly… thinker headache, maybe? Did Uheer get those? She could feel a foreboding feeling wash over her… Turk turned away from the phone, and spoke quickly and quietly.
"Hadal's dead. Ahab and Sanagi was betrayed by an informant. Almost captured by PRT. Getting back here now - we'll need to hide them. Understood?"
Hadal too? That made four dead, two gone, two traitor. Well, three traitor if she counted Taylor. More than half the Teeth's inner circle were either traitorous or dead. What a… what a clusterfuck. Sanagi and Ahab were alive, at least. Though… betrayed, ambushed by PRT, that… sounded familiar, honestly. A cold feeling washed across her, and the scarf twitched with memories of something crawling from the ground. Oh. Fuck. She forced it away. OK. Time was of the essence. Once those two got back, they'd be harbouring three potential fugitives. Which meant she needed to act fast, get everything in order. Angrboda was alive. So, was there… something to go on, there?
Her power was utterly silent.
Right. Only targeting structures. Teeth barely counted. PRT, though… OK, yeah. Needed to ask about it. Come on, power. Explain the PRT thing.
Plan: disassemble PRT.
Wait, no, don't… no, this was all this power could do. It disassembled organisational structures. The more complex, the better. Come on, disassemble it. She didn't want to, but… if she knew the best method, she could plan around it, and thereby preserve the PRT from some impending catastrophe. Right? Probably? She hoped? This all made sense, yeah.
Plan: disassemble PRT. Conclusion: plan irrelevant. Major organisation restructuring imminent.
…elaborate?
Silence.
OK, power, come on, say something else. Give her something. OK, uh… plan for disassembling the PRT immediately, ignoring the possibility of waiting.
Plan: skin Vista alive and frame Hookwolf. Proceed to other Wards, personalising incidents to mock PRT investigations. Kidnap mayor's niece, use as blackmail material to ensure PRT's investigations are compromised from the beginning. Continue until-
No, what the fuck? OK, plan for disassembling the PRT immediately, ignoring the possibility of waiting, and not committing a war crime.
Plan: flaw identified. Contamin-n-n-nant…
[HOST: NON-STANDARD. COUNTERMEASURES INEFFECTIVE. COGNITOHAZARD. BRACE.]
A strange feeling entered her skull. It was… she'd never felt something quite like this. But it was burning and chilling all at once. Uheer's power wanted to stop, it wanted to retreat from this feeling. Cold. Yellow. Burning. A three-fingered hand in the dark. A smile cutting across the night sky. An infected sun. Windows in the walls of the universe, leading to an ocean where a great serpent swam in the infinite flame. Flame which made her want to just… sit down. She felt herself sagging, felt Turk catching her. The flame was so… painfully beautiful. It accepted her. She'd injured herself, half-cracked her mind, crossed a moral line by flaying a dead body, had engaged with powers she barely understood, and… and it accepted her. Accepted her as she was, warts and all. Such ephemeral things were pointless. It accepted that there was no such thing as a self. But if there was something about her that could be burned… what was the issue? What was the problem? Self was an illusion, a deceit which prevented access to the primordial truth of the universe. She reached out… and an image flashed. A powerful, powerful image. She saw such fire… and her new power creaked out a response, straining against forces she simply couldn't grasp.
F-flaw ide-identified. Informational s-source. St. Lidwina's Hospital. P-plan c-c-c-concludes.
Reality snapped back around her. Despair forgotten. Purpose overwhelming. Roles snapped into place, one after the other. A hero with a cause, willing to do whatever it took to do what was right. And…
Wait.
St Lidwina's?
Blood drained.
No. No no no no no.
That was where Dean was.
The scarf around her neck was twisting agitatedly, like a living thing.
Come on, more plans, more plans, explain, elaborate. The coldness returned… and nothing else. No words. She wasn't disassembling a structure. Her new power seemed, somehow, to be utterly confident in her. If she went to the hospital, she'd find an informational source instrumental in the rapid destabilisation of the PRT. The same hospital where Dean was. She remembered that text from way back, when she'd first met Taylor. Someone deceiving her, but… but the image had stuck. Dean waking up. She hadn't checked on him in a while, was he alright? Turk was saying something.
"What?"
"You look like shit. What's the matter?"
"Just… power said that I should go to… to St. Lidwina's."
"Too injured."
She was already floating.
"Yeah, I know, I get it, but… time is kinda short right now, and-"
Turk gave her a look.
"Don't be an idiot."
"If being an idiot saves people, I'll act like a fucking idiot. If being smart does the job, then I'll be a damn genius."
Turk scowled.
"Wait here. Your wounds will reopen. You'll bleed out."
Vicky crunched a few painkillers and washed it down with a swig of water. Hadn't taken off the glove or the scarf, and…the panic, the tension, it was awakening something in her. The glove clung tightly, and she felt… something in the air. A feeling of falling, just at her fingertips. All she needed to do was reach, and she'd be able to… oh, she just had to reach, and the guillotine would fall. Had to go. Had to find the hospital. See what was happening. She had an actual goal, she couldn't just wait around - unless Taylor came in right now with all the information she possibly needed, there was no chance of denying this. No-one else had this insight. No-one. Needed to move before the trail went cold. Turk couldn't stop her, he wasn't strong enough. Who was? He was talking - yap yap yap, trying to stop her, trying to prevent her from doing what was obviously necessary… he kept talking, why wouldn't he stop fucking talking? All about wounds, and responsibility, and safety, and what was the fucking point of it all?
Dean had died afraid and alone, but he'd died being a hero. Saving people. Saving the world. She'd forgiven Taylor for that. Couldn't forgive herself.
"What's the point?"
Turk was silent.
"What's the point, I mean, with… this. I mean, if we're just going to burn out soon enough anyway, then what the fuck is the point? I know, I know, there are things worth not missing out on, there's a life outside of this, but… but is there? I can't go back after this, I don't even know if it's possible. There's no normal life at the end of this for me, so… so why not just burn out, right?"
Her words were coming faster and faster. Memories of Gerrit. Memories of Dean. Memories of Iron Rain.
"I'm a cape, and I'm a hero. Either I die against an Endbringer or I die against a villain. We don't live to see old age. So… so why not do what I can do burn out brightly, right? I mean, I have more powers now, who the fuck gets that? I could… I could solve so much, I could deal with the Butcher, I could help Amy, I could take powers from villains and give them to people who deserve them, I could take powers from dying heroes and make sure they got passed on. Imagine it, imagine if Eidolon could just get more powers, like that? Four powers at once, five, six… dozens. Imagine the change that we could…"
She shuddered.
"...no, I get it, that wouldn't work, but I can still make a difference. I mean, I don't get a normal life at the end of this. I don't get to retire, none of us do. And if the PRT's going to collapse, if Angrboda's up to something, then… then why the fuck shouldn't I give it a go? I was one fucking accident away from dying in those mountains, I was this close to dying, and if I died, I wouldn't have done shit. I've put away no actual villains, none on my own, none where I was doing something more than just a vague assist. And now I can…"
She gestured vaguely, and to her shock… something fell. She hadn't actually expected it to happen. A huge metal knife, protruding from the floor. Embedded so deep she wasn't sure if Turk would be able to remove it. Just human. He looked at her, concerned.
"You sound insane."
"Well, why the fuck shouldn't I?"
Fucked up with Gerrit, couldn't even… there was nothing left of her. Just the roles she chose to wear or was compelled to wear. Nothing else remained. Nothing at all. It was fucked up, but she felt more real than she had… ever, really. More like a person. When she was wearing other people. OK, fucked up. Very fucked up. But… seriously though, she'd based her entire personality and identity around being a cape, from the moment she was old enough to think. Triggered because she wasn't a cape and was disappointing as a human. Lived without any division between being a cape and a civilian - the two were one and the same for her. No secret identity, no inner self for her to keep separate. Just… just her. And then she'd been exposed to a world she couldn't fight as a cape. She felt like a sledgehammer in a world of screws, bolts, dovetail fittings, wire twisting, splicings, rope ties, zipties, welds, solder… anything that made a hammer obsolete. And if she was useless, then she was nothing. If she couldn't be a cape, she had nothing else, not at the moment. Not with her sister locked up, her boyfriend dead, maybe the one close friend who understood this stuff gone with the Butcher, probably dead at this point… but now she was useful. Now she had something that could change things around her, could be a weapon. She had three sets of powers now, just like Eidolon.
Victoria J. Dallon had skinned a dead woman. She'd failed to kill a centuries-old serial killer because she was afraid of the consequences. She'd met a comet, taken a knife, and had quite conceivably lost anything resembling a self in the process. She'd worn the skin of Iron Rain and lived through her memories. She'd lost Amy, she'd lost Dean, she may well have lost Taylor. She'd stood by while Taylor practically single-handedly obliterated the Teeth, while Vicky stood around getting traumatised and doing nothing of value. And if she was doing nothing, then she was nothing.
"Turk, I just… I'm sorry."
Turk looked every one of his years. He sighed. And Vicky flew out of the window before he could say something to make her stop. She had a plan in front of her, one that led to a source she could use. The court no longer existed, she had no idea where the Butcher was, she had no idea where Angrboda was, but she imagined the imminent restructuring was tied up with all of it. And if it was, then she was compelled, fucking compelled to go and take care of it. What was she if she didn't? Not a hero. And what was she if she wasn't a hero?
Nothing.
Off to the hospital. She flew, hair streaming behind her, stitches burning, barely even aware that she still had the glove and scarf on. A bubble of tension and terror had welled up inside her ever since Gerrit, and now it had burst, releasing motion, action, and everything reckless about her. Everything self-destructive. Every intrusive thought she had in her darker moments. The city spread before her, smoke rising from an old part of town. Sanagi and Ahab would be coming from there, she assumed. Shame, she'd… hoped to meet the two. Ask them questions. But she didn't know how much time she'd have, and… and she'd skinned a fucking woman, she was wearing her as a scarf, she had committed.
Time to see where that commitment led her.
In the distance... something gleamed.
Shone like a distant, distant sun.
AN: OK, I know Vicky is doing a... thing. Just keep in mind that she's still traumatised, hasn't remotely gotten over it, has an increasing feeling of impotence and weakness which do not work well with her identity as a cape, which is kinda all she's got at the moment. And also Razor shenanigans - traces of iron in her thoughts. See you all tomorrow!