"Perhaps, this is hell"
Will the woman manage to go back home, or will only a monster remain?
Will the woman manage to go back home, or will only a monster remain?
Spiraling Out (Worm/Chainsawman/SI)
- Thread starter ic3shard13
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Shelter 1
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Frozen cold water woke me up. The smell was the second thing that hit me, a stench so strong I couldn't describe it. I immediately opened my eyes only to see an open, rusted dumpster in a dark alley bathed by rain.
I got up, adrenaline pumping in my veins, and walked outside to the unfamiliar street, only to notice that I cut my left hand with a shard glass of a discarded bottle.
What the fuck?
My hand was wrong. The skin was softer, paler, and without that small mole under my middle finger.
My arms were wrong. The black coat, a good business coat that somehow helped me not be a sopping wet cat, couldn't hide how the rest of my body was wrong too.
I took a deep breath. I took it again. I lowered my arm.
I slowly walked to the nearest open business, and with each step I took I noticed how different I was.
I moved the bangs over my face, and I noticed I was also not wearing glasses, and could see just fine.
The images on the signs were different from my country's, and they weren't showing kilometers…
"This isn't my body, and this isn't Italy."
At least I'm in a country I know the language of.
I asked quietly: "Am I learning to walk a mile in someone's elses shoes?"
Even as I finished my self-reassuring joke, I cringed at my voice. Smoother, slightly higher,still different.
As I came closer to the pub, I noticed that the guy outside the bar, a pale blond man in a leather jacket, was glaring at me.
I smiled and I pointed to my hand. "Good night; I- uh"
He started glaring even harder.
I went inside and I immediately got why he was such a dickhead:
WW2 Nazi memorabilia, swastikas, gang signs, a black and white poster with the quote "He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future." under a man made of blades. Thirteen more men, five of which literal skinheads, were now glaring at me.
"Who the fuck let the chink in?" one said. He dropped his cigarette on a sad lettuce leaf on the plate in front of him.
I blinked, and my suffering smile strained even more.
A short, burly scarred man that looked like he could break my neck with a finger shouted: "Look at her eyes! She's one of Lung's bitches!"
The door behind me locked.
I ran to the ladies bathroom, just as I felt one man grab my coat that was a fucking good coat but I preferred to live, thanks.
I closed and locked the door, but it wouldn't hold for long.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Pale skin. Features vaguely Asian, beautiful and unnervingly so. Red hair. Yellow eyes, red circles within red circles.
Lung. America. Nazi bar with metal man.
"What the fuck."
I pointed at the door and yelled "Bang!"
The door banged back, from the other side.
Someone shouted: "We'll show you what we do with bitches like you!"
I would really like for Bitch to show up.
Not owning the gun devil? No powers but only a sick, in every sense of the word, cosplay?
My bleeding hand sure showed I had no contract with the government of Japan.
I took a deep breath, again.
Even the sense of wrongness that was still there felt nothing more than the disorientation of a lightining fast puberty.
I could see myself growing to like living in this.
The door smashed to the ground, breaking my coping line of thought.
The big, tall, white guy with a short haircut drove a kick to my shins.
I fell on the ground, my ears ringing in my head like crazy.
He grabbed my head, pulling from my pigtail, and shoved me towards the damn door.
"Look at what you made me do, bitch!" he shouted.
A fly landed in front of my nose.
It itched my skin.
Go away.
The mosquito entered his mouth, choking him.
I took a piece of the splintered door and stabbed his right leg, from one side to the other.
He fell to the ground.
Hearing another piece of trash behind me, I lowered my legs in time to dodge a punch, turned, and delivered an uppercut to the burly man, who was probably one of Hookwolf's cagefighters, making him drop two teeth.
His companions shouted in rage, and fear.
My right fist was bloody, so I licked it.
The ringing stopped, and pain vanished.
I licked my lips.
I made an "O" with my right hand, and I blew in it, blowing bubbles that covered the heads of every fighter in the room, and once they popped they all stopped.
I walked to the counter, and asked the bartender. "Give me a medium…"
I took a deep breath.
"Whatever you have."
The man promptly did so, trembling. I bit my finger. Why didn't I bubble him too?
Why the fuck bubbles? I always wished I could "bubble up" people when they were noisy or annoying but-
Uh.
A beer that was bigger than a medium appeared in front of me.
I cupped it in my hands.
It was cold, and my clothes were still wet.
Time to get warmer.
I sipped it.
It was good, light. The alcohol was giving me just that slightly amount of heat and buzz I needed to think more clearly.
I was Makima. In Worm.
I looked at a sack of trash besides me and asked: "This is Brockton Bay, right?"
"Brock-tón," he replied.
I hummed. Good to know I put the accent wrong, wouldn't want to enrage the locals.
I coughed. I didn't know if devils could catch a cold, but they could bleed all-right.
I made the grabby trash give me back my old coat. It was still damp.
I called the first piece of trash that stood at the entrance to my side.
"Let's make a deal. You give me your leather jacket, and I don't kill you."
He agreed as I ordered, and the deal was struck.
I could have taken it from him without any deal, but it seemed fitting.
Satisfied, I went back to my beer.
After finishing it, I almost wanted another, but even if Makima could apparently handle more than half a liter of a light lager just fine, I preferred to stay in control.
Eh.
"Water."
The bartender was gone. I blinked and put two and two together.
E88 capes were coming.
I should pay more attention!
I asked. "Does any of you have an apartment for tonight where I won't find trouble?"
Nine guys raised their hands.
I looked at them. I had to take a moment to understand who was more put together, and promptly discarded the skinheads.
Closeted Nazis are some of the best Nazis that aren't dead.
"Who of you has a car?" I asked.
Two hands went down.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…" I whispered aloud.
I chose the least trashy one without nazi apparel.
Now, what to do with these other gentlemen?
I rattled the first things that came to my mind: "Once I am out of here, you will all forget me. You will stop being fucking Nazis and hurting other people. Read books about why being a Nazi is stupid. Feel guilt."
The traffic outside the bar got more intense.
"Cover for me," I added.
And so they did. They put themselves in front of the entrance while I and my hired chaffeur somewhat awkwardly escaped through a window.
The car waiting for me was a white SUV proudly displaying the Ford logo.
Once I went on the back seats, finding me again slightly wet due to the weather, I curled up and covered my face.
I ordered people as if they were my things. Worst of all, my orders were stupid.
I should have asked them to continue to monitor the E88, I should have hidden my powers better.
I didn't think to control the bartender because he wasn't as trash as them: I could accept horrible people catering to horrible people as a job, but those blaming others for their own actions were worse than trash.
There were so many roads in front of me, but being a hero felt impossible.
Contacting Cauldron… would it be worth it? I certainly can't imagine myself surviving Contessa, or the Triumvirate or even the Custodian for that matter.
Makima couldn't control Chainsawman or Kishibe because they weren't below herself, after all.
I wanted to go back. I didn't care for this world. I wanted my job, my family, my friends.
Impossibility for impossibility, there should be a way back. If not the entities, devils could be the answer. Though I had to see if there were devils here, besides apparently me.
Heck, even I went back as this… there were no short number of powerful people I saw lesser than myself.
"Ahahahahaha!" I laughed at the absurdity of it all.
I moved my hand behind the driver and pinched his neck.
He didn't move.
"Hehehe…" I laughed. "You really are a marionette under my strings."
The car stopped in front of a well-curated lawn. The house was one of the dozens Mc Mansions this side of the street.
That such a well-off piece of trash decided to play the Nazi melted all my worries about losing control over him: a human like him deserved no second thought.
The wet, well-kept lawn glinted from the lights on the ground floor.
"Is there anyone still up?" I asked Trash.
"My wife. She always waits for me to go home," he answered neutrally.
I looked him in the eyes. He looked down.
"You said I wouldn't have a problem," I continued.
"Helen won't be one," he reassured me.
I took a deep breath. "Bring me to her."
He opened the door for me and we stepped inside.
We found her in the living room, reading a magazine. The best word I could use was "plain". Comfy clothing, with just a hint of make-up to enhance her natural looks. Her loose blonde hair covered her head with two messy bangs.
She was surprised. "Henry! I thought you'd come later! Who's she?"
"She's the boss, dear," he replied.
She looked me in the eyes. Hers drowned in fear, looking between me and him.
"Why someone like her? Here?!" She asked.
He put a hand over her shoulders. She was trembling like a rat in a cage.
He pulled up his hand up and made a fist.
I grimaced, told him to step back, and blew a bubble.
The woman reflexively waved it off, but the moment it touched her, it popped.
I dropped on the sofa and took a deep breath.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Helen."
My lips curled down. The trash already told me that. I should have remembered it.
A maroon cat with a white spot on its left eye jumped down from the stairs.
"I thought Nazis preferred dogs," I wondered outloud.
I walked closer to it, but it scurried away, darting under the coffee table and jumping on the library.
I put my hand up trying to reach it, but it moved back.
"Juggle is shy like that, boss," Trash said.
It didn't need to be shy around me.
"Someone should bring me a cup of tea," I said.
Helen stood up and left to the kitchen, leaving the magazine open on the advertisement of a new cape film, "Wards Around 3".
Trash' cellphone rang. I didn't recognize the brand, but it looked better than 20tensomething cellphones should.
He took it out, stared at it and stood still.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"My kommander, boss."
I slumped on the sofa and took a deep breath.
"You'll answer to him in another room. You'll tell him you forgot about whatever cape mess happened. You'll feel immense guilt for your Nazi beliefs. You will stop being a fascist piece of scum. If you notice any of the E88 surveilling this house you'll make sure to inform me ASAP. Tomorrow morning you will wake me up at 6 a.m. and you will give me money, you'll buy me a phone and you'll give me you and your wife's number."
Was it all there was to it? Eh, I'll order later.
The trash walked outside the door, crying.
"Fuck you Gale. I'm done with this. I don't have a fucking clue about this "red-head bitch" you were talking about."
Like an animal, he punched the wall and moved away, his sobs reaching my ears in a delay.
That's why it is called ugly crying.
Helen returned moments later with a cup of tea, resting on a silver platter aside a small cup with sugar cubes.
I took the cup, ignoring the sugar.
The teabag looked cheap, with the logo of what I assumed was a supermarket chain I didn't recognize.
I could only guess if it was because it was American or Bethian.
I drunk it steadily but swiftly.
Helen stood aside, awkwardly holding her platter.
"Is it of your taste, boss?" she asked.
Too sweet.
"The temperature is adequate," I said.
I didn't feel particularly hungry.
Was it the same for the original Makima? It would have been an easy checkmate for Fami otherwise.
I gave back the cup of tea.
"Prepare dinner. Find me some clean toothbrush and something to wear. Is there a guest room?"
"Yes, boss," she said.
Better get into character.
"Call me Makima."
"Makima, it's time to wake up."
A foreign voice, a stranger's ceiling, a fake name.
I want home.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, this body didn't have to fight sleep.
I couldn't remember a panel of "myself" being dizzy, hungry, or tired. The Control Devil was surely always ready to lead, a truly exemplary devil hunter.
The outfit I found myself in last night was already prepared on my bed, clean and stirred, alongside the leather jacket, now sporting no nazi memorabilia but a cute patch of a brown dog, a less conspicous outfit made from one of Helen's jeans and tracksuits, and a pair of sunglasses.
My new look was certainly striking, but I preferred to be less eyecatching.
Eh.
I put on the glasses, the act achingly familiar but now useless, and posed at the mirror.
As cheap as they were, they fit well enough.
Clean, dressed and ready, I went down for breakfast.
Helen stood at the door, the perfect image of a 50s housewife, making pancakes, eggs and bacon.
"Would you like anything, Makima?" she asked. She looked surprisingly rested for the late hours I made her take.
Does she seriously wear makeup in the morning?
Can Devils get fat?
"One of everything," I said. "And tea."
She smiled with her pearly white teeth and nodded.
Henry drunk his American coffee while staring at the television.
"No news about me?" I asked.
"Nothing, boss. I bet the E88 is trying to keep it shut, for now."
That will be useful. I need a cool cape name, I don't want to Taylor it badly.
Was it me or was it Makima that I didn't find the idea to fight again all that distressing?
Once I finished breakfast and cleaned my teeth, Henry and I went out his car.
"Goodbye, Makima," Helen said from the door.
I smiled at Helen. "Goodbye."
Pancakes for breakfast are nice. I can see myself getting used to it.
Henry opened the car door for me, and dropped my recently bought duffel bag on my feet.
A part of me considered driving to the PRT, and lending myself to them. Fanon or canon, they were surely the best option this city had to offer. I just didn't want to end up like the Canary in the coal mine.
The ABB wasn't as weak as many fans might think, even if consisting of only two capes, but like hell I would work alongside traffickers. Henry wasn't an objective PoV, but the articles he showed me looked like the real deal.
The best option to gather power was owning Coil. I knew how he worked. I knew what he wanted. Best of all, it was early, very early, the six of January, way before Dinah would be in his grasps.
Miss Protagonist would trigger soon.
A part of me wanted to stop it from happening, but would it change anything for the better for her? Would it be worth the risk of being found out?
The excuses sounded hollow. The worst part of me wanted to wait her at the hospital with an offer she couldn't refuse, offering to take away the reason for the hospital stay by taking away her power.
I understood this idea wasn't only because of my new nature, but the circumstances made it more appealing. It was pointless to mull over it. Yoru certainly showed a devil was a devil no matter how cute they acted. I had to hope I could become better than Makima was or Beth would fear.
I took a deep breath.
I didn't know if Dinah had even triggered yet, and the Undersiders were barely a name around here, according to Henry. He hardly knew who Bitch was, and only because he heard Hookwolf insulted her for ruining one of his rings.
Now, I think if Coil ever discovered the extent of my powers, he would have me killed immediately, so I had to act smartly.
Let him think I couldn't order people forever, but only make them repent and disappear from their memories. Let him think I wanted to be a hero.
I would build my army, of men and vermins, and finally make him mine.
From there, I would need to find a way to contact Cauldron and leverage what I was and what I knew. I knew the two people that could speak to the Entity's heart. The Triumvirate and Contessa could make everyone work together.
Finally, I'd leave for home, making sure no trouble from here went there.
The car stopped. "This is the place," Henry said.
I smiled. "Thank you. Now, you can forget about me."
I closed the door, and the SUV drove off.
I took a deep breath, and entered the homeless shelter.
I got up, adrenaline pumping in my veins, and walked outside to the unfamiliar street, only to notice that I cut my left hand with a shard glass of a discarded bottle.
What the fuck?
My hand was wrong. The skin was softer, paler, and without that small mole under my middle finger.
My arms were wrong. The black coat, a good business coat that somehow helped me not be a sopping wet cat, couldn't hide how the rest of my body was wrong too.
I took a deep breath. I took it again. I lowered my arm.
I slowly walked to the nearest open business, and with each step I took I noticed how different I was.
I moved the bangs over my face, and I noticed I was also not wearing glasses, and could see just fine.
The images on the signs were different from my country's, and they weren't showing kilometers…
"This isn't my body, and this isn't Italy."
At least I'm in a country I know the language of.
I asked quietly: "Am I learning to walk a mile in someone's elses shoes?"
Even as I finished my self-reassuring joke, I cringed at my voice. Smoother, slightly higher,still different.
As I came closer to the pub, I noticed that the guy outside the bar, a pale blond man in a leather jacket, was glaring at me.
I smiled and I pointed to my hand. "Good night; I- uh"
He started glaring even harder.
I went inside and I immediately got why he was such a dickhead:
WW2 Nazi memorabilia, swastikas, gang signs, a black and white poster with the quote "He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future." under a man made of blades. Thirteen more men, five of which literal skinheads, were now glaring at me.
"Who the fuck let the chink in?" one said. He dropped his cigarette on a sad lettuce leaf on the plate in front of him.
I blinked, and my suffering smile strained even more.
A short, burly scarred man that looked like he could break my neck with a finger shouted: "Look at her eyes! She's one of Lung's bitches!"
The door behind me locked.
I ran to the ladies bathroom, just as I felt one man grab my coat that was a fucking good coat but I preferred to live, thanks.
I closed and locked the door, but it wouldn't hold for long.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Pale skin. Features vaguely Asian, beautiful and unnervingly so. Red hair. Yellow eyes, red circles within red circles.
Lung. America. Nazi bar with metal man.
"What the fuck."
I pointed at the door and yelled "Bang!"
The door banged back, from the other side.
Someone shouted: "We'll show you what we do with bitches like you!"
I would really like for Bitch to show up.
Not owning the gun devil? No powers but only a sick, in every sense of the word, cosplay?
My bleeding hand sure showed I had no contract with the government of Japan.
I took a deep breath, again.
Even the sense of wrongness that was still there felt nothing more than the disorientation of a lightining fast puberty.
I could see myself growing to like living in this.
The door smashed to the ground, breaking my coping line of thought.
The big, tall, white guy with a short haircut drove a kick to my shins.
I fell on the ground, my ears ringing in my head like crazy.
He grabbed my head, pulling from my pigtail, and shoved me towards the damn door.
"Look at what you made me do, bitch!" he shouted.
A fly landed in front of my nose.
It itched my skin.
Go away.
The mosquito entered his mouth, choking him.
I took a piece of the splintered door and stabbed his right leg, from one side to the other.
He fell to the ground.
Hearing another piece of trash behind me, I lowered my legs in time to dodge a punch, turned, and delivered an uppercut to the burly man, who was probably one of Hookwolf's cagefighters, making him drop two teeth.
His companions shouted in rage, and fear.
My right fist was bloody, so I licked it.
The ringing stopped, and pain vanished.
I licked my lips.
I made an "O" with my right hand, and I blew in it, blowing bubbles that covered the heads of every fighter in the room, and once they popped they all stopped.
I walked to the counter, and asked the bartender. "Give me a medium…"
I took a deep breath.
"Whatever you have."
The man promptly did so, trembling. I bit my finger. Why didn't I bubble him too?
Why the fuck bubbles? I always wished I could "bubble up" people when they were noisy or annoying but-
Uh.
A beer that was bigger than a medium appeared in front of me.
I cupped it in my hands.
It was cold, and my clothes were still wet.
Time to get warmer.
I sipped it.
It was good, light. The alcohol was giving me just that slightly amount of heat and buzz I needed to think more clearly.
I was Makima. In Worm.
I looked at a sack of trash besides me and asked: "This is Brockton Bay, right?"
"Brock-tón," he replied.
I hummed. Good to know I put the accent wrong, wouldn't want to enrage the locals.
I coughed. I didn't know if devils could catch a cold, but they could bleed all-right.
I made the grabby trash give me back my old coat. It was still damp.
I called the first piece of trash that stood at the entrance to my side.
"Let's make a deal. You give me your leather jacket, and I don't kill you."
He agreed as I ordered, and the deal was struck.
I could have taken it from him without any deal, but it seemed fitting.
Satisfied, I went back to my beer.
After finishing it, I almost wanted another, but even if Makima could apparently handle more than half a liter of a light lager just fine, I preferred to stay in control.
Eh.
"Water."
The bartender was gone. I blinked and put two and two together.
E88 capes were coming.
I should pay more attention!
I asked. "Does any of you have an apartment for tonight where I won't find trouble?"
Nine guys raised their hands.
I looked at them. I had to take a moment to understand who was more put together, and promptly discarded the skinheads.
Closeted Nazis are some of the best Nazis that aren't dead.
"Who of you has a car?" I asked.
Two hands went down.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…" I whispered aloud.
I chose the least trashy one without nazi apparel.
Now, what to do with these other gentlemen?
I rattled the first things that came to my mind: "Once I am out of here, you will all forget me. You will stop being fucking Nazis and hurting other people. Read books about why being a Nazi is stupid. Feel guilt."
The traffic outside the bar got more intense.
"Cover for me," I added.
And so they did. They put themselves in front of the entrance while I and my hired chaffeur somewhat awkwardly escaped through a window.
The car waiting for me was a white SUV proudly displaying the Ford logo.
Once I went on the back seats, finding me again slightly wet due to the weather, I curled up and covered my face.
I ordered people as if they were my things. Worst of all, my orders were stupid.
I should have asked them to continue to monitor the E88, I should have hidden my powers better.
I didn't think to control the bartender because he wasn't as trash as them: I could accept horrible people catering to horrible people as a job, but those blaming others for their own actions were worse than trash.
There were so many roads in front of me, but being a hero felt impossible.
Contacting Cauldron… would it be worth it? I certainly can't imagine myself surviving Contessa, or the Triumvirate or even the Custodian for that matter.
Makima couldn't control Chainsawman or Kishibe because they weren't below herself, after all.
I wanted to go back. I didn't care for this world. I wanted my job, my family, my friends.
Impossibility for impossibility, there should be a way back. If not the entities, devils could be the answer. Though I had to see if there were devils here, besides apparently me.
Heck, even I went back as this… there were no short number of powerful people I saw lesser than myself.
"Ahahahahaha!" I laughed at the absurdity of it all.
I moved my hand behind the driver and pinched his neck.
He didn't move.
"Hehehe…" I laughed. "You really are a marionette under my strings."
The car stopped in front of a well-curated lawn. The house was one of the dozens Mc Mansions this side of the street.
That such a well-off piece of trash decided to play the Nazi melted all my worries about losing control over him: a human like him deserved no second thought.
The wet, well-kept lawn glinted from the lights on the ground floor.
"Is there anyone still up?" I asked Trash.
"My wife. She always waits for me to go home," he answered neutrally.
I looked him in the eyes. He looked down.
"You said I wouldn't have a problem," I continued.
"Helen won't be one," he reassured me.
I took a deep breath. "Bring me to her."
He opened the door for me and we stepped inside.
We found her in the living room, reading a magazine. The best word I could use was "plain". Comfy clothing, with just a hint of make-up to enhance her natural looks. Her loose blonde hair covered her head with two messy bangs.
She was surprised. "Henry! I thought you'd come later! Who's she?"
"She's the boss, dear," he replied.
She looked me in the eyes. Hers drowned in fear, looking between me and him.
"Why someone like her? Here?!" She asked.
He put a hand over her shoulders. She was trembling like a rat in a cage.
He pulled up his hand up and made a fist.
I grimaced, told him to step back, and blew a bubble.
The woman reflexively waved it off, but the moment it touched her, it popped.
I dropped on the sofa and took a deep breath.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Helen."
My lips curled down. The trash already told me that. I should have remembered it.
A maroon cat with a white spot on its left eye jumped down from the stairs.
"I thought Nazis preferred dogs," I wondered outloud.
I walked closer to it, but it scurried away, darting under the coffee table and jumping on the library.
I put my hand up trying to reach it, but it moved back.
"Juggle is shy like that, boss," Trash said.
It didn't need to be shy around me.
"Someone should bring me a cup of tea," I said.
Helen stood up and left to the kitchen, leaving the magazine open on the advertisement of a new cape film, "Wards Around 3".
Trash' cellphone rang. I didn't recognize the brand, but it looked better than 20tensomething cellphones should.
He took it out, stared at it and stood still.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"My kommander, boss."
I slumped on the sofa and took a deep breath.
"You'll answer to him in another room. You'll tell him you forgot about whatever cape mess happened. You'll feel immense guilt for your Nazi beliefs. You will stop being a fascist piece of scum. If you notice any of the E88 surveilling this house you'll make sure to inform me ASAP. Tomorrow morning you will wake me up at 6 a.m. and you will give me money, you'll buy me a phone and you'll give me you and your wife's number."
Was it all there was to it? Eh, I'll order later.
The trash walked outside the door, crying.
"Fuck you Gale. I'm done with this. I don't have a fucking clue about this "red-head bitch" you were talking about."
Like an animal, he punched the wall and moved away, his sobs reaching my ears in a delay.
That's why it is called ugly crying.
Helen returned moments later with a cup of tea, resting on a silver platter aside a small cup with sugar cubes.
I took the cup, ignoring the sugar.
The teabag looked cheap, with the logo of what I assumed was a supermarket chain I didn't recognize.
I could only guess if it was because it was American or Bethian.
I drunk it steadily but swiftly.
Helen stood aside, awkwardly holding her platter.
"Is it of your taste, boss?" she asked.
Too sweet.
"The temperature is adequate," I said.
I didn't feel particularly hungry.
Was it the same for the original Makima? It would have been an easy checkmate for Fami otherwise.
I gave back the cup of tea.
"Prepare dinner. Find me some clean toothbrush and something to wear. Is there a guest room?"
"Yes, boss," she said.
Better get into character.
"Call me Makima."
"Makima, it's time to wake up."
A foreign voice, a stranger's ceiling, a fake name.
I want home.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, this body didn't have to fight sleep.
I couldn't remember a panel of "myself" being dizzy, hungry, or tired. The Control Devil was surely always ready to lead, a truly exemplary devil hunter.
The outfit I found myself in last night was already prepared on my bed, clean and stirred, alongside the leather jacket, now sporting no nazi memorabilia but a cute patch of a brown dog, a less conspicous outfit made from one of Helen's jeans and tracksuits, and a pair of sunglasses.
My new look was certainly striking, but I preferred to be less eyecatching.
Eh.
I put on the glasses, the act achingly familiar but now useless, and posed at the mirror.
As cheap as they were, they fit well enough.
Clean, dressed and ready, I went down for breakfast.
Helen stood at the door, the perfect image of a 50s housewife, making pancakes, eggs and bacon.
"Would you like anything, Makima?" she asked. She looked surprisingly rested for the late hours I made her take.
Does she seriously wear makeup in the morning?
Can Devils get fat?
"One of everything," I said. "And tea."
She smiled with her pearly white teeth and nodded.
Henry drunk his American coffee while staring at the television.
"No news about me?" I asked.
"Nothing, boss. I bet the E88 is trying to keep it shut, for now."
That will be useful. I need a cool cape name, I don't want to Taylor it badly.
Was it me or was it Makima that I didn't find the idea to fight again all that distressing?
Once I finished breakfast and cleaned my teeth, Henry and I went out his car.
"Goodbye, Makima," Helen said from the door.
I smiled at Helen. "Goodbye."
Pancakes for breakfast are nice. I can see myself getting used to it.
Henry opened the car door for me, and dropped my recently bought duffel bag on my feet.
A part of me considered driving to the PRT, and lending myself to them. Fanon or canon, they were surely the best option this city had to offer. I just didn't want to end up like the Canary in the coal mine.
The ABB wasn't as weak as many fans might think, even if consisting of only two capes, but like hell I would work alongside traffickers. Henry wasn't an objective PoV, but the articles he showed me looked like the real deal.
The best option to gather power was owning Coil. I knew how he worked. I knew what he wanted. Best of all, it was early, very early, the six of January, way before Dinah would be in his grasps.
Miss Protagonist would trigger soon.
A part of me wanted to stop it from happening, but would it change anything for the better for her? Would it be worth the risk of being found out?
The excuses sounded hollow. The worst part of me wanted to wait her at the hospital with an offer she couldn't refuse, offering to take away the reason for the hospital stay by taking away her power.
I understood this idea wasn't only because of my new nature, but the circumstances made it more appealing. It was pointless to mull over it. Yoru certainly showed a devil was a devil no matter how cute they acted. I had to hope I could become better than Makima was or Beth would fear.
I took a deep breath.
I didn't know if Dinah had even triggered yet, and the Undersiders were barely a name around here, according to Henry. He hardly knew who Bitch was, and only because he heard Hookwolf insulted her for ruining one of his rings.
Now, I think if Coil ever discovered the extent of my powers, he would have me killed immediately, so I had to act smartly.
Let him think I couldn't order people forever, but only make them repent and disappear from their memories. Let him think I wanted to be a hero.
I would build my army, of men and vermins, and finally make him mine.
From there, I would need to find a way to contact Cauldron and leverage what I was and what I knew. I knew the two people that could speak to the Entity's heart. The Triumvirate and Contessa could make everyone work together.
Finally, I'd leave for home, making sure no trouble from here went there.
The car stopped. "This is the place," Henry said.
I smiled. "Thank you. Now, you can forget about me."
I closed the door, and the SUV drove off.
I took a deep breath, and entered the homeless shelter.
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Shelter 2
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I closed my notebook while walking back and forth.
Even if had been three weeks since I started, I still wasn't used to this.
The timer I set on my phone buzzed two minutes before the interview.
I opened my notebook, again, and closed it, again.
I took my seat, an old but comfy office chair, and waited, longingly staring at my empty thermos full of tea.
When my critters noticed my target moving towards the entrance, I straightened myself and looked to the side, idly browsing through a week old copy of The Bay Post.
My guest showed herself, two minutes late.
Zero points.
Janice Nelson asked aloud: "Is this the place?"
She carried her belongings over her shoulders in an old Hot Whells backpack that swayed back and forth while she looked around.
She relaxed slightly once she noticed the many seemingly unguarded escape routes.
For living on the road, her short buzzcut and baggy but relatively clean clothes spoke of someone that cared of herself. She smelled like a runner after a short sweat.
Why are you still homeless?
"If you mean the interview for the Raise Awareness Committee," I said. "This is the place."
Subverting the Committee made reaching desperate people all the easier. Curing addictions and giving jobs to those that couldn't or wouldn't get one was fantastic publicity.
"And the money is real…?" Janice asked suspiciously.
"Half a hour of your time for thirty dollars," I answered with a calm smile on my face. "Let me ask you ten questions, answer truthfully, and then you can go."
She eyed me up and down. For all the interviews, I was wearing the Devil HunterTM outfit with my pair of sunglasses.
In other words, I looked like the mob or a secret agent, which was pretty cool if admittedly shady. But very few people changed idea once they arrived at this point. I didn't know if it was because of me or "me", but most people I interacted with, from cashiers to couples walking their dogs, didn't tend to open up too much.
Finally, she relented: "Ok. That's a deal."
Eh.
I put thirty dollars in her hands.
Her eyes darted to the warehouse door.
Brockton Bay stored lots of places like this, empty husks of a once vital shipping node. It's one of the main reasons most homeless had a sort of home.
I hope I'll be ready for Leviathan. I need to start collecting capes.
She tightened her fist of dollars.
My smile stood in place, ready for her next move.
She took her seat, a once-pink sun-bleached plastic chair in front of an old wooden case, and tucked her legs.
Three points.
"How long have you been homeless?" I asked.
"Give or take one year," she replied cagily.
So she knew what it was like to be a homeless woman, but still had pride in herself.
One point.
I moved to the next question: "How did you end up homeless?"
In a trance, she spoke: "I ran over a kid and now my family hates me."
Zero points.
She dropped her dollars and got up. The notes fell like leaves on the dirty floor.
She shouted: "Fucking-"
One of my men darted from behind his hiding spot, a faded Coca-Cola container, and grabbed her wrists.
I got up and put my right index over her mouth.
"A deal is a deal," I whispered. "If you don't answer to me, there will be consequences. I have eight questions left, then you may go your marry way."
She started crying. I took a deep breath, and shooed away my man's hand from her wrist.
I said: "Jonah, I think you can leave. Give us some privacy."
He let her go and went out, taking out a cigarette he wouldn't lit while near me.
I put the plastic chair back where it was, took the money off the ground and gave it back to her. I sat, and waited. She followed me back to her place.
I moved on to my next question: "What will you do with what I gave you?"
Angry, she looked at her dollars and put them in a hidden pocket of her bag. "Get some hot meals, and a coat."
That's one point up.
I put down my red pen, and read aloud the next question. "If you could go back in time, what would you change?"
Resigned, she answered: "Lying to my parents about what I did."
I put my arms on the table and steepled my hands. I leaned into them, biting my finger. Janice seemed surprised at her own answer.
"Why that, and not the kid?" I asked curiously.
Feebly, she said: "Because they trusted me, and you made me blurt out the first thing it came to my mind!"
Two points.
Now it was time for one of my favorite questions: "Do you believe things can get better?"
The answer was immediate: "Not really."
Minus one.
She was hardly the first homeless thinking that. Though, as understandable as it was, I wasn't a sociologist trying to discover if depressed people were more likely to remain homeless or if homelessness caused depression.
"Did you, or do you work for a gang?" I finally asked.
"Fuck no! Is this all this is about?! Playing mind games to the homeless?!"
Plus one, and plus one for finally showing some spine.
"Why would you not? My contacts saw you steal," I said, playing with my red pen.
Rats could reach way farther than most thought.
Her face turned scarlet. "Gangs hurt people! Do you really think stealing a wallet from tourists is like selling drugs to kids?!"
Minus… Eh, this is moot.
I took a deep breath. No question left, and I already got what I wanted out of her.
I took out my notebook, wrote down her name, the number of questions left, which was 0, and her final score.
7 is a lucky number.
The score didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but it was a good starting point to make a decision. Owning an ex-HR manager had its perks.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
I took a deep breath. I closed my notebook and ordered my remaining men to leave us alone.
Damon kicked a tincan as he got out, making my guest glance wearily to his corner.
"Not a lot of people ask me that," I said. "You are the first this week."
I put down my sunglasses, and looked her in the eyes.
She stared at mine, before looking past my head.
I was finally used to looking in the eyes of people, and now I couldn't!
"You're that new cape? Stigma?"
It was really impresssive how a simple costume that hid my hair and a white Obito-like mask changed people's perception.
"Yup, that's me. There's lots of people out there, villains and heroes alike, that believe they are a necessary evil. Do the bad things for the right reasons," I said.
"Like you are," she remarked with a tired tone tinged with a hint of fear and rage.
My smile widened.
"No. My first targets were Nazis. Fucking scum. I ordered them to stop being Nazis. Last I heard, two of them died by Hookwolf's hands. Most lost the jobs they got due to their connections."
I slammed the case, breaking it, and shouted: "One went to the police and was never heard of!"
And I could have stopped it. Like the mices, each and every individual falling in my grasp was a little window into this world I could peek through if I paid attention. Though, frankly, even if I unwittingly sent some Nazis to their deaths, I didn't feel guilty.
Bitterly, my guest replied:
"Do you want me to play psychologist? Good fucking riddance, I say."
My mask had slipped too much.
"What is the point of controlling people to be better?" I asked aloud.
I looked at my bruised and scarred hand, took out one of my small blood capsules, and bit it.
I stretched the fingers of my healed hand. "Society is full of dumpsters people happily throw themselves in. The best I can do is forcefully taking them out and forbidding them to be trash. The lesser evil would be conditioning them to set themselves on fire to take out the dumpsters, or going to the Protectorate and signing myself away."
I didn't know if my metaphor truly delivered.
"So you took me because I am a pity case?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No, most pity cases are sent away to make their fortune elsewhere."
"Most?"
My smile turned sour: "Addiction is a terrible thing."
Making Damon mine saved him from dull, alcoholic depression. He chose to come back.
"So you hate me for driving down the kid?"
I shook my head. "Not at all."
I was always surprised that cars are such powerful machines for being so common.
What would a car devil look like?
In this Bethian America, mass shooters were much less common than drivers throwing themselves into crowds.
This reminds me that I have to get Bakuda.
Tangent thoughts aside, I answered to my guest:
"I want someone to work with, as a partner. I'll make a deal, written and signed. I promise I won't take you for granted."
She looked at her dollars and put them in a hidden pocket of her bag.
"Are you crazy? How the hell I didn't hear… You got them! You could make me say yes! There's no point to this!"
She didn't listen.
"What is the point of controlling people to be better?" I asked again. "Nothing. Whatever the case, I won't force you to be mine. You are better than most you think."
I blew a bubble.
She threw herself down, but it was too late.
I crossed her name from the list. She wasn't connected to anyone important, she had nobody left and she still was worthy of being her own person.
Using words I was too used to, I said: "You'll think this interview went as you heard, selling easy lies to a naïve reporter. Go to Damian, he'll find for you a place to honestly make a living for a while. Stop hating yourself. Once ready, go out of the bay." Cheekily, I added: "Live your life braving on."
I helped Janice clean herself up and accompanied her to the door.
"Keep in contact with the RAC if anything bad happens, ok?" I asked. "And if you call to me, I'm barely a thought away."
"Thanks, Stigma," she said with a wide smile that reached her eyes.
I am a monster.
"Call me Makima."
I stared at the door as she went out. I took a deep breath, and called Sam.
"How was the girl, boss?" she asked.
"She'll find a better life," I said. I hoped. If the Bay got half as bad as canon, lots of people like her would be the first to take the hit.
"Can you tell Kate to take a pizza for me? Something with lots of vegetables," I said.
"Sure."
I took a moment to think. "And ask the boys if they want anything."
"Ok, boss."
I closed the call and looked at the time on my watch. "Ryan will come in forty-five minutes…"
I looked at my notebook:
I abruptly shut my notebook and took out my reconditioned DragonTM to play Heroes: Parahuman Recall.
Until I felt some of mine being ripped apart.
I looked through Josh' eyes. His body was on the ground, adrenaline pumping in his veins, hurting all over.
The Raise Awareness kitchen was surrounded by two ugly, loud and impractically big motorcycles, linked by a chain that had driven through the stalls. The two drivers were a blonde woman wearing a skimpy outfit that looked like a bad cosplay of the FF15 Cid chick and a man with an ugly grin and a costume that looked like a worn-out tracksuit with a cape and mask tacked on.
Blood was on the ground, Lerrie's loud cry was the cry of a forty-year old man that couldn't feel his legs because they were five feet away, Masha was dead, the head of the old woman cleanly separated from her neck. Three good people, that have been good way before I slipped my fingers into their lives, destined to rot away. Besides them, I counted two more dead and at least twelve wounded.
That old man always looks that he's one step away from grave. I can't honestly tell if he's all right or not.
The sound of the police came closer, and the two murderers escaped laughing their ass off.
Two cops walked out of the car and looked down.
"Cape shit, fucked up," the older one, a balding man with gray hair said.
"Who the hell would do this?" the other, a beanpole with blonde hair asked.
"It's capes, man," the other explained without saying more. "Go call the ambulance and press the Cape button."
The younger officer complied.
"Fucking gangs, oh…" he said.
He turned to Josh and walked back, face pale.
He wearely walked closer and touched Josh's face. "It's dead… I must be seeing things."
I dropped to the floor and fought back the urge to vomit.
Even if had been three weeks since I started, I still wasn't used to this.
The timer I set on my phone buzzed two minutes before the interview.
I opened my notebook, again, and closed it, again.
I took my seat, an old but comfy office chair, and waited, longingly staring at my empty thermos full of tea.
When my critters noticed my target moving towards the entrance, I straightened myself and looked to the side, idly browsing through a week old copy of The Bay Post.
My guest showed herself, two minutes late.
Zero points.
Janice Nelson asked aloud: "Is this the place?"
She carried her belongings over her shoulders in an old Hot Whells backpack that swayed back and forth while she looked around.
She relaxed slightly once she noticed the many seemingly unguarded escape routes.
For living on the road, her short buzzcut and baggy but relatively clean clothes spoke of someone that cared of herself. She smelled like a runner after a short sweat.
Why are you still homeless?
"If you mean the interview for the Raise Awareness Committee," I said. "This is the place."
Subverting the Committee made reaching desperate people all the easier. Curing addictions and giving jobs to those that couldn't or wouldn't get one was fantastic publicity.
"And the money is real…?" Janice asked suspiciously.
"Half a hour of your time for thirty dollars," I answered with a calm smile on my face. "Let me ask you ten questions, answer truthfully, and then you can go."
She eyed me up and down. For all the interviews, I was wearing the Devil HunterTM outfit with my pair of sunglasses.
In other words, I looked like the mob or a secret agent, which was pretty cool if admittedly shady. But very few people changed idea once they arrived at this point. I didn't know if it was because of me or "me", but most people I interacted with, from cashiers to couples walking their dogs, didn't tend to open up too much.
Finally, she relented: "Ok. That's a deal."
Eh.
I put thirty dollars in her hands.
Her eyes darted to the warehouse door.
Brockton Bay stored lots of places like this, empty husks of a once vital shipping node. It's one of the main reasons most homeless had a sort of home.
I hope I'll be ready for Leviathan. I need to start collecting capes.
She tightened her fist of dollars.
My smile stood in place, ready for her next move.
She took her seat, a once-pink sun-bleached plastic chair in front of an old wooden case, and tucked her legs.
Three points.
"How long have you been homeless?" I asked.
"Give or take one year," she replied cagily.
So she knew what it was like to be a homeless woman, but still had pride in herself.
One point.
I moved to the next question: "How did you end up homeless?"
In a trance, she spoke: "I ran over a kid and now my family hates me."
Zero points.
She dropped her dollars and got up. The notes fell like leaves on the dirty floor.
She shouted: "Fucking-"
One of my men darted from behind his hiding spot, a faded Coca-Cola container, and grabbed her wrists.
I got up and put my right index over her mouth.
"A deal is a deal," I whispered. "If you don't answer to me, there will be consequences. I have eight questions left, then you may go your marry way."
She started crying. I took a deep breath, and shooed away my man's hand from her wrist.
I said: "Jonah, I think you can leave. Give us some privacy."
He let her go and went out, taking out a cigarette he wouldn't lit while near me.
I put the plastic chair back where it was, took the money off the ground and gave it back to her. I sat, and waited. She followed me back to her place.
I moved on to my next question: "What will you do with what I gave you?"
Angry, she looked at her dollars and put them in a hidden pocket of her bag. "Get some hot meals, and a coat."
That's one point up.
I put down my red pen, and read aloud the next question. "If you could go back in time, what would you change?"
Resigned, she answered: "Lying to my parents about what I did."
I put my arms on the table and steepled my hands. I leaned into them, biting my finger. Janice seemed surprised at her own answer.
"Why that, and not the kid?" I asked curiously.
Feebly, she said: "Because they trusted me, and you made me blurt out the first thing it came to my mind!"
Two points.
Now it was time for one of my favorite questions: "Do you believe things can get better?"
The answer was immediate: "Not really."
Minus one.
She was hardly the first homeless thinking that. Though, as understandable as it was, I wasn't a sociologist trying to discover if depressed people were more likely to remain homeless or if homelessness caused depression.
"Did you, or do you work for a gang?" I finally asked.
"Fuck no! Is this all this is about?! Playing mind games to the homeless?!"
Plus one, and plus one for finally showing some spine.
"Why would you not? My contacts saw you steal," I said, playing with my red pen.
Rats could reach way farther than most thought.
Her face turned scarlet. "Gangs hurt people! Do you really think stealing a wallet from tourists is like selling drugs to kids?!"
Minus… Eh, this is moot.
I took a deep breath. No question left, and I already got what I wanted out of her.
I took out my notebook, wrote down her name, the number of questions left, which was 0, and her final score.
7 is a lucky number.
The score didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but it was a good starting point to make a decision. Owning an ex-HR manager had its perks.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
I took a deep breath. I closed my notebook and ordered my remaining men to leave us alone.
Damon kicked a tincan as he got out, making my guest glance wearily to his corner.
"Not a lot of people ask me that," I said. "You are the first this week."
I put down my sunglasses, and looked her in the eyes.
She stared at mine, before looking past my head.
I was finally used to looking in the eyes of people, and now I couldn't!
"You're that new cape? Stigma?"
It was really impresssive how a simple costume that hid my hair and a white Obito-like mask changed people's perception.
"Yup, that's me. There's lots of people out there, villains and heroes alike, that believe they are a necessary evil. Do the bad things for the right reasons," I said.
"Like you are," she remarked with a tired tone tinged with a hint of fear and rage.
My smile widened.
"No. My first targets were Nazis. Fucking scum. I ordered them to stop being Nazis. Last I heard, two of them died by Hookwolf's hands. Most lost the jobs they got due to their connections."
I slammed the case, breaking it, and shouted: "One went to the police and was never heard of!"
And I could have stopped it. Like the mices, each and every individual falling in my grasp was a little window into this world I could peek through if I paid attention. Though, frankly, even if I unwittingly sent some Nazis to their deaths, I didn't feel guilty.
Bitterly, my guest replied:
"Do you want me to play psychologist? Good fucking riddance, I say."
My mask had slipped too much.
"What is the point of controlling people to be better?" I asked aloud.
I looked at my bruised and scarred hand, took out one of my small blood capsules, and bit it.
I stretched the fingers of my healed hand. "Society is full of dumpsters people happily throw themselves in. The best I can do is forcefully taking them out and forbidding them to be trash. The lesser evil would be conditioning them to set themselves on fire to take out the dumpsters, or going to the Protectorate and signing myself away."
I didn't know if my metaphor truly delivered.
"So you took me because I am a pity case?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No, most pity cases are sent away to make their fortune elsewhere."
"Most?"
My smile turned sour: "Addiction is a terrible thing."
Making Damon mine saved him from dull, alcoholic depression. He chose to come back.
"So you hate me for driving down the kid?"
I shook my head. "Not at all."
I was always surprised that cars are such powerful machines for being so common.
What would a car devil look like?
In this Bethian America, mass shooters were much less common than drivers throwing themselves into crowds.
This reminds me that I have to get Bakuda.
Tangent thoughts aside, I answered to my guest:
"I want someone to work with, as a partner. I'll make a deal, written and signed. I promise I won't take you for granted."
She looked at her dollars and put them in a hidden pocket of her bag.
"Are you crazy? How the hell I didn't hear… You got them! You could make me say yes! There's no point to this!"
She didn't listen.
"What is the point of controlling people to be better?" I asked again. "Nothing. Whatever the case, I won't force you to be mine. You are better than most you think."
I blew a bubble.
She threw herself down, but it was too late.
I crossed her name from the list. She wasn't connected to anyone important, she had nobody left and she still was worthy of being her own person.
Using words I was too used to, I said: "You'll think this interview went as you heard, selling easy lies to a naïve reporter. Go to Damian, he'll find for you a place to honestly make a living for a while. Stop hating yourself. Once ready, go out of the bay." Cheekily, I added: "Live your life braving on."
I helped Janice clean herself up and accompanied her to the door.
"Keep in contact with the RAC if anything bad happens, ok?" I asked. "And if you call to me, I'm barely a thought away."
"Thanks, Stigma," she said with a wide smile that reached her eyes.
I am a monster.
"Call me Makima."
I stared at the door as she went out. I took a deep breath, and called Sam.
"How was the girl, boss?" she asked.
"She'll find a better life," I said. I hoped. If the Bay got half as bad as canon, lots of people like her would be the first to take the hit.
"Can you tell Kate to take a pizza for me? Something with lots of vegetables," I said.
"Sure."
I took a moment to think. "And ask the boys if they want anything."
"Ok, boss."
I closed the call and looked at the time on my watch. "Ryan will come in forty-five minutes…"
I looked at my notebook:
- Name: Ryan (surname unknown)
- Age: 30something
- Gender: Male
- Race: Mixed (?)
- Nationality: American
- Smell (fuck you Fujimoto): 5/10
- Homeless since: at least two years
- Sins (Ψ): beating up another man over drugs, asked recently about the Lounge
- Connections to gangs: none, besides above
I abruptly shut my notebook and took out my reconditioned DragonTM to play Heroes: Parahuman Recall.
Until I felt some of mine being ripped apart.
I looked through Josh' eyes. His body was on the ground, adrenaline pumping in his veins, hurting all over.
The Raise Awareness kitchen was surrounded by two ugly, loud and impractically big motorcycles, linked by a chain that had driven through the stalls. The two drivers were a blonde woman wearing a skimpy outfit that looked like a bad cosplay of the FF15 Cid chick and a man with an ugly grin and a costume that looked like a worn-out tracksuit with a cape and mask tacked on.
Blood was on the ground, Lerrie's loud cry was the cry of a forty-year old man that couldn't feel his legs because they were five feet away, Masha was dead, the head of the old woman cleanly separated from her neck. Three good people, that have been good way before I slipped my fingers into their lives, destined to rot away. Besides them, I counted two more dead and at least twelve wounded.
That old man always looks that he's one step away from grave. I can't honestly tell if he's all right or not.
The sound of the police came closer, and the two murderers escaped laughing their ass off.
Two cops walked out of the car and looked down.
"Cape shit, fucked up," the older one, a balding man with gray hair said.
"Who the hell would do this?" the other, a beanpole with blonde hair asked.
"It's capes, man," the other explained without saying more. "Go call the ambulance and press the Cape button."
The younger officer complied.
"Fucking gangs, oh…" he said.
He turned to Josh and walked back, face pale.
He wearely walked closer and touched Josh's face. "It's dead… I must be seeing things."
I dropped to the floor and fought back the urge to vomit.
Shelter 3
- Pronouns
- She/Her
As the priest finished his homily, all I could think about was that I needed to send a message.
The old church had seen better days. The walls were crumbled in several places and showed plaster under the paint. The rows of seats were mostly empty, besides an old couple mumbling prayers under their breath and the few RAC members that had visited Kyle at the hospital. The cheap and simple coffin in front of me contained the remains of Kyle Steward, and I knew in my heart that even as it was carried away by the undertakers Kyle was now mine.
He was a lonely and old homeless man, had he had any family left I wouldn't have been here. The only proof left of him was an old gym membership car and his driver license.
After saluting the other parishers, the priest walked to me: "I have never seen you around here, miss…"
The black man wore a simple black vest that contrasted with his necklace, a silver crucifix that glinted like his eyes and his teeth. He sported a beard that smelled of lavender and sandal, while his hands smelled of earth and grass.
"Call me Makima. I'm not very religious," I said. "But I owed Kyle."
"Are you too part of the Raise group?" he inquired.
I smiled. "Yes."
I looked up at the wooden crucifix over the altar. It looked handmade, white wood with red carvings.
"Interested in joining?" the priest asked.
"No, no," I said. "I was raised Catholic, I think my parents would be quite… miffed about this. I just like art."
"I don't think your parents would hate you for praying," he said.
Do I believe in God again, walking around as a Devil?
"You can pray for me," I said. "But I don't think me doing it will make me feel any better."
The man shook his head. "Well, pardon this man of the cloth for trying. It worked on my wife, you know."
I blinked. Right, the priest practiced heresy and so could marry. "How scandalous," I joked. "Say, would you like some help for painting the walls? I know some people that have too much time in their hands…"
I put out the RAC company card. "And would like to help."
He looked at it for a moment. "I wouldn't feel too comfortable…"
"What? Is the payment the problem?" I asked. I didn't think to make him pay anything.
He stared me in the eyes. "You aren't from Brockton, are you?"
Uh, I thought my accent made it clear. "No."
His left hand moved to his necklace and rubbed it. "Many of my parishioners are blue-collar workers… Some of them wouldn't like I didn't ask them."
I took a deep breath. "And you didn't ask…"
His smile turned sour. "The economy isn't what it used to be. I can afford a modest life for myself and my family, and we do have a weekly soup kitchen…"
"But it isn't enough," I said. Even as connected as I now was, simple jobs were hard to come by. Most people outside of my umbrella were diffident, with little trust between new workers and employers. Most vacant jobs sucked, while the few good ones ended like bones thrown into a kennel.
I did feel very tempted to make my own "communist" utopia to make everyone work together.
Should I control fucking Danny?
My irritation cooled in collected rage: my mice had noticed that Squealer was back in her workshop.
I played with the RAC card. "Please, as a piece of mind. Keep the number in case."
He stepped back. "Did I offend you?"
I took a deep breath. "No, I have something unpleasant to do. Goodbye."
"God bless you," he said. "Don't be afraid to visit, sometimes."
I walked out of the church, into a cloud-filled sky. Eyes on the ground, I put away my sunglasses and adjusted my clothes until I found a clear alley.
A small rat made its way to me. Helpless, I gently took it in my hand and stared in his small red eyes.
I once dissected a lab rat. It looked like a much cleaner and healthier creature, but it was already dead when I took it.
The thing was in my palm, unnaturally calm, even if its small heart was beating like a drum.
I let it drop, and I called its friends.
Fiftyseven small, warm and furry bodies touched me and jumped on each other to covere me with an eagerness born of domination. I quickly lost the sun and I felt the cacophony of a city through a kaleidoscope of insignificant lives. With a quick shift of perspective, I dispersed the rats and found myself into the building right next to the workshop.
I had to give to the Merchants some credit, the street was usually guarded while Squealer played with her toys.
I walked to the table I had ordered to deliver here and changed myself into my cape costume. The white mask fit snugly to my face, hiding everything but my eyes, while the adjusted Nazi-gifted leather jacket was left open to sport my black shirt with a red Superman symbol, only the S stood for Stigma.
DC had been long bought out by the PRT alongside Marvel and most of their original characters had been forgotten, or if I were a betting woman, "cancelled" by the "powers that be" for being too different a portrayal of what a good relationship between heroes and villains should be.
It was fun reading about Luthor evading Superman again and again. It was less fun to realize Superman was definitely stronger than most of the Triumvirate and he still couldn't solve everything for good.
The black pants with the small pouch of utilities, including a burner phone, completed my ensemble. I adjusted my hair into the hood of my shirt, and stared at the reflection of a broken window, my ringed eyes staring back.
I look so fucking edgy. How the hell do people take me seriously? Why the hell does it work?!
I looked down the street. Four men outside, and as I knew, four inside, including my target. I took a deep breath and jumped down, shattering what was left of the window.
As my feet touched the ground, I rolled and ran towards Willy and punched him in the stomach, taking him out in one hit. His blunt went out as it rolled into a puddle.
Good fucking riddance.
The guy besides him braced a pipe towards me. I lunged and took the weapon from his hands, throwing it away. He staggered back, and I blew a bubble.
It popped and he was mine. I ordered him to feel guilty and run as far as he could until he would collapse.
The last two men were less lucky. One took out his phone to call for help, but I took a brick from the ground and caught the fuckhead in the chin, breaking bones and killing him in an instant.
I took a deep breath. Corpses really release a lot of shit.
The last one, terrified, dropped to the ground. I made an "O" with my fingers, and blew a very slow bubble. I left him catatonic.
I walked towards the building, and stopped. Familiar and infuriating twin roars reverberated from it.
Squealer and Leo were riding the bikes.
I smiled, and waited with my hands on my hips. The motorcycles rushed outside the building, breaking the boards that closed the entrance.
As the wood splintered and rusted nails were scattered, I could see that Squealer wasn't hurt. Her eyes were blood-shot and her arms were trembling, sweat covering her palms, but she immediately drove against me with no trouble, even as the wheels bounced on the small porch of stairs.
Jake wasn't as lucky, as I felt his hands slipping from the wheel, but it seemed that even though the only thing linking the bikes was the chain that connected the hoods, he didn't need to be that careful to follow Squealer's lead.
I took a deep breath. Squealer rushed towards me, and suddenly verged, with the chain and the other bike swinging towards me like a flail.
I punched the chain, breaking it and breaking my arm. I crushed the vial I kept under the tongue.
Jake was immediately launched from the bike, but thankfully the helmet Squealer made him wear would be enough to make him probably survive the night in the hospital. The bike crashed on the wall behind me, with the front wheel breaking away and rolling to the ground.
Squealer's bike almost fell over, but she made two turns standing on the ungodly big rear wheel, dropped straight and rode away.
"You'll learn to mess with us Merchants, fucking bitch!" she slurred.
If it weren't for my senses, I wouldn't have heard her.
I took a deep breath, and fought down the adrenaline cursing my body.
I walked towards the corpse of the guy I threw a brick at. I opened the grate to the sewer, dropped it and the brick, and ordered the rats to take care of them.
I wasn't exactly a hero in the Protectorate's eyes, but killing was something they frowned upon hard, especially since I was a rogue independent Master.
I walked back to the building I jumped from. I noticed on the door a fresh Merchant's tag covering another tag of some unheard, and probably disbanded group that used a music note as their mark.
I changed back to my outfit.
Once I heard the siren of Armsmaster's bike, a quite unique sound I could recognize from kilometers away, I fell back into the swarm, and woke up in the alley besides the shelter I walked into weeks ago.
I clutched the duffel bag that contained my costume. It faintly smelled of blood, rats and exhaust.
I entered the shelter, and shuffled towards the little kitchenette.
"Do you need anything, Makima?"
I smiled and shook my head. "There's no need, Kate."
Kate was a matronly, burly woman that fit the image of a sailor's wife to a tee.
As the head honcho of the shelter, she discovered my clean Devil HunterTM outfit hidden in my bag on the first day.
It had been quite embarassing being found out the next morning after forgetting to put on my sunglasses.
At least she cared for her job, and I was glad to leave her at that.
"I just want to make a cup of tea," I said. "Everything alright?"
"The girls are happy," she replied. "And you ask me this question every time you come."
I turned on the small gas stove, and prepared my cup. "Things can get bad quickly."
"Have you found anybody I need to check on?" I asked.
"You should take a break," she said. "Are you sure you don't want some apple pie? Marsha baked it."
"I don't feel like it now," I said. "Leave a slice for me later, ok?"
Kate moved to hug me. It felt too nice. "We are proud of you."
I almost dropped the cup. "Thanks. Now, leave me alone, and tell every girl to leave me alone, until dinner. Unless it's an emergency."
The calm scent of Jasmine tea finally reached my nostril. I almost drank it in one go, burning my throat. I hastily took out a blood vial from the fridge and drunk it. My heart was beating like a drum.
Forty minutes later, I went out again. Squealer was home.
The old church had seen better days. The walls were crumbled in several places and showed plaster under the paint. The rows of seats were mostly empty, besides an old couple mumbling prayers under their breath and the few RAC members that had visited Kyle at the hospital. The cheap and simple coffin in front of me contained the remains of Kyle Steward, and I knew in my heart that even as it was carried away by the undertakers Kyle was now mine.
He was a lonely and old homeless man, had he had any family left I wouldn't have been here. The only proof left of him was an old gym membership car and his driver license.
After saluting the other parishers, the priest walked to me: "I have never seen you around here, miss…"
The black man wore a simple black vest that contrasted with his necklace, a silver crucifix that glinted like his eyes and his teeth. He sported a beard that smelled of lavender and sandal, while his hands smelled of earth and grass.
"Call me Makima. I'm not very religious," I said. "But I owed Kyle."
"Are you too part of the Raise group?" he inquired.
I smiled. "Yes."
I looked up at the wooden crucifix over the altar. It looked handmade, white wood with red carvings.
"Interested in joining?" the priest asked.
"No, no," I said. "I was raised Catholic, I think my parents would be quite… miffed about this. I just like art."
"I don't think your parents would hate you for praying," he said.
Do I believe in God again, walking around as a Devil?
"You can pray for me," I said. "But I don't think me doing it will make me feel any better."
The man shook his head. "Well, pardon this man of the cloth for trying. It worked on my wife, you know."
I blinked. Right, the priest practiced heresy and so could marry. "How scandalous," I joked. "Say, would you like some help for painting the walls? I know some people that have too much time in their hands…"
I put out the RAC company card. "And would like to help."
He looked at it for a moment. "I wouldn't feel too comfortable…"
"What? Is the payment the problem?" I asked. I didn't think to make him pay anything.
He stared me in the eyes. "You aren't from Brockton, are you?"
Uh, I thought my accent made it clear. "No."
His left hand moved to his necklace and rubbed it. "Many of my parishioners are blue-collar workers… Some of them wouldn't like I didn't ask them."
I took a deep breath. "And you didn't ask…"
His smile turned sour. "The economy isn't what it used to be. I can afford a modest life for myself and my family, and we do have a weekly soup kitchen…"
"But it isn't enough," I said. Even as connected as I now was, simple jobs were hard to come by. Most people outside of my umbrella were diffident, with little trust between new workers and employers. Most vacant jobs sucked, while the few good ones ended like bones thrown into a kennel.
I did feel very tempted to make my own "communist" utopia to make everyone work together.
Should I control fucking Danny?
My irritation cooled in collected rage: my mice had noticed that Squealer was back in her workshop.
I played with the RAC card. "Please, as a piece of mind. Keep the number in case."
He stepped back. "Did I offend you?"
I took a deep breath. "No, I have something unpleasant to do. Goodbye."
"God bless you," he said. "Don't be afraid to visit, sometimes."
I walked out of the church, into a cloud-filled sky. Eyes on the ground, I put away my sunglasses and adjusted my clothes until I found a clear alley.
A small rat made its way to me. Helpless, I gently took it in my hand and stared in his small red eyes.
I once dissected a lab rat. It looked like a much cleaner and healthier creature, but it was already dead when I took it.
The thing was in my palm, unnaturally calm, even if its small heart was beating like a drum.
I let it drop, and I called its friends.
Fiftyseven small, warm and furry bodies touched me and jumped on each other to covere me with an eagerness born of domination. I quickly lost the sun and I felt the cacophony of a city through a kaleidoscope of insignificant lives. With a quick shift of perspective, I dispersed the rats and found myself into the building right next to the workshop.
I had to give to the Merchants some credit, the street was usually guarded while Squealer played with her toys.
I walked to the table I had ordered to deliver here and changed myself into my cape costume. The white mask fit snugly to my face, hiding everything but my eyes, while the adjusted Nazi-gifted leather jacket was left open to sport my black shirt with a red Superman symbol, only the S stood for Stigma.
DC had been long bought out by the PRT alongside Marvel and most of their original characters had been forgotten, or if I were a betting woman, "cancelled" by the "powers that be" for being too different a portrayal of what a good relationship between heroes and villains should be.
It was fun reading about Luthor evading Superman again and again. It was less fun to realize Superman was definitely stronger than most of the Triumvirate and he still couldn't solve everything for good.
The black pants with the small pouch of utilities, including a burner phone, completed my ensemble. I adjusted my hair into the hood of my shirt, and stared at the reflection of a broken window, my ringed eyes staring back.
I look so fucking edgy. How the hell do people take me seriously? Why the hell does it work?!
I looked down the street. Four men outside, and as I knew, four inside, including my target. I took a deep breath and jumped down, shattering what was left of the window.
As my feet touched the ground, I rolled and ran towards Willy and punched him in the stomach, taking him out in one hit. His blunt went out as it rolled into a puddle.
Good fucking riddance.
The guy besides him braced a pipe towards me. I lunged and took the weapon from his hands, throwing it away. He staggered back, and I blew a bubble.
It popped and he was mine. I ordered him to feel guilty and run as far as he could until he would collapse.
The last two men were less lucky. One took out his phone to call for help, but I took a brick from the ground and caught the fuckhead in the chin, breaking bones and killing him in an instant.
I took a deep breath. Corpses really release a lot of shit.
The last one, terrified, dropped to the ground. I made an "O" with my fingers, and blew a very slow bubble. I left him catatonic.
I walked towards the building, and stopped. Familiar and infuriating twin roars reverberated from it.
Squealer and Leo were riding the bikes.
I smiled, and waited with my hands on my hips. The motorcycles rushed outside the building, breaking the boards that closed the entrance.
As the wood splintered and rusted nails were scattered, I could see that Squealer wasn't hurt. Her eyes were blood-shot and her arms were trembling, sweat covering her palms, but she immediately drove against me with no trouble, even as the wheels bounced on the small porch of stairs.
Jake wasn't as lucky, as I felt his hands slipping from the wheel, but it seemed that even though the only thing linking the bikes was the chain that connected the hoods, he didn't need to be that careful to follow Squealer's lead.
I took a deep breath. Squealer rushed towards me, and suddenly verged, with the chain and the other bike swinging towards me like a flail.
I punched the chain, breaking it and breaking my arm. I crushed the vial I kept under the tongue.
Jake was immediately launched from the bike, but thankfully the helmet Squealer made him wear would be enough to make him probably survive the night in the hospital. The bike crashed on the wall behind me, with the front wheel breaking away and rolling to the ground.
Squealer's bike almost fell over, but she made two turns standing on the ungodly big rear wheel, dropped straight and rode away.
"You'll learn to mess with us Merchants, fucking bitch!" she slurred.
If it weren't for my senses, I wouldn't have heard her.
I took a deep breath, and fought down the adrenaline cursing my body.
I walked towards the corpse of the guy I threw a brick at. I opened the grate to the sewer, dropped it and the brick, and ordered the rats to take care of them.
I wasn't exactly a hero in the Protectorate's eyes, but killing was something they frowned upon hard, especially since I was a rogue independent Master.
I walked back to the building I jumped from. I noticed on the door a fresh Merchant's tag covering another tag of some unheard, and probably disbanded group that used a music note as their mark.
I changed back to my outfit.
Once I heard the siren of Armsmaster's bike, a quite unique sound I could recognize from kilometers away, I fell back into the swarm, and woke up in the alley besides the shelter I walked into weeks ago.
I clutched the duffel bag that contained my costume. It faintly smelled of blood, rats and exhaust.
I entered the shelter, and shuffled towards the little kitchenette.
"Do you need anything, Makima?"
I smiled and shook my head. "There's no need, Kate."
Kate was a matronly, burly woman that fit the image of a sailor's wife to a tee.
As the head honcho of the shelter, she discovered my clean Devil HunterTM outfit hidden in my bag on the first day.
It had been quite embarassing being found out the next morning after forgetting to put on my sunglasses.
At least she cared for her job, and I was glad to leave her at that.
"I just want to make a cup of tea," I said. "Everything alright?"
"The girls are happy," she replied. "And you ask me this question every time you come."
I turned on the small gas stove, and prepared my cup. "Things can get bad quickly."
"Have you found anybody I need to check on?" I asked.
"You should take a break," she said. "Are you sure you don't want some apple pie? Marsha baked it."
"I don't feel like it now," I said. "Leave a slice for me later, ok?"
Kate moved to hug me. It felt too nice. "We are proud of you."
I almost dropped the cup. "Thanks. Now, leave me alone, and tell every girl to leave me alone, until dinner. Unless it's an emergency."
The calm scent of Jasmine tea finally reached my nostril. I almost drank it in one go, burning my throat. I hastily took out a blood vial from the fridge and drunk it. My heart was beating like a drum.
Forty minutes later, I went out again. Squealer was home.
Interlude S
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Bad news always ruined the good shit.
"What the fuck are you talking about, retard?!" Skidmark said, throwing his fist on the table.
"Boss-" Logan said, putting his hands in front of him.
Skidmark got up and pushed him forward. The Merchant's back struck the wall besides the second floor window, air leaving his breath. He tried to get up, but Skidmark pushed him again.
"No no no, you don't "boss" me. I told you all to leave me the fuck alone when I'm ready to sample the good stuff. You have the gall to barge here and give me more bad news about that Master bitch that got to so many of our clients? Tell me why I shouldn't leave you to die, here and now?!"
"She's coming…" Logan wheezed. "One of her flunkies told me…"
Skidmark punched the table again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. You must be shitting me. Squealer…"
"She knows too."
Skidmark let down his power. "Let's fucking move."
He had chosen as their base a tourist shop that looked like a lighthouse, a somewhat popular spot where many visitors used to buy little trinkets and took photos of themselves.
What most people didn't know, or care about, was that the building besides it, a delapitated restaurant, had a small warehouse that could keep some of Squealer's smaller projects for a fast escape.
Skidmark thought he wouldn't need to use it so soon, barely a name in town, but fuck if he wanted to get "guilty" over his way of living. Psycho-cultist bitch.
"Yo Skid, get in," Squealer yelled from the driver's seat.
The repurposed pickup could comfortably hold ten men and tons of stuff.
The sound of yelling, kicking and screaming hurried him to move fast.
He picked his seat besides her.
"What about me, Skid?" Logan asked.
"Shithead, what do you think?!" he snarled.
The man hurried behind and closed the door.
Squealer started the engine, and drove through the wall.
"Dammit," Skidmark said.
The woman, wearing what Skidmark called her usual "fuckable white-trash" attire, asked: "Where do we go now, Adam? We can't exactly call ourselves the Bridge Merchant's."
"Fucking why not?" Skidmark asked.
"It's been two months since we got the place, Skid, and she trashed it. We need to move on."
Skidmark light up the kush, and slumped on the backseat. There was an art in rolling a good one, lightning it up and smoking it. Some clients he met were such poser shitheads that he wanted to throttle, but hell cash was cash.
He inhaled it and released it. "Fuck if I know. Brockton Bay sounded like a nice gig, another small fish in the big pond, but the rate Stigma is going we'll have no clients in a month."
And hell if he'd risk going clean. Live was to be enjoyed, his soul be damned.
The noise of small traffic at 3 a.m., sometimes interrupted by an ambulance and trucks, quieted down when the vehicle left to the countryside.
He played with the drug on his hand. "This is good. Want some?"
"Not until we have left it behind," she replied. "Where should we go?"
"Your old place," he said.
Squealer looked him in the face, the veins on her skin turning red. If he hadn't seen her guide better in worst condition, he would have told her to keep her eyes on the road.
He put his hands up. "Yeah yeah keep your shit behind. But who the hell would check in the boonies? One night and we drive to Boston. There we get a feel and see if we need to go even further. I promise that if any of the fuckheads behind try anything-
Squealer stopped the car.
Skidmark dropped lost his smoke and swore. "Fuck you doing?"
"They can't try," Squealer said, as serious as that night.
Skidmark swore: "Fuck yeah they can't! Did I ever disappoint you, Sherrel?! I keep around me the ones that can walk straight under the heavy stuff, they know to listen! Did they ever try to touch you? Did they steal your stuff?"
Squealer replied. "Yes, you are right."
He patted her shoulders and smiled: "Let's fucking go then."
"Did he pass, Makima?"
"Who the fuck-
Stigma was behind him.
Her yellow and red dartboard eyes, peeking out of the white mask, and her lips, mildly amused, freaked him the fuck out.
Skidmark moved to punch her in the face, but she swatted his hand like a fly.
Fuck, she's a brute.
He made a vector and stepped out of the car.
Stigma turned to Squealer, the fucking traitor, and completely ignored him. "You can tell me, Sherrel. Would you trust him now?"
"No."
Sherrel had dropped them in the middle of nowhere. The car was parked on a hill near the dirt road, with no light except the full moon, the stars and the headlights.
He took out his knife and drove forward. Makima stepped back.
Skidmark layered vector around vectors to gain speed, spinning around her. If she was afraid of a knife, she could take her out, and then she'll be a lesson to everyone that crossed Skidmark.
Suddenly, Stigma said: "Lots of people say you can't use your power."
One moment before he lunged, she suddenly turned and grabbed him by the collar, and threw him in a pond.
"Who fucking speaks? Who fucking knows?!" Skidmark shouted.
Stigma smiled and laughed. "People that can read between the lines."
Skidmark looked around himself, trying to find a way out. All his fucking men were surrounding him, including that bastard that had told him to go. He had been played like a damn fiddle.
"I get it, I get it," Skidmark said. "Make me clean, guilty, fuck."
Stigma turned stoic. "Sorry, I am not allowed to do that. She loved you, for what it is worth."
The engine roared behind him.
He dropped a vector to stop the car, but it was all for nothing.
"What the fuck are you talking about, retard?!" Skidmark said, throwing his fist on the table.
"Boss-" Logan said, putting his hands in front of him.
Skidmark got up and pushed him forward. The Merchant's back struck the wall besides the second floor window, air leaving his breath. He tried to get up, but Skidmark pushed him again.
"No no no, you don't "boss" me. I told you all to leave me the fuck alone when I'm ready to sample the good stuff. You have the gall to barge here and give me more bad news about that Master bitch that got to so many of our clients? Tell me why I shouldn't leave you to die, here and now?!"
"She's coming…" Logan wheezed. "One of her flunkies told me…"
Skidmark punched the table again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. You must be shitting me. Squealer…"
"She knows too."
Skidmark let down his power. "Let's fucking move."
He had chosen as their base a tourist shop that looked like a lighthouse, a somewhat popular spot where many visitors used to buy little trinkets and took photos of themselves.
What most people didn't know, or care about, was that the building besides it, a delapitated restaurant, had a small warehouse that could keep some of Squealer's smaller projects for a fast escape.
Skidmark thought he wouldn't need to use it so soon, barely a name in town, but fuck if he wanted to get "guilty" over his way of living. Psycho-cultist bitch.
"Yo Skid, get in," Squealer yelled from the driver's seat.
The repurposed pickup could comfortably hold ten men and tons of stuff.
The sound of yelling, kicking and screaming hurried him to move fast.
He picked his seat besides her.
"What about me, Skid?" Logan asked.
"Shithead, what do you think?!" he snarled.
The man hurried behind and closed the door.
Squealer started the engine, and drove through the wall.
"Dammit," Skidmark said.
The woman, wearing what Skidmark called her usual "fuckable white-trash" attire, asked: "Where do we go now, Adam? We can't exactly call ourselves the Bridge Merchant's."
"Fucking why not?" Skidmark asked.
"It's been two months since we got the place, Skid, and she trashed it. We need to move on."
Skidmark light up the kush, and slumped on the backseat. There was an art in rolling a good one, lightning it up and smoking it. Some clients he met were such poser shitheads that he wanted to throttle, but hell cash was cash.
He inhaled it and released it. "Fuck if I know. Brockton Bay sounded like a nice gig, another small fish in the big pond, but the rate Stigma is going we'll have no clients in a month."
And hell if he'd risk going clean. Live was to be enjoyed, his soul be damned.
The noise of small traffic at 3 a.m., sometimes interrupted by an ambulance and trucks, quieted down when the vehicle left to the countryside.
He played with the drug on his hand. "This is good. Want some?"
"Not until we have left it behind," she replied. "Where should we go?"
"Your old place," he said.
Squealer looked him in the face, the veins on her skin turning red. If he hadn't seen her guide better in worst condition, he would have told her to keep her eyes on the road.
He put his hands up. "Yeah yeah keep your shit behind. But who the hell would check in the boonies? One night and we drive to Boston. There we get a feel and see if we need to go even further. I promise that if any of the fuckheads behind try anything-
Squealer stopped the car.
Skidmark dropped lost his smoke and swore. "Fuck you doing?"
"They can't try," Squealer said, as serious as that night.
Skidmark swore: "Fuck yeah they can't! Did I ever disappoint you, Sherrel?! I keep around me the ones that can walk straight under the heavy stuff, they know to listen! Did they ever try to touch you? Did they steal your stuff?"
Squealer replied. "Yes, you are right."
He patted her shoulders and smiled: "Let's fucking go then."
"Did he pass, Makima?"
"Who the fuck-
Stigma was behind him.
Her yellow and red dartboard eyes, peeking out of the white mask, and her lips, mildly amused, freaked him the fuck out.
Skidmark moved to punch her in the face, but she swatted his hand like a fly.
Fuck, she's a brute.
He made a vector and stepped out of the car.
Stigma turned to Squealer, the fucking traitor, and completely ignored him. "You can tell me, Sherrel. Would you trust him now?"
"No."
Sherrel had dropped them in the middle of nowhere. The car was parked on a hill near the dirt road, with no light except the full moon, the stars and the headlights.
He took out his knife and drove forward. Makima stepped back.
Skidmark layered vector around vectors to gain speed, spinning around her. If she was afraid of a knife, she could take her out, and then she'll be a lesson to everyone that crossed Skidmark.
Suddenly, Stigma said: "Lots of people say you can't use your power."
One moment before he lunged, she suddenly turned and grabbed him by the collar, and threw him in a pond.
"Who fucking speaks? Who fucking knows?!" Skidmark shouted.
Stigma smiled and laughed. "People that can read between the lines."
Skidmark looked around himself, trying to find a way out. All his fucking men were surrounding him, including that bastard that had told him to go. He had been played like a damn fiddle.
"I get it, I get it," Skidmark said. "Make me clean, guilty, fuck."
Stigma turned stoic. "Sorry, I am not allowed to do that. She loved you, for what it is worth."
The engine roared behind him.
He dropped a vector to stop the car, but it was all for nothing.
Last edited:
War If
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Max Anders knew how his dad died, or how his sister died. He saw what monsters like the Butcher and Slaughterhouse 9, had done to his city. He built his empire to last them, to survive any gang war.
With his body under the rubble, he knew he wouldn't survive morning if a miracle didn't happen. At least Aster had still Kayden.
This was no war, but a massacre. He had heard how the girl had killed Lung in one shot. He knew she was unstable, out of her mind.
"I remembered that Nazis should love me! Why the hell did you attack me on sight?!" Massacre shouted, amidst the pile of what had been his rally.
You killed the Dragon, but you're still fucking Asian!
She pointed her finger at the side, and killed Hookwolf, the damnable fool, in a loud "bang".
The worst part is that the girl talked to herself in Japanese, Italian and English. If she used German, at least it would be ironic.
A very familiar beam of light fell on them.
"Fuck you Fujimotooo!" Massacre shouted and shot in the sky. He looked up… and yeah, the spiral of light had been obliterated alongside Purity. Theo, coward as he was, was probably very far away from the fight.
As Massacre continued ranting against hormonal teenagers in Italian, in a way eerily reminiscent to the old nun at his Catholic college, she walked to him and stared.
Cowardice seemed such a virtue.
"Kaiser Blender Sword."
Wot.
I stared at the toy sword in my gun hands. I doubted it could cut anything firmer than melted butter.
"What's the point of killing him if you don't feel any guilt?!" Asa shouted, loudly.
I took a very, very, very deep breath. "Right, you don't know what Nazis are."
"Nazis are the best!" Yoru shouted, loudly. "They loooooove wars, even when they are completely hopeless. This world is amazing!"
Fucking teenagers.
"My life is finished," Asa said. "A Devil and a creep in my head…"
Ohi!
"It's not my fault you have fantasies about that boy!" I shouted.
And for how Denji was portrayed as a slob in the manga… from what little I could glimpse from this disaster duo, he was even worse.
My left hand punched me. "Shut up I don't have any fantasy you old spinster!" Asa thought, loudly, grabbing our head.
This girlfailure…! "I'm not even thirty!"
"Christmas cake!"
Our head got punched, again.
"I can't deal with you two morons!" Yoru shouted. "Let's use this "metaknowledge" and go back home! Door to Cauldron!"
Contessa sipped her tea with utmost calm. "War Devil, I propose a contract."
I stared. Asa stared. Yoru laughed to herself. "So even the invincible prophetess knows that we need a war to win this! A war of cosmic proportions! Ahahahaha!"
Asa glared at me.
Contessa said. "I'll give you freedom. I'll help you find Chainsawman."
I punched myself and shouted. "You know there's a Death Devil there, ri-
She tapped her notebook.
I read: "Yes. I've already read the ending. Scion will escape as far as possible as soon it realizes it exists."
Fucking think-
Asa shoved me aside. "Give me back a normal teenage life with Denji!"
When have you ever lived a normal life, Disaster Disney Princess?!!!
Contessa dropped a vial on the table. Yoru opened it and drunk it in one go.
My/her/our head pounded and stars and cosmos anima animusph-
I dropped to the ground, in blissful silence.
"Get up, parasite!"
I looked up, to see Yoru pointing her finger at me with Asa behind her.
Wot?
Bang!
Dying hurt!
And through Yoru's eyes, I could see that my new new body was still that of a teenage girl!
The Devil scratched our head. "Why are you back here, you parasite?!"
I punched myself in the face and turned to Asa. "I'm here! Don't shoot!"
Asa watched at the headless clone of her dead body, then her head dropped down. Her finger went up.
"You creeeep!"
Bang!
"Did you want to kill me too?!" Yoru shouted. "I can get rid of you, you know?"
I and her fought over Asa to get control…
Until I dropped to the ground, again, with my head still clear if not for the two morons fighting in front of me, grabbing each other's hair.
I stared at Contessa's teaset. She gestured at it.
A bang obliterated the table, leaving the bogeywoman untouched.
The thinker smiled.
I took a deep breath, stared at my Gun DevilTM hands, and turned around.
I'll make you see friendly fire!
Contessa walked away, her tinkertech airmuffs covering the sounds of the three "sisters" killing each other over and over again in the empty Earth.
The path was clear: five days and they'd calm down enough to stop killing themselves. Then the two humans would live stable lives and Yoru would get her own death world.
One year, and they'd make weapons out of the others' favorite plushies.
With his body under the rubble, he knew he wouldn't survive morning if a miracle didn't happen. At least Aster had still Kayden.
This was no war, but a massacre. He had heard how the girl had killed Lung in one shot. He knew she was unstable, out of her mind.
"I remembered that Nazis should love me! Why the hell did you attack me on sight?!" Massacre shouted, amidst the pile of what had been his rally.
You killed the Dragon, but you're still fucking Asian!
She pointed her finger at the side, and killed Hookwolf, the damnable fool, in a loud "bang".
The worst part is that the girl talked to herself in Japanese, Italian and English. If she used German, at least it would be ironic.
A very familiar beam of light fell on them.
"Fuck you Fujimotooo!" Massacre shouted and shot in the sky. He looked up… and yeah, the spiral of light had been obliterated alongside Purity. Theo, coward as he was, was probably very far away from the fight.
As Massacre continued ranting against hormonal teenagers in Italian, in a way eerily reminiscent to the old nun at his Catholic college, she walked to him and stared.
Cowardice seemed such a virtue.
"Kaiser Blender Sword."
Wot.
I stared at the toy sword in my gun hands. I doubted it could cut anything firmer than melted butter.
"What's the point of killing him if you don't feel any guilt?!" Asa shouted, loudly.
I took a very, very, very deep breath. "Right, you don't know what Nazis are."
"Nazis are the best!" Yoru shouted, loudly. "They loooooove wars, even when they are completely hopeless. This world is amazing!"
Fucking teenagers.
"My life is finished," Asa said. "A Devil and a creep in my head…"
Ohi!
"It's not my fault you have fantasies about that boy!" I shouted.
And for how Denji was portrayed as a slob in the manga… from what little I could glimpse from this disaster duo, he was even worse.
My left hand punched me. "Shut up I don't have any fantasy you old spinster!" Asa thought, loudly, grabbing our head.
This girlfailure…! "I'm not even thirty!"
"Christmas cake!"
Our head got punched, again.
"I can't deal with you two morons!" Yoru shouted. "Let's use this "metaknowledge" and go back home! Door to Cauldron!"
Contessa sipped her tea with utmost calm. "War Devil, I propose a contract."
I stared. Asa stared. Yoru laughed to herself. "So even the invincible prophetess knows that we need a war to win this! A war of cosmic proportions! Ahahahaha!"
Asa glared at me.
Contessa said. "I'll give you freedom. I'll help you find Chainsawman."
I punched myself and shouted. "You know there's a Death Devil there, ri-
She tapped her notebook.
I read: "Yes. I've already read the ending. Scion will escape as far as possible as soon it realizes it exists."
Fucking think-
Asa shoved me aside. "Give me back a normal teenage life with Denji!"
When have you ever lived a normal life, Disaster Disney Princess?!!!
Contessa dropped a vial on the table. Yoru opened it and drunk it in one go.
My/her/our head pounded and stars and cosmos anima animusph-
I dropped to the ground, in blissful silence.
"Get up, parasite!"
I looked up, to see Yoru pointing her finger at me with Asa behind her.
Wot?
Bang!
Dying hurt!
And through Yoru's eyes, I could see that my new new body was still that of a teenage girl!
The Devil scratched our head. "Why are you back here, you parasite?!"
I punched myself in the face and turned to Asa. "I'm here! Don't shoot!"
Asa watched at the headless clone of her dead body, then her head dropped down. Her finger went up.
"You creeeep!"
Bang!
"Did you want to kill me too?!" Yoru shouted. "I can get rid of you, you know?"
I and her fought over Asa to get control…
Until I dropped to the ground, again, with my head still clear if not for the two morons fighting in front of me, grabbing each other's hair.
I stared at Contessa's teaset. She gestured at it.
A bang obliterated the table, leaving the bogeywoman untouched.
The thinker smiled.
I took a deep breath, stared at my Gun DevilTM hands, and turned around.
I'll make you see friendly fire!
Contessa walked away, her tinkertech airmuffs covering the sounds of the three "sisters" killing each other over and over again in the empty Earth.
The path was clear: five days and they'd calm down enough to stop killing themselves. Then the two humans would live stable lives and Yoru would get her own death world.
One year, and they'd make weapons out of the others' favorite plushies.
Shelter 4
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Skidmark's neck had been cut cleanly from the impact with the car, the blade on the frontal bumper acting like a horizontal guillotine. The head rolled to the ground. I walked and took it.
The glassy eyes shone from the blue mask while the stench from his opened mouth made me almost recoil.
The teeth were rotten green, the lips were bruised and the unkept facial hair looked as greasy as an overworked frying machine.
"This is disgusting," I thought. "How can someone hate themselves so much?"
I blew a bubble, and his head was mine.
I saw something vast.
My new senses could help me see far, far beyond humanly possible.
Under the night sky, the moon didn't look that far away, and I swore I could even see the remains of Sphere's base if I squinted.
However, the being looming over me was bigger in the way that transcended what I could even scale it to.
The closest frame of reference was an empty, dark Hell, where humanity's fears were born, changed, shrinked, died and expanded like thoughts.
The Entity was made of pieces, each unique and stronger than humanity alltogether, but so many that the closest comparison were the cells I cultivated in the Uni labs.
The shards were searching, moving forward to find anything new, between dimensions and axis mathematicians hadn't theorized yet.
The seeds dispersed, everywhere, like grain of sands.
One stared at me, and fell on me.
The bubble bursted, and a chain attached from it to me. I took a deep breath.
"Such a one-sided contract," I mused grimly. "Humanity overcoming the worst odds is the basis of many good stories."
I still didn't know if Chainsawman had a happy ending.
I dropped the head. Adam Mustain had nothing of value left for me.
My people burned the body.
Squealer, her shadow covering her neck, looked at her ex-lover with an indifferent expression.
"Sherrel, you know what to do. Please, don't disappoint me," I reminded her.
The tinker, tired after a sleepless night, spoke and smiled widely: "Of course, Makima."
I hoped the Protectorate offered dentals. Guilt struck, and they all ran into the car.
As the tinker monstruosity drove away, I took a deep breath, and walked. The air was chilly, and my trousers were getting dirtier, but I had missed a sky free from light pollution, and clear air.
To celebrate my first murder, I watched the stars until sunrise, walking and burning away my worries, until the orange salmon hue of the rays reflected in the small speck of dried blood on my shirt.
I called the country mices and, one step after the next, I was back with the street rats.
I looked up.
A blonde teenager zoomed in the sky. I idly pondered what Victoria was doing this early in the morning.
Should I take Amy?
My arms tightened around my leather jacket, as I walked mask in hand to my apartment.
It was as bad as I left it, with the last pair of clothes thrown on the floor, the television still on, and a half empty glass of water on the counter.
Should I order someone to take care of my place?
I quickly got out of my costume and went under the shower, drowning my thoughts in scalding hot water.
Strands of red hair covered my view, until I closed my eyes.
Once the water turned cold, I left the shower.
Staring at the fogged mirror, I took a towel and roughly cleared it.
I touched my face and practiced my "Control Devil" stare, then I moved my left hand along the strands of red hair, from the scalp to the tip.
Hair this long was a pain, but it would feel wrong to break character, and they were gorgeous. It was a pity I didn't have the patience for elaborate hairstyles.
Cleaned and changed into a comfy sweater and jeans, I made myself a cup of karkadè and dropped on the coach.
My eyes lingered on a two day old newspaper, specifically to the movie reviews section.
"Wiseau's debut is a disaster on all levels. The culprit is banal, the mystery insipid and the lines have murdered both my braincells and the cast's."
I needed to see "The Casket", but unfortunately, I had to wait. Toybox had promised to deliver me lenses to hide my eyes, since the normal ones I tried didn't work.
It was one thing to wear sunglasses indoor and at night, but at the cinema was a step too far.
After cleaning up my place, an hour had passed, and the sky was still clear.
I called up one of my drivers, and went to my next meeting place, a park.
Little buds of leaves were blossoming on the trees, and the grass was a pleasant green.
"Good morning, miss," a man walking a Beagel said.
I dropped down and lent my hand forward. The dog licked it.
"Good morning," I replied, looking at her muzzle. She was well kept for her age. The fur was clean and healthy, and the teeth looked sharp and healthy. I worried for a moment about my dogs, but at least Denji was taking care of them.
The man didn't look all that much over thirty, but his black hair and facial hair was peppered with grey. He smiled, stretching under his lips a small scar from a recent razor cut. The musky scent of beard soap still lingered.
"She's usually a bit shy around strangers," he said.
I smiled. "I developed a gentle touch with scared animals."
His smile faded, and his heartbeat rose.
"Would you like to share a coffee with me?" he said.
"I have a meet-up in five minutes," I said.
His eyes lingered over my chest a second too longer, and my hand petting the fur almost turned into a grab.
The dog yelped, and I stepped back.
"I didn't want to-
I shook my head. "No, no that's… Work is getting to my head," I said, pointing at my Raising Awareness Committee badge on my purse. "It's RACing steam ahead."
He chuckled. "That's… that's funny. I really respect it, my neighbor found a job in two weeks."
I blinked, mildly shocked someone chuckled at my puns. "What's their name?"
"Andrea Rayleigh."
"Doesn't ring a bell," I said. Someone I hadn't bubbled. "But I'm happy they got help."
I looked at my watch. Two minutes. "I have to go."
"Would you like to meet me tomorrow, same place, same hour?"
I lost my thoughts, while heat flushed my cheeks. "Sure, mr…?"
"Green. Mr Green is my father, though," he said. "Call me Jake."
"Tomorrow, Jake."
With a pep in his steps, he walked away.
Was I really accepting a guy flirting with me? He seemed fine, and his name wasn't been in my black list.
How long would the dream of normality last until I told him who I was?
Was it only this body? "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
I took a deep breath, and walked to the bench in front of the park fountain.
I waited for a while, until a thin, short woman walked there, only three minutes late.
"Are you Makima?" she asked.
I smiled. "I am."
"I heard you can help," she said. "There's-
I shook my head and brought my right hand forward. "I'll listen to you, and you'll calmly tell me what you need."
A bit put out, she caught it and we shaked our hands.
It was kind of silly how I had let people rant against me even under contract.
Did I even need one to hear everyday people tell the truth?
"There's this ex," she said. "A real big piece of shit. He has taken my Sally and threw her to the dogfighting rings. I even changed the keys of our apartment."
Speaking of the devil, uh…
I was thinking of getting an animal, and better having them under my care than Nazis'.
Though, yeah. The memories of getting bitten twice as a kid were still there.
More importantly, was the fact I didn't feel ready to engage the E88 heavy hitters directly. Skidmark's power wasn't a boon I could use without revealing too much of myself, and I sure didn't feel confident into punching a metal blender with my hands.
"I can't do anything about the dog," I said. "But I can make sure your ex won't touch you ever again."
She took my hands and said: "Thank you, thank you! The police has been useless!"
And with that, she walked away.
I bit my cheeks. Fucking Nazis. Coil was still my main priority, but I sure wasn't ready yet to take him on.
Chariot. Trainwreck. The Undersiders. Even Uber and Leet, or the Palanquin had contacts with him.
I knew where he lived, but that was more a stroke of luck than anything else.
It was time to take a small gamble, and move from there.
The glassy eyes shone from the blue mask while the stench from his opened mouth made me almost recoil.
The teeth were rotten green, the lips were bruised and the unkept facial hair looked as greasy as an overworked frying machine.
"This is disgusting," I thought. "How can someone hate themselves so much?"
I blew a bubble, and his head was mine.
I saw something vast.
My new senses could help me see far, far beyond humanly possible.
Under the night sky, the moon didn't look that far away, and I swore I could even see the remains of Sphere's base if I squinted.
However, the being looming over me was bigger in the way that transcended what I could even scale it to.
The closest frame of reference was an empty, dark Hell, where humanity's fears were born, changed, shrinked, died and expanded like thoughts.
The Entity was made of pieces, each unique and stronger than humanity alltogether, but so many that the closest comparison were the cells I cultivated in the Uni labs.
The shards were searching, moving forward to find anything new, between dimensions and axis mathematicians hadn't theorized yet.
The seeds dispersed, everywhere, like grain of sands.
One stared at me, and fell on me.
The bubble bursted, and a chain attached from it to me. I took a deep breath.
"Such a one-sided contract," I mused grimly. "Humanity overcoming the worst odds is the basis of many good stories."
I still didn't know if Chainsawman had a happy ending.
I dropped the head. Adam Mustain had nothing of value left for me.
My people burned the body.
Squealer, her shadow covering her neck, looked at her ex-lover with an indifferent expression.
"Sherrel, you know what to do. Please, don't disappoint me," I reminded her.
The tinker, tired after a sleepless night, spoke and smiled widely: "Of course, Makima."
I hoped the Protectorate offered dentals. Guilt struck, and they all ran into the car.
As the tinker monstruosity drove away, I took a deep breath, and walked. The air was chilly, and my trousers were getting dirtier, but I had missed a sky free from light pollution, and clear air.
To celebrate my first murder, I watched the stars until sunrise, walking and burning away my worries, until the orange salmon hue of the rays reflected in the small speck of dried blood on my shirt.
I called the country mices and, one step after the next, I was back with the street rats.
I looked up.
A blonde teenager zoomed in the sky. I idly pondered what Victoria was doing this early in the morning.
Should I take Amy?
My arms tightened around my leather jacket, as I walked mask in hand to my apartment.
It was as bad as I left it, with the last pair of clothes thrown on the floor, the television still on, and a half empty glass of water on the counter.
Should I order someone to take care of my place?
I quickly got out of my costume and went under the shower, drowning my thoughts in scalding hot water.
Strands of red hair covered my view, until I closed my eyes.
Once the water turned cold, I left the shower.
Staring at the fogged mirror, I took a towel and roughly cleared it.
I touched my face and practiced my "Control Devil" stare, then I moved my left hand along the strands of red hair, from the scalp to the tip.
Hair this long was a pain, but it would feel wrong to break character, and they were gorgeous. It was a pity I didn't have the patience for elaborate hairstyles.
Cleaned and changed into a comfy sweater and jeans, I made myself a cup of karkadè and dropped on the coach.
My eyes lingered on a two day old newspaper, specifically to the movie reviews section.
"Wiseau's debut is a disaster on all levels. The culprit is banal, the mystery insipid and the lines have murdered both my braincells and the cast's."
I needed to see "The Casket", but unfortunately, I had to wait. Toybox had promised to deliver me lenses to hide my eyes, since the normal ones I tried didn't work.
It was one thing to wear sunglasses indoor and at night, but at the cinema was a step too far.
After cleaning up my place, an hour had passed, and the sky was still clear.
I called up one of my drivers, and went to my next meeting place, a park.
Little buds of leaves were blossoming on the trees, and the grass was a pleasant green.
"Good morning, miss," a man walking a Beagel said.
I dropped down and lent my hand forward. The dog licked it.
"Good morning," I replied, looking at her muzzle. She was well kept for her age. The fur was clean and healthy, and the teeth looked sharp and healthy. I worried for a moment about my dogs, but at least Denji was taking care of them.
The man didn't look all that much over thirty, but his black hair and facial hair was peppered with grey. He smiled, stretching under his lips a small scar from a recent razor cut. The musky scent of beard soap still lingered.
"She's usually a bit shy around strangers," he said.
I smiled. "I developed a gentle touch with scared animals."
His smile faded, and his heartbeat rose.
"Would you like to share a coffee with me?" he said.
"I have a meet-up in five minutes," I said.
His eyes lingered over my chest a second too longer, and my hand petting the fur almost turned into a grab.
The dog yelped, and I stepped back.
"I didn't want to-
I shook my head. "No, no that's… Work is getting to my head," I said, pointing at my Raising Awareness Committee badge on my purse. "It's RACing steam ahead."
He chuckled. "That's… that's funny. I really respect it, my neighbor found a job in two weeks."
I blinked, mildly shocked someone chuckled at my puns. "What's their name?"
"Andrea Rayleigh."
"Doesn't ring a bell," I said. Someone I hadn't bubbled. "But I'm happy they got help."
I looked at my watch. Two minutes. "I have to go."
"Would you like to meet me tomorrow, same place, same hour?"
I lost my thoughts, while heat flushed my cheeks. "Sure, mr…?"
"Green. Mr Green is my father, though," he said. "Call me Jake."
"Tomorrow, Jake."
With a pep in his steps, he walked away.
Was I really accepting a guy flirting with me? He seemed fine, and his name wasn't been in my black list.
How long would the dream of normality last until I told him who I was?
Was it only this body? "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
I took a deep breath, and walked to the bench in front of the park fountain.
I waited for a while, until a thin, short woman walked there, only three minutes late.
"Are you Makima?" she asked.
I smiled. "I am."
"I heard you can help," she said. "There's-
I shook my head and brought my right hand forward. "I'll listen to you, and you'll calmly tell me what you need."
A bit put out, she caught it and we shaked our hands.
It was kind of silly how I had let people rant against me even under contract.
Did I even need one to hear everyday people tell the truth?
"There's this ex," she said. "A real big piece of shit. He has taken my Sally and threw her to the dogfighting rings. I even changed the keys of our apartment."
Speaking of the devil, uh…
I was thinking of getting an animal, and better having them under my care than Nazis'.
Though, yeah. The memories of getting bitten twice as a kid were still there.
More importantly, was the fact I didn't feel ready to engage the E88 heavy hitters directly. Skidmark's power wasn't a boon I could use without revealing too much of myself, and I sure didn't feel confident into punching a metal blender with my hands.
"I can't do anything about the dog," I said. "But I can make sure your ex won't touch you ever again."
She took my hands and said: "Thank you, thank you! The police has been useless!"
And with that, she walked away.
I bit my cheeks. Fucking Nazis. Coil was still my main priority, but I sure wasn't ready yet to take him on.
Chariot. Trainwreck. The Undersiders. Even Uber and Leet, or the Palanquin had contacts with him.
I knew where he lived, but that was more a stroke of luck than anything else.
It was time to take a small gamble, and move from there.
Last edited:
Interlude K
- Pronouns
- She/Her
"The Protectorate is a Cultural Bolshevist Institution. Miss Militia shits on patriotism, Legend degrades family values and our children are shoved monsters like the metal thug down their throats! Who makes the monsters? Teacher works with them. Accord worked for them. Is the Birdcage even real? They are taking our people, branding them as villains, and turning them into monsters or puppets of an unelected bureaucratical elite. But we aren't alone! Our allies overseas are building up-"
Kevin turned off the radio and stopped the car. The fancy neighbourhood was quiet, but he didn't have much time.
He wasn't going to be the next Mark, the race-traitor cape killer, but his target was the real deal. A black PRT stooge with a home that he didn't deserve, with white picket fences and a nice green lawn. A parody of the American Dream.
He knew since that Stigma whore had mastered his people lots of new spots had opened up. And Kevin was anything but a man of business. Only the ones really in it wielded iron, and he wanted one.
He went out, and opened the car boot. The beer box he and his pals had finished days ago now held the dozen or so Molotov cocktails he had made.
Molotov was the only fucking commie anybody of the E88 slightly respected.
He looked back at the home. The lights were turned off, and no sound was coming from it. He knew the man didn't have a family. Kevin betted the black was still awake under his cold sheets, unwanted and cold like a hobo.
He smirked, lighted one bottle, and threw it. It landed on the TV antenna, which burned up like a candle on a birthday cake, and it spread quite nicely on the rest of the rooftop.
He hastily lighted another one, and caught the lawn. He didn't wait to see his prize, as the New Wanes were often sticking out their asses in their hometurf.
He turned on the car and fucking ran. A block away, he glanced at the rearview mirror and chuckled. The sight of the rising smoke warmed him up better than alcohol.
He travelled for a few miles until he reached the new meeting place, an old diner that from the outside looked closed.
He knocked the door.
"Who is it?"
He rolled his eyes. Fucking passwords. "The whitecollar worker downstairs."
Almost a minute later of click and clack and turning keys and he was welcomed inside.
"Shit this is annoying," Kevin said.
The man behind the door, a mountain that must have circled Hookwolf's circle, shrugged. "These are the rules. We are at war."
Kevin gave a nod of agreement. "So are we."
He looked around and found his three pals, John, Miers and Agatha, sharing some beer.
He gave a hello with his hand. "What's the matter, guys?"
"What the fuck, bro? You are late," Miers said, his legs on the table.
Agatha looked up from her cellphone. "This place's burgers are shit. If you already had dinner, you could've told us."
Kevin blinked, and shook his head. "I had something to do."
He looked around, and then whispered: "I hit one of the goons' squad."
"What the fuck, bro?" Miers said.
John finally spoke up. "No way."
Kevin smiled. "Yes way. Have you heard the sirens?"
"I'm hearing only someone talking shit," John said.
Miers got up and landed a hand on Kevin's shoulder. "You didn't fuck up, did you?"
Kevin shooed him away. "Fuck no. Hit and run, nobody caught me. And you know where I got the fake plate."
"Okay, how," Agatha said, her red lips left open as if sucking the question.
Kevin wondered what her lipstick tasted like, and if her blonde hair was as soft as it looked even down there.
"Pretty simple story," he said. "It all started with a call."
The muffled bag had stopped moving soon after the Kommando had thrown it on the floor. The two men walked back, and asked him if he wanted to go up. Kevin shook his head, and waited.
The bag had stopped moving, and to make sure it was still alive, Kevin kicked it. A quiet sob answered.
Questions like "Were they going to make it quick?" or "Who would be the entry price for the Kommando" had stopped mattering months ago.
And the fact they let Kevin knew, that Krieg himself had spoken to him… it was only a matter of time. Maybe that was why he was here, with his sacrificial offering. The war was real. They were doing them a favor, better than they deserved and what they did.
Only a few hours, and it was Kevin's turn to shine. Most initiations were done in the street, but the Empire must have been seriously impressed by what he was doing.
He left the cold and soggy cellar and walked upstairs, leaving the scum behind. His heart hammered as he opened the door, to see the light again and rejoin the group.
The place was a gentleman's club, that some of the old guard said used to be frequented by Allfather himself. The moquette, the old billiard, the glittering candelabras and the scent of cigar and high-price alcohol made it a bit too much for Kevin's down-to-earth sensibilities, but it didn't matter. He was in, simple clothes, and it would as soon be over as Kaiser arrived with his two bodyguards.
"Don't feel bad," a voice behind him said. "You are practically one of us already."
Kevin turned and found himself in front of a smiling Aryan man wearing a red mask. "Victor. I really…!"
The man offered a glass. "Here, take a drink."
Kevin took the glass and shook his hand as was wont to. "Thanks, sir!"
He put it near his nose, and the smell hit him. It was much stronger than anything he ever tasted. "Damn. It's good."
"From a little brewery in Illinois," Victor said. "I have the skills to make a good cocktail, but I think you can judge a real man when you see him getting a good glass on the rocks."
"Do you know who's the initiation for?" Victor said.
Kevin shook his head.
"Rune."
It disappointed him, but he tried to hide it. "I thought someone like her, like…"
He couldn't find the right words.
"Us supers?" Victor said. "We are people. Rune is willing. She believes in the cause. But she's surprisingly innocent."
She didn't look that old. Kevin was practically a man, but a woman! "That's… that's horrible."
"Do you think my wife shouldn't be fighting?" Victor said, keeping his smile.
Kevin almost dropped the drink. "No, no, sir! But it shouldn't…"
"Why are women given powers?" Victor asked.
Kevin shook his head.
"Drink it up, kid," Victor said. "Don't think I didn't notice you haven't sipped even a bit."
He gestured around himself. Othala, Rune, Crusader, Madkorp, Alabaster, two cops, some corporate guys, and many more people Kevin had never seen in his life, chatting amiably before Rune's initiation.
"These are our people. All of them. Keep listening, and a smart man like you can get far. But don't overstep, understand? We fight as a group," Victor continued. "It's why we are strong."
Kevin looked back at his drink. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.
He gulped the glass. The alcohol stung him, and his eyes teared up.
He took a deep breath and looked at the golden-brown liquid, and wondered how little he had drunk.
A shout from behind, from the basement, made him turn.
Victor rushed to his wife's side, pushing Kevin, who almost spilled his drink.
As he saw people scrambling around him, he finished it, and despite the dizziness, the sixteen young man understood it was the time for war.
The stoplight turned green when a vehicle slammed to his side.
Kevin steered his car but it was all for nothing as it crushed to the wall, the airbag slamming into his face like Alexandria's punch.
As he lost consciousness, he wondered if he would wake up alive.
Frozen cold water woke him up. His head throbbed, and he felt someone injecting weird shit in his veins. His heartbeat rose like crazy.
He looked at his left arm and saw a small, unassuming man wearing a sweater and a pair of nerds' glasses messing with a syringe as he took out an I.V. from his arm.
Kevin looked around, and thought the hospital sucked. The room was bare, with a cold blue led light barely making him see the gray walls around him, but no windows. The steel door in front of him looked as tough as a bank's vault.
He looked down, and saw he was chained to the bad like a retard. He moved, pushed, tried to turn, but he couldn't even feel his legs.
"Stop struggling," a smooth, black voice behind him said. "Mr. Pitter, leave us alone."
The man who had drugged Kevin walked away, closing the door behind him.
The silence stretched uncomfortably for a bit of time. "Why did you attack Thomas Calvert?"
"He's a fucking ni-
The cocking sound of a gun stopped him in his tracks. The cold iron pressing on his head made him continue. "He was a target, nothing personal!"
"Why?" the black man behind him said.
"I had a call from one of my friends, he saw him going out of the PRT on a snazzy car, and he told me!" Kevin shouted.
"Did he follow him? How?" the man asked.
"I don't know! Ask Robbie…!"
"You already told me that," Coil said. "You are useless."
Kevin didn't hear the shot.
Kevin turned off the radio and stopped the car. The fancy neighbourhood was quiet, but he didn't have much time.
He wasn't going to be the next Mark, the race-traitor cape killer, but his target was the real deal. A black PRT stooge with a home that he didn't deserve, with white picket fences and a nice green lawn. A parody of the American Dream.
He knew since that Stigma whore had mastered his people lots of new spots had opened up. And Kevin was anything but a man of business. Only the ones really in it wielded iron, and he wanted one.
He went out, and opened the car boot. The beer box he and his pals had finished days ago now held the dozen or so Molotov cocktails he had made.
Molotov was the only fucking commie anybody of the E88 slightly respected.
He looked back at the home. The lights were turned off, and no sound was coming from it. He knew the man didn't have a family. Kevin betted the black was still awake under his cold sheets, unwanted and cold like a hobo.
He smirked, lighted one bottle, and threw it. It landed on the TV antenna, which burned up like a candle on a birthday cake, and it spread quite nicely on the rest of the rooftop.
He hastily lighted another one, and caught the lawn. He didn't wait to see his prize, as the New Wanes were often sticking out their asses in their hometurf.
He turned on the car and fucking ran. A block away, he glanced at the rearview mirror and chuckled. The sight of the rising smoke warmed him up better than alcohol.
He travelled for a few miles until he reached the new meeting place, an old diner that from the outside looked closed.
He knocked the door.
"Who is it?"
He rolled his eyes. Fucking passwords. "The whitecollar worker downstairs."
Almost a minute later of click and clack and turning keys and he was welcomed inside.
"Shit this is annoying," Kevin said.
The man behind the door, a mountain that must have circled Hookwolf's circle, shrugged. "These are the rules. We are at war."
Kevin gave a nod of agreement. "So are we."
He looked around and found his three pals, John, Miers and Agatha, sharing some beer.
He gave a hello with his hand. "What's the matter, guys?"
"What the fuck, bro? You are late," Miers said, his legs on the table.
Agatha looked up from her cellphone. "This place's burgers are shit. If you already had dinner, you could've told us."
Kevin blinked, and shook his head. "I had something to do."
He looked around, and then whispered: "I hit one of the goons' squad."
"What the fuck, bro?" Miers said.
John finally spoke up. "No way."
Kevin smiled. "Yes way. Have you heard the sirens?"
"I'm hearing only someone talking shit," John said.
Miers got up and landed a hand on Kevin's shoulder. "You didn't fuck up, did you?"
Kevin shooed him away. "Fuck no. Hit and run, nobody caught me. And you know where I got the fake plate."
"Okay, how," Agatha said, her red lips left open as if sucking the question.
Kevin wondered what her lipstick tasted like, and if her blonde hair was as soft as it looked even down there.
"Pretty simple story," he said. "It all started with a call."
The muffled bag had stopped moving soon after the Kommando had thrown it on the floor. The two men walked back, and asked him if he wanted to go up. Kevin shook his head, and waited.
The bag had stopped moving, and to make sure it was still alive, Kevin kicked it. A quiet sob answered.
Questions like "Were they going to make it quick?" or "Who would be the entry price for the Kommando" had stopped mattering months ago.
And the fact they let Kevin knew, that Krieg himself had spoken to him… it was only a matter of time. Maybe that was why he was here, with his sacrificial offering. The war was real. They were doing them a favor, better than they deserved and what they did.
Only a few hours, and it was Kevin's turn to shine. Most initiations were done in the street, but the Empire must have been seriously impressed by what he was doing.
He left the cold and soggy cellar and walked upstairs, leaving the scum behind. His heart hammered as he opened the door, to see the light again and rejoin the group.
The place was a gentleman's club, that some of the old guard said used to be frequented by Allfather himself. The moquette, the old billiard, the glittering candelabras and the scent of cigar and high-price alcohol made it a bit too much for Kevin's down-to-earth sensibilities, but it didn't matter. He was in, simple clothes, and it would as soon be over as Kaiser arrived with his two bodyguards.
"Don't feel bad," a voice behind him said. "You are practically one of us already."
Kevin turned and found himself in front of a smiling Aryan man wearing a red mask. "Victor. I really…!"
The man offered a glass. "Here, take a drink."
Kevin took the glass and shook his hand as was wont to. "Thanks, sir!"
He put it near his nose, and the smell hit him. It was much stronger than anything he ever tasted. "Damn. It's good."
"From a little brewery in Illinois," Victor said. "I have the skills to make a good cocktail, but I think you can judge a real man when you see him getting a good glass on the rocks."
"Do you know who's the initiation for?" Victor said.
Kevin shook his head.
"Rune."
It disappointed him, but he tried to hide it. "I thought someone like her, like…"
He couldn't find the right words.
"Us supers?" Victor said. "We are people. Rune is willing. She believes in the cause. But she's surprisingly innocent."
She didn't look that old. Kevin was practically a man, but a woman! "That's… that's horrible."
"Do you think my wife shouldn't be fighting?" Victor said, keeping his smile.
Kevin almost dropped the drink. "No, no, sir! But it shouldn't…"
"Why are women given powers?" Victor asked.
Kevin shook his head.
"Drink it up, kid," Victor said. "Don't think I didn't notice you haven't sipped even a bit."
He gestured around himself. Othala, Rune, Crusader, Madkorp, Alabaster, two cops, some corporate guys, and many more people Kevin had never seen in his life, chatting amiably before Rune's initiation.
"These are our people. All of them. Keep listening, and a smart man like you can get far. But don't overstep, understand? We fight as a group," Victor continued. "It's why we are strong."
Kevin looked back at his drink. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.
He gulped the glass. The alcohol stung him, and his eyes teared up.
He took a deep breath and looked at the golden-brown liquid, and wondered how little he had drunk.
A shout from behind, from the basement, made him turn.
Victor rushed to his wife's side, pushing Kevin, who almost spilled his drink.
As he saw people scrambling around him, he finished it, and despite the dizziness, the sixteen young man understood it was the time for war.
The stoplight turned green when a vehicle slammed to his side.
Kevin steered his car but it was all for nothing as it crushed to the wall, the airbag slamming into his face like Alexandria's punch.
As he lost consciousness, he wondered if he would wake up alive.
Frozen cold water woke him up. His head throbbed, and he felt someone injecting weird shit in his veins. His heartbeat rose like crazy.
He looked at his left arm and saw a small, unassuming man wearing a sweater and a pair of nerds' glasses messing with a syringe as he took out an I.V. from his arm.
Kevin looked around, and thought the hospital sucked. The room was bare, with a cold blue led light barely making him see the gray walls around him, but no windows. The steel door in front of him looked as tough as a bank's vault.
He looked down, and saw he was chained to the bad like a retard. He moved, pushed, tried to turn, but he couldn't even feel his legs.
"Stop struggling," a smooth, black voice behind him said. "Mr. Pitter, leave us alone."
The man who had drugged Kevin walked away, closing the door behind him.
The silence stretched uncomfortably for a bit of time. "Why did you attack Thomas Calvert?"
"He's a fucking ni-
The cocking sound of a gun stopped him in his tracks. The cold iron pressing on his head made him continue. "He was a target, nothing personal!"
"Why?" the black man behind him said.
"I had a call from one of my friends, he saw him going out of the PRT on a snazzy car, and he told me!" Kevin shouted.
"Did he follow him? How?" the man asked.
"I don't know! Ask Robbie…!"
"You already told me that," Coil said. "You are useless."
Kevin didn't hear the shot.
The real fool was me all along
New
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I wanted to write another perspective, but:
Don't spoil it in the comments, guys!
"I'll have two number 6s, a number 9 large, a number 7 with extra dip, a number 8, two number 45s, one with cheese, and a large soda," I said.
"And a Challenger."
I once thought about going vegan, but I sincerely doubted I would do so anytime soon.
"You are paying for this, right?" the cashier said to Dauntless.
The hero looked at me with a somewhat disturbed stare. "You are going to eat it all?"
I replied defensively: "If you want some, order for yourself."
It wasn't like being the Hunger Devil made me impossibly hungry. It was more like I knew perfectly well that I could enjoy feeling full as much as I wanted, and I liked eating even before.
Was I a woman becoming a devil, or a devil gaining a human perspective?
Though, fami-ly reunions would get complicated. No Yoru, you can't turn my humans into weapons. Bad devil, bad.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Dauntless said.
I looked at him.
"What?"
"Tilting your head like that," he continued.
"Nope," I replied, as I sat down.
The smell of greasiness intensified, as the first part of my order arrived: larded fries and three milkshakes.
I started munching on the fries, when Dauntless asked me: "Why do you want to be a hero?"
I put up my greasy finger as I finished the last fry. I licked it, then said: "Is that a question the rising star of the Protectorate should say?"
As Dauntless thought "My arclance will smell of fried oil for weeks", a white haired girl entered the Fugly.
"Fuck you," she said, pointing at me, biting her finger. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She was crying her eyes out.
Dauntless looked at her eyes and turned to me: "Is she-
The girl touched him, he shriveled and died, having shown twice as much characterization as in most Worm fics.
Armsmaster was twirling his beard out of the window.
"He got me," the albino girl said. "That f***ing Fujimoto boomed me."
She added, "He's so good," repeating it four times.
The girl then said she wanted to add Fujimoto to the list of writers she parodies this summer.
"And a Challenger."
I once thought about going vegan, but I sincerely doubted I would do so anytime soon.
"You are paying for this, right?" the cashier said to Dauntless.
The hero looked at me with a somewhat disturbed stare. "You are going to eat it all?"
I replied defensively: "If you want some, order for yourself."
It wasn't like being the Hunger Devil made me impossibly hungry. It was more like I knew perfectly well that I could enjoy feeling full as much as I wanted, and I liked eating even before.
Was I a woman becoming a devil, or a devil gaining a human perspective?
Though, fami-ly reunions would get complicated. No Yoru, you can't turn my humans into weapons. Bad devil, bad.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Dauntless said.
I looked at him.
"What?"
"Tilting your head like that," he continued.
"Nope," I replied, as I sat down.
The smell of greasiness intensified, as the first part of my order arrived: larded fries and three milkshakes.
I started munching on the fries, when Dauntless asked me: "Why do you want to be a hero?"
I put up my greasy finger as I finished the last fry. I licked it, then said: "Is that a question the rising star of the Protectorate should say?"
As Dauntless thought "My arclance will smell of fried oil for weeks", a white haired girl entered the Fugly.
"Fuck you," she said, pointing at me, biting her finger. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
She was crying her eyes out.
Dauntless looked at her eyes and turned to me: "Is she-
The girl touched him, he shriveled and died, having shown twice as much characterization as in most Worm fics.
Armsmaster was twirling his beard out of the window.
"He got me," the albino girl said. "That f***ing Fujimoto boomed me."
She added, "He's so good," repeating it four times.
The girl then said she wanted to add Fujimoto to the list of writers she parodies this summer.
Don't spoil it in the comments, guys!
Last edited:
Shelter 5
New
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Like most of my big purchases, I felt conflicted. The tinker-tech contacts were extremely life-like and easy to put. They covered my yellow and red pupils quite well, but the maroon eyes reflected in the mirror made me feel I chose the wrong color, even if nobody had said anything about it.
They were the color I was used to, but they didn't fit anymore, as if I was stubbornly wearing an old set of clothes even if it was fraying around the edges.
I adjusted my blouse, and went out of the public bathroom.
Jake was currently watching something in his phone, but even if I wanted to see it, I had to give him that much privacy at least. Toffee barked towards me, and I could see from how she was leaning forward that she looked eagerly for our walk.
Jake smiled, put down the phone, and we walked together for a while, without saying much besides "the weather is fine", "read the news last night, crazy right?" and "favorite kind of food".
It was simple, everyday stuff, the sort of small talk I often scoffed at, but with every worry on my shoulders I wanted to stop thinking about anything weighty. We were in the small zone of not being a real couple but not being exactly acquaintances.
It was more than clear he was interested in me, and I wouldn't deny I could feel something for him, but I knew perfectly well how much I was hiding from him.
The date ended at a small coffee shop, which sported of one the few prides flags I had seen in the city in the corner of the room, alongside some photos of indie singers. I idly wondered if all of them existed in my "Gaia" or not.
"One long coffee and one…?"
"Cappuccino," I repeated, slowly, to the bored teenager. Starbucks existed even here, I checked!
Jake laughed. "Don't make it bad, she doesn't look like it but she's Italian."
I wanted to punch him in the face, but fortunately for him, I resorted to pinching my nose.
"I find it cute how your accent comes out when you order Italian," he said.
I blinked and looked down, fighting my rising blush. "That's stupid."
Though, I could hear it perfectly well. I lost my Italian accent when speaking English. Has it been that long already?
No, it didn't make any sense.
"Don't you like it?" he said.
I brought my arms behind my back and stretched them. "I just didn't notice."
I looked him in the face, and with some amusement I noticed he had a small cut on his left cheek. "So, I have seen it," I said.
He laughed. "Ah, worth your time?"
It's bullshit, I did not hit her, I did nooot!
How did this line survive two different universes?!
My smile grew larger.
"I changed my mind, don't tell me."
"And how was the Steel Lion's game?" I asked cheekily.
"Fucking Red Sox," he muttered. "If our best catcher hadn't caught that cold!"
"The deal is still on the table," I said. I didn't enjoy watching "soccer", but baseball might be different, or so I lied to myself. A stadium full of people, eugh.
He said: "Tempting. But I want a better movie than… that!"
"You unironically enjoy Wards Away," I said. One would think the Super Sentai genre would have died with Kyushu and Black Kaze, but the soul was still there, in glittery American Capery.
"They are good films," he said, stone-faced, before breaking into a smirk. "And it's not my fault my patients love my Vista signed poster."
I smirked. "Did you walk up to her to take it?"
"There's a limit to my boldness," he said. "Panacea gave me one."
That… was interesting. "You know her?"
"In passing. She helped one of my patients. She does good work, but her bedside manner is horrible," he said.
Keeping my smile, I said: "Cape life isn't easy."
The waiter came with our orders.
I looked back at Toffee, and relaxed while savouring my drink.
But, like everything good, it started to rain, and my cappuccino finished. The pleasant day got worse, especially since Jake pressed on the conversation: "She comes and goes like she owns the place. Don't get me wrong, she saves lives. But sometimes she comes at two fucking A.M., the orderlies have to figure out where we can send her, and she pushes on and on…"
"Where we can send her?" I asked, despite myself.
"Some patients aren't safe to be around, and it's not like her family guards her constantly. Not to mention the ones that don't want to be cured by capes," he said.
"Religion?" I mused.
"Religion, conspiracies… getting into some parents heads why their kids should be vaccinated can be a challenge."
Covid wasn't going to be a thing here, right? Not that it would be more than a blip in the grand scheme of things.
"Do you like capes?" I asked.
He adjusted his watch. It looked expensive, and he always had it with him. I should keep it in the box "next conversation" topic.
"You can't imagine how many dates break up with those questions," he said.
"Uhuhu," I urged him.
"Three dates," he said. "A fangirl that had an unhealthy Eidolon obsession, a church-goer that hated the Wards thing, and…"
He looked around making sure nobody was listening: "a woman that I think was a cape."
Thankfully, I could hold a poker face better than the other horsemen.
"Did she tell you?" I asked.
"No, and thank god," he replied.
"You met a villain?" Was it anyone I should deal with?
He shouted quietly: "No, no! She's a good guy! But I can't tell you much more. Honestly…"
He readjusted his watch, and looked at it. "This is the first time I told anyone."
I wanted to believe him, and relaxed slightly.
"Damn, you got intense," he said.
After a moment, he said: "I heard the Merchants disbanded."
Uh?
"The RAC got hit some time ago. I remember it now, sorry to have brought cape stuff up."
I shook my head. "No, don't worry. I'm glad this was put away."
"Aren't you angry about Squealer rebranding?"
"Sher- She changed a new leaf," I said. "I hope it keeps happening."
Her debut was due in two weeks.
Did I have the courage to ask…?
"She keeps claiming she didn't even meet that new bubble cape," Jake said. "I hope she didn't get mastered into being a good person."
Thank you, Jake. I hope this never comes back again.
"Her words were a bit stronger than that," I said.
I was impressed how many slurls she said in the span of twenty seconds before the journalist was cut off.
I moved to caress Toffee, not wanting to poke around the topic anymore and letting it drown in the rain.
They were the color I was used to, but they didn't fit anymore, as if I was stubbornly wearing an old set of clothes even if it was fraying around the edges.
I adjusted my blouse, and went out of the public bathroom.
Jake was currently watching something in his phone, but even if I wanted to see it, I had to give him that much privacy at least. Toffee barked towards me, and I could see from how she was leaning forward that she looked eagerly for our walk.
Jake smiled, put down the phone, and we walked together for a while, without saying much besides "the weather is fine", "read the news last night, crazy right?" and "favorite kind of food".
It was simple, everyday stuff, the sort of small talk I often scoffed at, but with every worry on my shoulders I wanted to stop thinking about anything weighty. We were in the small zone of not being a real couple but not being exactly acquaintances.
It was more than clear he was interested in me, and I wouldn't deny I could feel something for him, but I knew perfectly well how much I was hiding from him.
The date ended at a small coffee shop, which sported of one the few prides flags I had seen in the city in the corner of the room, alongside some photos of indie singers. I idly wondered if all of them existed in my "Gaia" or not.
"One long coffee and one…?"
"Cappuccino," I repeated, slowly, to the bored teenager. Starbucks existed even here, I checked!
Jake laughed. "Don't make it bad, she doesn't look like it but she's Italian."
I wanted to punch him in the face, but fortunately for him, I resorted to pinching my nose.
"I find it cute how your accent comes out when you order Italian," he said.
I blinked and looked down, fighting my rising blush. "That's stupid."
Though, I could hear it perfectly well. I lost my Italian accent when speaking English. Has it been that long already?
No, it didn't make any sense.
"Don't you like it?" he said.
I brought my arms behind my back and stretched them. "I just didn't notice."
I looked him in the face, and with some amusement I noticed he had a small cut on his left cheek. "So, I have seen it," I said.
He laughed. "Ah, worth your time?"
It's bullshit, I did not hit her, I did nooot!
How did this line survive two different universes?!
My smile grew larger.
"I changed my mind, don't tell me."
"And how was the Steel Lion's game?" I asked cheekily.
"Fucking Red Sox," he muttered. "If our best catcher hadn't caught that cold!"
"The deal is still on the table," I said. I didn't enjoy watching "soccer", but baseball might be different, or so I lied to myself. A stadium full of people, eugh.
He said: "Tempting. But I want a better movie than… that!"
"You unironically enjoy Wards Away," I said. One would think the Super Sentai genre would have died with Kyushu and Black Kaze, but the soul was still there, in glittery American Capery.
"They are good films," he said, stone-faced, before breaking into a smirk. "And it's not my fault my patients love my Vista signed poster."
I smirked. "Did you walk up to her to take it?"
"There's a limit to my boldness," he said. "Panacea gave me one."
That… was interesting. "You know her?"
"In passing. She helped one of my patients. She does good work, but her bedside manner is horrible," he said.
Keeping my smile, I said: "Cape life isn't easy."
The waiter came with our orders.
I looked back at Toffee, and relaxed while savouring my drink.
But, like everything good, it started to rain, and my cappuccino finished. The pleasant day got worse, especially since Jake pressed on the conversation: "She comes and goes like she owns the place. Don't get me wrong, she saves lives. But sometimes she comes at two fucking A.M., the orderlies have to figure out where we can send her, and she pushes on and on…"
"Where we can send her?" I asked, despite myself.
"Some patients aren't safe to be around, and it's not like her family guards her constantly. Not to mention the ones that don't want to be cured by capes," he said.
"Religion?" I mused.
"Religion, conspiracies… getting into some parents heads why their kids should be vaccinated can be a challenge."
Covid wasn't going to be a thing here, right? Not that it would be more than a blip in the grand scheme of things.
"Do you like capes?" I asked.
He adjusted his watch. It looked expensive, and he always had it with him. I should keep it in the box "next conversation" topic.
"You can't imagine how many dates break up with those questions," he said.
"Uhuhu," I urged him.
"Three dates," he said. "A fangirl that had an unhealthy Eidolon obsession, a church-goer that hated the Wards thing, and…"
He looked around making sure nobody was listening: "a woman that I think was a cape."
Thankfully, I could hold a poker face better than the other horsemen.
"Did she tell you?" I asked.
"No, and thank god," he replied.
"You met a villain?" Was it anyone I should deal with?
He shouted quietly: "No, no! She's a good guy! But I can't tell you much more. Honestly…"
He readjusted his watch, and looked at it. "This is the first time I told anyone."
I wanted to believe him, and relaxed slightly.
"Damn, you got intense," he said.
After a moment, he said: "I heard the Merchants disbanded."
Uh?
"The RAC got hit some time ago. I remember it now, sorry to have brought cape stuff up."
I shook my head. "No, don't worry. I'm glad this was put away."
"Aren't you angry about Squealer rebranding?"
"Sher- She changed a new leaf," I said. "I hope it keeps happening."
Her debut was due in two weeks.
Did I have the courage to ask…?
"She keeps claiming she didn't even meet that new bubble cape," Jake said. "I hope she didn't get mastered into being a good person."
Thank you, Jake. I hope this never comes back again.
"Her words were a bit stronger than that," I said.
I was impressed how many slurls she said in the span of twenty seconds before the journalist was cut off.
I moved to caress Toffee, not wanting to poke around the topic anymore and letting it drown in the rain.
Shelter 6
New
- Pronouns
- She/Her
As I pressed the calling icon, I knew my idea was stupid and reckless.
"Hello, PRT Hotline, who's calling?" a calm voice asked.
"This is Stigma," I said. "A nazi will soon kill someone during one of Kaiser's speeches."
"Did any of your victims tell you this?" the voice asked.
I bit back a snarl, channelling the tone of the woman who calmly gave orders. "I will leave if you don't send help. I can't take the E88 alone. I know that Victor, Othala, Alabaster, Rune, Crusader, and Madkorp are already here."
"Where are you?" he asked.
I said the street, and the place.
"ETA twenty minutes," the man said. "If you lied, there will be consequences."
I closed the call, and released a deep breath.
It was easy to think "nazis evil morons hurr durr" but no organization that survived the Protectorate for decades or the Slaughterhouse was weak or stupid. Henry had found his job in one of Medhall's plants thanks to the E88, but his chemistry degree was real.
"Of course I am going to lose my job, Makima. Would you like more soda with your meatloaf?"
I still couldn't understand how Americans enjoyed most meals with drinks like that. Eugh.
This was a world where society survived despite the whims of egomaniacal Masters and Thinkers.
Most decent gangs knew about Master-Stranger protocols. The bare, but essential information about them was accessible to everyone, and the PRT liked to remind everyone. I had the jingle about a short animated commercial about the Triumvirate putting a spotlight on Strangers in my head for a week.
And from what Sherrel showed me, it wasn't like the more in-depth stuff, the protocols the PRT drilled into their personnel, was exactly difficult to grasp.
It had some variation from department and department and it had revisions every six months (or whenever the Simurgh attacked), but the core concepts and the most common methods Masters infiltrated organizations weren't that different.
And there was Watchdog. Yup, the PRT was a can of worms, eh, I didn't want to touch before I had taken out Coil.
I cut my thought aside as I waited for the PRT to arrive for my call. Alea iacta est, ergo it didn't fucking matter that the Nazis would have more info about one of theirs having tipped someone, read me, off. I was glad they didn't make public that I had a real "order whatever I want" Master effect beyond guilting people.
They were still Nazis, the concept of helping the other while helping themselves was still a bit beyond their brains.
Learning they were going to kill somebody for their little "blood-letting" ritual was my last straw.
Getting out with the hostage wasn't enough. I wanted to defeat them, make them fear for their lives. Coil's canon action was certainly bold, but it didn't destroy their strength in the eyes of their people, it took an Endbringer to shatter them.
Nazis should be afraid to be nazis.
Where was the Antifa Devil when I needed it?
Armsmaster's bike was the first to arrive, fifty or so meters away from me.
I went out of Kevin's car, and adjusted my mask. I walked along the right side of the wall, my left hand idly tracing a spray-painted red swastika without touching the wall. The smell of the alley I was in was horrible, but I was unfortunately used to it, after having been close-ish to homeless people who hadn't showered in months, or years.
A van joined Armsmaster, sleek black with a silver shield and the three bolded letters of the logo on the hood.
The clock struck twenty minutes, and my phone rang.
"We are here," Armsmaster said. "Do you know if the hostage is alive?"
"She is," I said. "She's currently in a cell, bruised, but alive. She'll need some help, I think she hasn't eaten for at least a day."
"Anything else?" he asked.
How much info are you getting out of me? Is the truth detector a concept in your mind?
"No new E88 capes, as far as I know," I said.
Assault, Battery, and Miss Militia went out of the van.
"Who's with you?" I asked.
"Not us?" he said.
Before I could quip, he said: "Miss Militia, Assault and Battery, and Dauntless."
I looked up and saw Dauntless flying closer. I should start controlling birds.
I noticed two more PRT vans, but I guessed they weren't going to send them immediately. The E88 packed iron, but usually didn't wield it against Protectorate capes, but the same couldn't be said about the normals.
How would Kishibe fare in a world like this?
Time to show a bit of my hand. "My power… I'm stronger than most, and I can heal wounds, but good hits can take me down."
"We don't have time," Miss Militia said, somehow, through a phone call.
Tinkers.
"They will notice us. Can you go to the corner facing the Renaissance club under the street light?"
I closed the phone and walked out of the alley, towards them.
The heroes were moving in a V formation, with the center of their cone facing the club, and me slightly to its left. Assault waved at me, while Militia, the one closest to me, held a pretty weird assault rifle while giving me a nod.
I didn't fault them for their suspicion, I was much worse than they could suspect.
Battery looked between me and the Nazi party, and gave Armsmaster a glance.
He stared at me. "Your shirt is a copyright violation," he said.
Was that a joke?
I slowly held out my hands and looked down with my head. "I won't talk until I get my lawyer."
Assault let out a short laugh, and I could feel that they relaxed slightly. Credit where credit's due, they weren't bothered by my eyes.
Armsmaster shook his head. "We will throw down the door, and make sure the hostage gets out. Do you have any idea where she might be?"
I said: "She's somewhere else, hidden from the other guests."
"The basement," Miss Militia said. "Upstairs would risk her being found out."
"Sounds likely," Armsmaster said. "Protectorate, out!"
Miss Militia pointed a grenade launcher, and shot it near the windows. It exploded in a flashbang.
Battery blurred forward using Assault like a trampoline, and smashed through the front door, and Assault soon joined her, just one second later.
Armsmaster gave me a glance and said: "Wait here."
Then he pointed his right hand to the gaudy club sign, and from the armor wrist shot a grappling hook.
I bit back a curse when Kevin got knocked out, and took a deep breath.
"Worried?"
I looked at Dauntless, who had flown besides me. He was already a pretty buff guy, or at least his costume gave him that figure, and seeing him hovering over me with his spear and shield only made me feel smaller.
"Shouldn't you be with them?" I asked.
A white blur slammed to the ground, and Alabaster got up. Before I could move, Dauntless moved forward, slamming his lance into his back, stunning him for some moments.
Miss Militia shot a grenade, while Dauntless kept the white man occupied, and it exploded in foam, trapping me.
Miss Militia said: "He's waiting for the hostage."
A billiard table floated out of the place, with Othala, Victor and Rune on it.
Dauntless moved towards them, only to zip away inside the building.
A hulking monstrosity charged forward, purple skin bulging and stretched over misshapen bones and a broken face. Madkorp's costume, a SS uniform similar to Krieg's, was in tatters, and unfortunately Marvel's editor hadn't given him Banner's pants.
Militia looked between the flying trio and the Brute, her weapon flickering through multiple options.
"I'll keep the big guy distracted," I said.
"Don't use-"
I grew an unseen smile. "I know. Don't mess with the emotions of volatile people."
Madkorp, Jules Valey, was practically the archetypical Bethian mass shooter in an America without easy guns. He got beaten up at a sport's brawl when he brought up a knife. Zero victims, until he triggered. Four dead and fifty casualties, including his favorite pitcher.
The more you hurt him, the uglier, stronger and madder he got, until his purple skin exploded hot air like a balloon, leaving him out tired but healed.
It wasn't a power I would ever want to use, but as the fight showed I was still heavily outclassed.
I took a smashed brick and threw it to its ugly mug.
Madkorp moved forward on heavy but sure feet, his eyes never leaving me, each step leaving cracks in the asphalt. His mouth, covered by the bruise I made that trembled as he moved, released a scream as he suddenly strove forward.
Recognizing the grappling move, I ran from him to a lamppost. He drove his right hand forward, not bothering to go around the post, and I punched it. His skin was slippery and boiling, and the knuckle I hit inflated, bouncing like a kid's toy castle.
He punched the lamp-post, again and again, until it bent and his arms' skin became a translucent purple, showing the man's body hidden by the caricature, ligaments exiting the body to his shell.
I gripped the knife that I took out from the jacket, a WW2 relic stripped of its insignia, and braced for the attack. The rats and the men overlooking this place could tell me nobody was looking this way.
The lamp finally gave out, and Madkorp again tried to tackle me with his arms. His strategy wasn't particularly brilliant, but with his bigger reach and his power if most people got grabbed by him it was practically game over.
I slashed his right arm, and caustic hot air boiled me. I smashed one of the two blood capsules I held under my tongue, as my opponent righted himself to tackle me with his left arm.
I made a vector right behind Madkorp, and stabbed him in the heart. The wound bulged and ripened in an instant, launching the knife in the street, but it didn't matter. The brute, already out of balance, found himself driven back.
Skidmark's power, none too happy to have been ignored so long, made the blue effect disappear in a flash of light nobody should have seen.
I took my second knife and drove it in his neck, and walked away. The explosion that followed made me glad that my hood was pinned to my mask.
Madkorp was getting up, trembling. I would have taken him, if I didn't know better.
My little spies squeaked and called to my attention as they saw the wannabe Valkyries and Kaiser getting out of a limousine.
I left the man behind, and ran towards the club.
One of the walls had completely broken, and I could see Armsmaster surveying the area, his hands on his halberd pointing at Crusader. His armor had some scratches and burns, but he looked mostly unarmed, the scent of sweat clinging to his beard.
Battery and Assault were facing Victor, who had jumped down from Rune's platform and dodged off their hits with superhuman speed and brutal moves. I winced as I saw Assault throwing a punch the wrong way, his thumb over his knucles.
Most importantly, the woman I fought for had been rescued in Dauntless' arms. He was gently flying to one of the vans, as she gripped him while crying.
"I see everything's going well," I said sarcastically.
Miss Militia, who had been standing back, replied: "That's why we don't do stings. You dealt with him well."
"I fought worse," I said.
Her eyes crinkled in bemusement.
The dark streets turned darker as Fenja and Menja bursted in the scene, and immediately went to the attack. Armsmaster cursed and tasered Crusader, who spasmed to the ground, as she rushed outside.
I braced for impact, but a blur appeared before me and the lance stopped.
"Thank you, Battery," I said.
"You're welcome," she said.
The other lance struck where Alabaster was trapped, and continued to do so until the man was almost out.
Blades erupted into the ground, as Dauntless swooped to take Miss Militia, who pointed her weapon at the newest guest.
I clenched my fists.
"I didn't think that you heroes would work with Masters," he said.
Fucking-
"Masters like you said Gallant and Glory Girl are masters?" Assault replied. "That's rich."
"You can't be working with her," Viktor said, now next to his wife. "How do you think she managed to know of this? No more than twenty-nine people should have known what we were going to do."
Only a fucking Nazi would use the secrecy of their hate crime as a defense. I should remember to move Kevin away, fast. Maybe a new life in New York will be better for him.
"You aren't as tight-lipped as you think to be," I said. "Not everyone can sleep with a heavy conscience, you should try."
Kaiser ignored me and turned to Armsmaster: "You will let us go."
"Why?" he asked, voice rough.
"You got your win," he said. "But most your forces are here, and many of my friends are one minute away from attacking the PRT building. You leave our kid alone, and we leave yours."
Hookwolf, Krieg, Cricket, Stormtiger, maybe throw Purity and Night and Fog there. It wasn't a team I would send the Wards and Velocity against, and who knew if any other gang would be trying anything in the meantime.
The heroes didn't look none too happy, but I imagined that passed in their minds. What would a no holds barred fight here even look like?
Cops and robbers my ass.
The gangleader turned to Rune: "That thing wasn't worth of our time. Rune, you have showed your valor and you have risen above your expectations."
And just like that, it was over. The nazis were walking away, and I could understand why, I could rationalize it.
"Stigma, you should come with us," Battery said.
"Are you afraid of what I can do?" I asked. "Do you trust them?"
Dauntless shook his head. "You did good tonight, but you can do better."
Miss Militia said: "And we need to know. Some of the people you fought went away to live completely different lives. People are going to be scared."
Good.
I talked as the Control Devil: "I am going home. I might join you on my terms one day, but I have things to do."
Armsmaster, his stance still not relaxed, said: "Are you sure you want to do this, Stigma?"
"Do you want to take me now, with them watching?" I asked, my arms behind my back.
Because most of the Nazis were going away, escaping by car, but Rune wasn't that far away, and the two giants were still looming as they walked away.
And just like that, I walked away, stumbled into an alley, waited a moment to see if anybody was coming, and called my vermins.
I took out my mask, put my lenses and changed into a jogging outfit, my costume in a duffel bag, and rushed to my apartment.
And as I stood naked, I realized that the PRT was interrogating Jonah. Jonah, who I had put there to film everything that was happening, as insurance.
I turned on the hot water and walked inside.
The PRT was asking for his phone.
I applied the shampoo and rinsed it off.
Jonah got scared when they asked if he ever met me. He swore he didn't.
I applied the conditioner and massaged my scalp.
He asked if he was mastered. They assured him it was standard routine.
I rinsed it all away, turned off the water, and took a deep breath.
He deleted the video.
I turned to the mirror, and my reflection was fogged, blurry colors.
He went away with an autograph from Miss Militia for his niece.
I thought how easily they managed to find who Skitter was when they had to.
I had nothing.
I needed everything Coil had.
I didn't feel like drying my hair.
"Hello, PRT Hotline, who's calling?" a calm voice asked.
"This is Stigma," I said. "A nazi will soon kill someone during one of Kaiser's speeches."
"Did any of your victims tell you this?" the voice asked.
I bit back a snarl, channelling the tone of the woman who calmly gave orders. "I will leave if you don't send help. I can't take the E88 alone. I know that Victor, Othala, Alabaster, Rune, Crusader, and Madkorp are already here."
"Where are you?" he asked.
I said the street, and the place.
"ETA twenty minutes," the man said. "If you lied, there will be consequences."
I closed the call, and released a deep breath.
It was easy to think "nazis evil morons hurr durr" but no organization that survived the Protectorate for decades or the Slaughterhouse was weak or stupid. Henry had found his job in one of Medhall's plants thanks to the E88, but his chemistry degree was real.
"Of course I am going to lose my job, Makima. Would you like more soda with your meatloaf?"
I still couldn't understand how Americans enjoyed most meals with drinks like that. Eugh.
This was a world where society survived despite the whims of egomaniacal Masters and Thinkers.
Most decent gangs knew about Master-Stranger protocols. The bare, but essential information about them was accessible to everyone, and the PRT liked to remind everyone. I had the jingle about a short animated commercial about the Triumvirate putting a spotlight on Strangers in my head for a week.
And from what Sherrel showed me, it wasn't like the more in-depth stuff, the protocols the PRT drilled into their personnel, was exactly difficult to grasp.
It had some variation from department and department and it had revisions every six months (or whenever the Simurgh attacked), but the core concepts and the most common methods Masters infiltrated organizations weren't that different.
And there was Watchdog. Yup, the PRT was a can of worms, eh, I didn't want to touch before I had taken out Coil.
I cut my thought aside as I waited for the PRT to arrive for my call. Alea iacta est, ergo it didn't fucking matter that the Nazis would have more info about one of theirs having tipped someone, read me, off. I was glad they didn't make public that I had a real "order whatever I want" Master effect beyond guilting people.
They were still Nazis, the concept of helping the other while helping themselves was still a bit beyond their brains.
Learning they were going to kill somebody for their little "blood-letting" ritual was my last straw.
Getting out with the hostage wasn't enough. I wanted to defeat them, make them fear for their lives. Coil's canon action was certainly bold, but it didn't destroy their strength in the eyes of their people, it took an Endbringer to shatter them.
Nazis should be afraid to be nazis.
Where was the Antifa Devil when I needed it?
Armsmaster's bike was the first to arrive, fifty or so meters away from me.
I went out of Kevin's car, and adjusted my mask. I walked along the right side of the wall, my left hand idly tracing a spray-painted red swastika without touching the wall. The smell of the alley I was in was horrible, but I was unfortunately used to it, after having been close-ish to homeless people who hadn't showered in months, or years.
A van joined Armsmaster, sleek black with a silver shield and the three bolded letters of the logo on the hood.
The clock struck twenty minutes, and my phone rang.
"We are here," Armsmaster said. "Do you know if the hostage is alive?"
"She is," I said. "She's currently in a cell, bruised, but alive. She'll need some help, I think she hasn't eaten for at least a day."
"Anything else?" he asked.
How much info are you getting out of me? Is the truth detector a concept in your mind?
"No new E88 capes, as far as I know," I said.
Assault, Battery, and Miss Militia went out of the van.
"Who's with you?" I asked.
"Not us?" he said.
Before I could quip, he said: "Miss Militia, Assault and Battery, and Dauntless."
I looked up and saw Dauntless flying closer. I should start controlling birds.
I noticed two more PRT vans, but I guessed they weren't going to send them immediately. The E88 packed iron, but usually didn't wield it against Protectorate capes, but the same couldn't be said about the normals.
How would Kishibe fare in a world like this?
Time to show a bit of my hand. "My power… I'm stronger than most, and I can heal wounds, but good hits can take me down."
"We don't have time," Miss Militia said, somehow, through a phone call.
Tinkers.
"They will notice us. Can you go to the corner facing the Renaissance club under the street light?"
I closed the phone and walked out of the alley, towards them.
The heroes were moving in a V formation, with the center of their cone facing the club, and me slightly to its left. Assault waved at me, while Militia, the one closest to me, held a pretty weird assault rifle while giving me a nod.
I didn't fault them for their suspicion, I was much worse than they could suspect.
Battery looked between me and the Nazi party, and gave Armsmaster a glance.
He stared at me. "Your shirt is a copyright violation," he said.
Was that a joke?
I slowly held out my hands and looked down with my head. "I won't talk until I get my lawyer."
Assault let out a short laugh, and I could feel that they relaxed slightly. Credit where credit's due, they weren't bothered by my eyes.
Armsmaster shook his head. "We will throw down the door, and make sure the hostage gets out. Do you have any idea where she might be?"
I said: "She's somewhere else, hidden from the other guests."
"The basement," Miss Militia said. "Upstairs would risk her being found out."
"Sounds likely," Armsmaster said. "Protectorate, out!"
Miss Militia pointed a grenade launcher, and shot it near the windows. It exploded in a flashbang.
Battery blurred forward using Assault like a trampoline, and smashed through the front door, and Assault soon joined her, just one second later.
Armsmaster gave me a glance and said: "Wait here."
Then he pointed his right hand to the gaudy club sign, and from the armor wrist shot a grappling hook.
I bit back a curse when Kevin got knocked out, and took a deep breath.
"Worried?"
I looked at Dauntless, who had flown besides me. He was already a pretty buff guy, or at least his costume gave him that figure, and seeing him hovering over me with his spear and shield only made me feel smaller.
"Shouldn't you be with them?" I asked.
A white blur slammed to the ground, and Alabaster got up. Before I could move, Dauntless moved forward, slamming his lance into his back, stunning him for some moments.
Miss Militia shot a grenade, while Dauntless kept the white man occupied, and it exploded in foam, trapping me.
Miss Militia said: "He's waiting for the hostage."
A billiard table floated out of the place, with Othala, Victor and Rune on it.
Dauntless moved towards them, only to zip away inside the building.
A hulking monstrosity charged forward, purple skin bulging and stretched over misshapen bones and a broken face. Madkorp's costume, a SS uniform similar to Krieg's, was in tatters, and unfortunately Marvel's editor hadn't given him Banner's pants.
Militia looked between the flying trio and the Brute, her weapon flickering through multiple options.
"I'll keep the big guy distracted," I said.
"Don't use-"
I grew an unseen smile. "I know. Don't mess with the emotions of volatile people."
Madkorp, Jules Valey, was practically the archetypical Bethian mass shooter in an America without easy guns. He got beaten up at a sport's brawl when he brought up a knife. Zero victims, until he triggered. Four dead and fifty casualties, including his favorite pitcher.
The more you hurt him, the uglier, stronger and madder he got, until his purple skin exploded hot air like a balloon, leaving him out tired but healed.
It wasn't a power I would ever want to use, but as the fight showed I was still heavily outclassed.
I took a smashed brick and threw it to its ugly mug.
Madkorp moved forward on heavy but sure feet, his eyes never leaving me, each step leaving cracks in the asphalt. His mouth, covered by the bruise I made that trembled as he moved, released a scream as he suddenly strove forward.
Recognizing the grappling move, I ran from him to a lamppost. He drove his right hand forward, not bothering to go around the post, and I punched it. His skin was slippery and boiling, and the knuckle I hit inflated, bouncing like a kid's toy castle.
He punched the lamp-post, again and again, until it bent and his arms' skin became a translucent purple, showing the man's body hidden by the caricature, ligaments exiting the body to his shell.
I gripped the knife that I took out from the jacket, a WW2 relic stripped of its insignia, and braced for the attack. The rats and the men overlooking this place could tell me nobody was looking this way.
The lamp finally gave out, and Madkorp again tried to tackle me with his arms. His strategy wasn't particularly brilliant, but with his bigger reach and his power if most people got grabbed by him it was practically game over.
I slashed his right arm, and caustic hot air boiled me. I smashed one of the two blood capsules I held under my tongue, as my opponent righted himself to tackle me with his left arm.
I made a vector right behind Madkorp, and stabbed him in the heart. The wound bulged and ripened in an instant, launching the knife in the street, but it didn't matter. The brute, already out of balance, found himself driven back.
Skidmark's power, none too happy to have been ignored so long, made the blue effect disappear in a flash of light nobody should have seen.
I took my second knife and drove it in his neck, and walked away. The explosion that followed made me glad that my hood was pinned to my mask.
Madkorp was getting up, trembling. I would have taken him, if I didn't know better.
My little spies squeaked and called to my attention as they saw the wannabe Valkyries and Kaiser getting out of a limousine.
I left the man behind, and ran towards the club.
One of the walls had completely broken, and I could see Armsmaster surveying the area, his hands on his halberd pointing at Crusader. His armor had some scratches and burns, but he looked mostly unarmed, the scent of sweat clinging to his beard.
Battery and Assault were facing Victor, who had jumped down from Rune's platform and dodged off their hits with superhuman speed and brutal moves. I winced as I saw Assault throwing a punch the wrong way, his thumb over his knucles.
Most importantly, the woman I fought for had been rescued in Dauntless' arms. He was gently flying to one of the vans, as she gripped him while crying.
"I see everything's going well," I said sarcastically.
Miss Militia, who had been standing back, replied: "That's why we don't do stings. You dealt with him well."
"I fought worse," I said.
Her eyes crinkled in bemusement.
The dark streets turned darker as Fenja and Menja bursted in the scene, and immediately went to the attack. Armsmaster cursed and tasered Crusader, who spasmed to the ground, as she rushed outside.
I braced for impact, but a blur appeared before me and the lance stopped.
"Thank you, Battery," I said.
"You're welcome," she said.
The other lance struck where Alabaster was trapped, and continued to do so until the man was almost out.
Blades erupted into the ground, as Dauntless swooped to take Miss Militia, who pointed her weapon at the newest guest.
I clenched my fists.
"I didn't think that you heroes would work with Masters," he said.
Fucking-
"Masters like you said Gallant and Glory Girl are masters?" Assault replied. "That's rich."
"You can't be working with her," Viktor said, now next to his wife. "How do you think she managed to know of this? No more than twenty-nine people should have known what we were going to do."
Only a fucking Nazi would use the secrecy of their hate crime as a defense. I should remember to move Kevin away, fast. Maybe a new life in New York will be better for him.
"You aren't as tight-lipped as you think to be," I said. "Not everyone can sleep with a heavy conscience, you should try."
Kaiser ignored me and turned to Armsmaster: "You will let us go."
"Why?" he asked, voice rough.
"You got your win," he said. "But most your forces are here, and many of my friends are one minute away from attacking the PRT building. You leave our kid alone, and we leave yours."
Hookwolf, Krieg, Cricket, Stormtiger, maybe throw Purity and Night and Fog there. It wasn't a team I would send the Wards and Velocity against, and who knew if any other gang would be trying anything in the meantime.
The heroes didn't look none too happy, but I imagined that passed in their minds. What would a no holds barred fight here even look like?
Cops and robbers my ass.
The gangleader turned to Rune: "That thing wasn't worth of our time. Rune, you have showed your valor and you have risen above your expectations."
And just like that, it was over. The nazis were walking away, and I could understand why, I could rationalize it.
"Stigma, you should come with us," Battery said.
"Are you afraid of what I can do?" I asked. "Do you trust them?"
Dauntless shook his head. "You did good tonight, but you can do better."
Miss Militia said: "And we need to know. Some of the people you fought went away to live completely different lives. People are going to be scared."
Good.
I talked as the Control Devil: "I am going home. I might join you on my terms one day, but I have things to do."
Armsmaster, his stance still not relaxed, said: "Are you sure you want to do this, Stigma?"
"Do you want to take me now, with them watching?" I asked, my arms behind my back.
Because most of the Nazis were going away, escaping by car, but Rune wasn't that far away, and the two giants were still looming as they walked away.
And just like that, I walked away, stumbled into an alley, waited a moment to see if anybody was coming, and called my vermins.
I took out my mask, put my lenses and changed into a jogging outfit, my costume in a duffel bag, and rushed to my apartment.
And as I stood naked, I realized that the PRT was interrogating Jonah. Jonah, who I had put there to film everything that was happening, as insurance.
I turned on the hot water and walked inside.
The PRT was asking for his phone.
I applied the shampoo and rinsed it off.
Jonah got scared when they asked if he ever met me. He swore he didn't.
I applied the conditioner and massaged my scalp.
He asked if he was mastered. They assured him it was standard routine.
I rinsed it all away, turned off the water, and took a deep breath.
He deleted the video.
I turned to the mirror, and my reflection was fogged, blurry colors.
He went away with an autograph from Miss Militia for his niece.
I thought how easily they managed to find who Skitter was when they had to.
I had nothing.
I needed everything Coil had.
I didn't feel like drying my hair.