Swallowtail (Worm AU)

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Lisa Wilbourn sat in her luxuriously soft bed and eyed the letter on her dresser. She felt a violating chill despite the comfort of her plush pajamas. The room was otherwise spotless of course, tasteful minimalism with beech accents, a singular purple cushion adding a splash of color to the creamy whiteness of the bed. The fat and bulging letter was nearly exactly positioned in the center of the dresser's top, neatly aligned with the edges, the paper heavy and expensive, the handwritten name in immaculate cursive.

She battled the deep-etched instinct for frugality; it would be a waste to use her power on figuring out how a little stunt was accomplished, but this wasn't Boston. Every second of her power didn't need to be accounted for, didn't need to be saved to navigate the fucking madman's court. It was hers and she could indulge if she wanted to.

She unlidded the barest of cracks in her mind, let a millisecond of power flow down channels of honed logic and trained instincts.

{ { Carpet undisturbed , envelope lying flat , alignment not truly perfect } ⇒ Othello never so sloppy , mirrorself power too valuable to be sent on overnight errands } ⇒ Unknown new parahuman

Of course; begin with a subtle threat, de-escalate into a gift to show wealth, then finally get to business. It would be deadly to think Accord was slave to routine, but he did have structures that in lesser, kinder men would be called courtesy. Structures a young and stupid runaway had once thought to exploit, as she waded in too deep. Before she'd even opened the envelope he had shown there was a new factor in play, a new angle of attack available to him, a new preforged scheme to destroy her at a moment's notice.

Any one scheme of his Lisa could beat, easily if she was honest with herself, but there would always be more behind. Accord had resources, a power that went wide in ways hers did not; the greatest swordsman still falls to the phalanx. As long as he had the tempo of the game, as long as he had the prepared ground, she would have to concede.

A memory of a room full of beautiful folded death flashed up, unbidden. The Consul felt an insistent pressure behind her temples, but well developed mental muscles held her steady.

The letter was put to one side as she went to the apartment's kitchen to enact her morning routine: a simple breakfast of fruit and a granola bar, freshly ground coffee beans for an excellent cup, the latest PRT case files to peruse as she sipped. Spilling Riot's identity didn't look like it was tarnishing that bitch in New Wave's victory as much as she'd hoped, but it was serving the secondary goals of perpetuating a reputation for incompetency within the ENE-PRT, and making Riot's life more difficult if he escaped. It had been the work of minutes either way, nothing to lose sleep over. Seeing her plans ripple out into the world was enough to center herself with satisfaction.

She returned to the bedroom to spend half an hour to armor herself in makeup and gird her blonde hair for the battles of the day. Her plans for the morning did not include the mask, so she chose a long black dress with a sharp fit and purple highlights rather than her gown. It made her look older, severe — a young adult professional. The flag of a small rebellion.

She took a wickedly edged letter opener from her purse and slowly sliced into the envelope, careful to not move it from where it sat. It contained a single folded page of paper, and a thin golden box, almost like a cigar case. She slid the items out, and slowly positioned the box for inspection. The gold looked real, and the only marks on its smooth perfection were a small logo in the shape of an omega, and an oval of darker metal, just the right size to serve as a fingerprint scanner. She gently laid her hand on the box, and sipped another droplet of power.

{ { Slight vibration , Color index of unusual alloy } ⇒ Tinker manufacture ⇒ high end ⇒ very mature tinker involved , Logo matches Case 53 tattoo , logo matches vial seen five months ago , object dense enough to have made noise if placed by hand } ⇒ object produced by Accord's suppliers of parahuman powers ⇒ suppliers have access to a long range tinkertech teleporter.

She cut the analysis with a grimace; being so flush with tinkertech they could use it on deliveries was concerning, almost as much as Accord breaching the careful information quarantine he'd kept between her and them. What was the madman's plan?

With no other recourse, she unfolded the letter and read, the heavy paper rustling as her hands shook the slightest amount.

Dear L

I am pleased by your most recent correspondence.

The removal of the chaotic actors from Brockton Bay is to our organization's benefit, providing a stable anchor for those elements we have removed from Boston. Actions taken to reduce the latter's unpredictability further should be encouraged from any party: J has created a purchase order of three hundred thousand and ninety nine dollars for you to this end.

When progressing your own endeavors be aware that other national and transnational organizations are assembling stakes in Brockton Bay and its environs. Should conflict arise between our enterprises and these entities, your prioritization of assets and values will be as we discussed on 27th of December 2010, not the alternative plan discussed on the 6th of January 2011.

I have thought about the matter disclosed to me by you and R: I wish to have my protegee succeed, and predict that a bulwark will compensate for your physical weaknesses. I note that the lack of alignment between R's report and yours is concerning.

Therefore I have enclosed a small packet from my silent partners, which will endow a base individual with strength and defensive capability. Though this particular product lacks puissance, it should suffice if you choose an appropriate new employee.

If you do not find someone suitable to receive this empowerment within two months, or if you acquire someone who already is capable of meeting your needs, return the package to me.

Your benevolent sponsor,
A

Postscriptum: You were correct as to the appropriate millésime for J. My thanks.

Consul slowly breathed out. At least his shitty dominance games would turn to her advantage from time to time. She considered the small golden box for some time, before carefully placing it in the apartment's safe, unopened. Lisa had a lot of fun things planned today, and they would be made distinctly less fun by her power whispering shadowy conspiracy theories from deep within her own brain.

She sent a text to Roberta to have them meet in the hallway in ten minutes, and spent those minutes with the joy of choosing accessories: a delicate silver necklace to offset the dress, the pistol with the built in silencer to join her mask in the slim black briefcase.

Roberta was waiting in the hall, somehow having picked out the inverse of Lisa's choice of dress: white with purple highlights instead of black, an echo of her usual style as Codex. A spike of paranoia drilled through Lisa. Was this another show of power, of Accord's control?

She spent another droplet of mental energy. She had to be sure.

{ Eye movement on your dress , color change in skin capillaries by the eye } ⇒ embarrassment ⇒ mental enhancement by power completely expired ⇒ dress choice coincidence
{ Roughness of skin on wrists , continued weight gain } ⇒ suicidal ideation from social stress
{ { Movement of spine , eyes on the corners of your mouth } ⇒ sororal patterning , consistency with prior observations } ⇒ would betray Accord if you asked ⇒ does not know this herself

"Hey Berta," Lisa said with a cool smile, "Where are we heading for brunch?"

"We have the meeting with the younger Mister Edwards at eleven. Hardy's is on that street and they make excellent scrambled eggs," Roberta replied, a similar slight smile on her face. She'd turned to walk towards the elevator, as if Lisa wouldn't question her recommendation. The woman's decisiveness was fragile, confidence built on rickety foundations Lisa knew she could topple with three words.

She chose not to. "Sounds great."

As Roberta drove them in her luxury car, Lisa continued flicking through reports on her laptop. The daily PRT files were soon done, and she needed more data. A quick click brought up a secure chat program, and she shot off a message to her contractor.

T4le: Hey ee-pe-oo, you got the goods? Taking so long
T4le: u growing sloppy in your old age? :3
Epo: Got a lot on babe,
Epo: paying works is ^^^^ and
Epo: youre not dropping premium bucks
Epo: >:| I'm youthful and vigorous
Epo: skateboard to my prostate exam like any 21-year-old
T4le: 29
Epo: fuck
T4le: Who's buying ur time?
Epo: I'm not going to do a scary colleague dirty without cause! $$$?
T4le: Hah no. You said itd be a week, its been a week.
Epo: half now, half tomorrow?
T4le: I am whelmed af
Epo: up on 6Cdbq.net

Lisa wondered who was taking up Epeios' time; she really needed to get her own server setup here in the Bay to avoid relying on the idiot for side jobs. Colleague meant mercenary, one who was scary but not so scary he couldn't mention them at all, word choice based on past conversations implied female? Probably Faultline, but she didn't want to waste her power to check.

She turned to shaving pieces off the massive glacier of documents Epeios had just sent. The mad midget had been lording something about the Bay over her in his message, and she would find that scrap of strategic knowledge that held the answer. Files about accounts, inventory, supply chains — an indigestible block of information she diligently scrolled through. Medhall had unraveled and expelled the cancer of Westerbrook Pharmacies after Krieg had been revealed as the latter company's executive, but they hadn't yet made up the ground, and their under the table sale of drugs was falling far short of projections and expectations.

{ { Medhall efficiency not changed , product not changed } ⇒ Another party is taking their market share , other party has expertise but does not need traditional infrastructure , other party is pushy , other party desires to be quiet } ⇒ Blasto ⇒ Blasto not leader.

Lisa shook her head free from the unbidden power usage. She thought for some time as Roberta steered between the traffic. Wharf Street, still closed after the battle, caused snarls of traffic to clog all the way up the artery of Lord Street and give Downtown a stroke. Almost as if it was one city, despite how the residents of the south eastern portions acted.

"You were with Othello when he was 'fumigating' back in Boston, right?" Lisa asked, studiously ignoring the older woman's flinch at the memory.

"Yes, it wasn't our finest day," Roberta said dryly. "Need something refreshed for your special brain?"

"How can I make brilliant deductions without my assistant to both do the leg work and be awed at my genius?"

"Cute, are you going to take up pipe smoking too? So, ah, we hit the big lab in Southie at 8am, Cassiterite and I were on overwatch outside to catch escapees. The mercenaries were breaching the main doors, and Othello was inside dropping off the seven devices unseen." Her voice became sharper as she spoke, more exact. Lisa had heard the change before; the memories Codex made when boosted by her power were more detailed than normal human recall; thoughts etched in diamond instead of clay. She relayed a detailed breakdown of the action against Blasto and his friends new and old; how the Ambassador's blasters kept Poison Apple at bay, how Othello was stalemated for a period by the Time Scrambler, how the Beast and the Handsome Boy had dug down into the sewers to let them all make their escape with the most important pieces of Blasto's equipment and their wounded.

Perhaps now that they were here in the Bay, it was the last unnamed cape who was driving the strategic thinking while Blasto built up a new production lab. The observation in Boston had given no clue to his power so Thinker was certainly a possibility. It meshed with post-incident information gathering, which had him managing their online footprint at a skill level higher than his age would suggest. As a gorgeous Thinker herself, she appreciated the symmetry. It was a pity they didn't have the self-applied names for any of them for her power to work off, just a fuzzy label gleaned from the PRT's case files. Once again Lisa wished she'd been able to interrogate the pyrokinetic, but the woman had been too dangerous to let return to wakefulness before she'd been transferred to Accord's overseas contacts.

As Roberta wound down her retelling of the busy morning, Lisa made sure to nod and murmur appreciatively even though she'd long since stopped listening, blasting a brilliant smile when the woman finally concluded.

"A missing puzzle piece indeed. Thanks, Watson."

"So you going to tell me—"

"Nope." Lisa smirked, emphasizing the last syllable in a childish way.

Roberta expelled a familiar sigh. "It's a good thing you are as smart as you think you are."

"Isn't it just?" Lisa grinned with the confidence she knew Roberta needed, and went back to her files.

The street-level pressure on Medhall had been given shape in her mind, slotted in with all the other stresses on the company. Lisa was so close to finding the crack to leverage the conglomerate open and feast on the spoils, but there was still uncertainty at the center. Where was the order the walking Napoleon complex had spoken of? First rule of the scam: find out what the mark wants. Why was a pharmaceutical company still wasting its time with street level connections?

She opened the aperture of her power wide, and drank from the torrent.

{ { Medhall lacks order ⇒ { Conflicting projects , conflicting orders , communication friction ⇒ there is not a singular direction , number of board meetings , no news of a new CEO } ⇒ the board is in a trilemma; old guard, two new factions , picture of CFO Ericson dated last week shows fearful pride and familiarity } ⇒ old guard has money and numbers ⇒ new factions have power ⇒ new factions have powers ⇒ new factions create fear ⇒ new factions opposed to each other , decision lag } ⇒ both distant from Brockton ⇒ working through proxies ⇒ The Elite and Gesellschaft are low-key trying to fight over Medhall

She surfaced with a gasp, a significant gulp of her daily ration slurped away. The pain was near now, hovering like a storm on the horizon. The hypothesis fit, but if she poured on her power enough anything could be bent to complete the puzzle. This conclusion would need to be tested. She was still running through ideas when they pulled into the parking lot on Commercial Street round the corner from their destination.

It was in that slack period between the morning rush and the start of lunchtime traffic, so the upmarket bistros and coffeehouses that clustered at the base of the office buildings were barely a quarter full. Their bright colors and warmth contrasted with the dull towers above; unlike Boston or New York the Bay's declining fortunes in the 80s and 90s had meant no experimentation with the city's skyscraper architecture. Local buildings were either bland concrete shafts from the 70s or the over engineered armored glass of the modern 'cape-resistant' structures. Only two parts of the Bay's skyline really expressed novelty; the wide Medhall building with its gleaming steel clad sides, and the brown glass cylinder of 800 Commercial street, with the circular crown of its red headline ticker spinning stories over the city. Lisa admired whoever had gotten 'the Edwards building' to stick as a name, for in truth the media conglomerate had only ever managed to fill the top thirty of the sixty-five floors.

Hardy's was gleaming sophistication with an Art Deco decor, half full with business people having working brunches. Papers and laptops battled for space on delicate tables against coffee cups and plates of salty rich breakfast food. They had a reservation of course, and were soon seated and served.

"Those were really excellent. Good rec, Berta," Lisa said with a smile, as she signaled the waiter to take her half eaten eggs away. Roberta had finished her own plate already, and sipped her coffee with satisfaction. Lisa mused it was time to throw the woman some more praise, building on this good moment. "So how are we going to play the meeting with the lesser Edwards?"

"I lead, with you as my assistant?" She counted things off on her fingers as she continued, "Age and seriousness first as neither of us are his type, I've done the pitch before back in Boston, you've been so deep in with Medhall that you haven't read the Edwards documents—"

"What is this slander?" Lisa cried, but she couldn't keep her composure for long and as she cracked they both broke into laughter.

"Care to share the joke?" asked a masculine voice. The next table held two men in expensive suits, both late twenties and possessing the kind of bland handsomeness that would suit a TV anchorman in a few years. The speaker was slimmer and had slicked back dark hair, while his friend was more heavily built with an immaculate blond fauxhawk. Slick was leaning sideways, his body language attentive on Roberta, while Fauxhawk sat straight and would have seemed amused and disinterested if not for the intensity of his gaze.

"Just work things," Roberta replied with an airy dismissiveness.

"Laughter as fetching as that is wasted on a work joke." Slick grinned back full of confidence, "You lovely ladies visiting or do you work round here? I'm sure we would have remembered you."

That his interest was focused on the older Roberta rather than a girl a decade younger than himself was enough to stay Lisa's tongue, and she drank her coffee while Roberta tried to brush him off again.

"We're expanding here in the Bay, I'm sure we'll be well known soon."

"I'd certainly like to get to know you."

"Trying too hard, don't you think?"

"I'm an overachiever. I've got plenty of cred with both the Edwards if you want easing into things." He smirked at his own innuendo.

"We'll manage on our own."

All throughout Fauxhawk stayed silent and looked on. As she considered the man, Lisa indulged her suspicions. She'd recently learned a hard lesson in dismissing the quiet ones as mere followers. She shuddered at the memory of violation, and lept to act.

{ { No briefcase or coat ⇒ works nearby in the Edwards building , reaction earlier on hearing Edwards , watch far more expensive than suit } ⇒ gift ⇒ nepotism , is James Edward's type , patient } ⇒ one of Edwards inner circle ⇒ wants to hobble potential newcomers at the game ⇒ knows you are meeting his boss today.

Prosaic enough motivation, Lisa considered. An overly harsh dismissal might cause additional work down the line, effort and time wasted smoothing ruffled feathers or ruining careers once they get in with the company.

Slick kept pushing, shifting to outright chauvinism. "Your manager knew what they were doing, sending their prettiest assets, James Edwards might not swing that way but the Old Man Rupert loves recruiting talent."

Fuck it, Lisa thought, and attacked.

"Isn't it upsetting then that none of your many female coworkers will give you the time of day? You really should have performed better with that intern." It was so easy to slip into the practiced cadence of arrogant certainty; she didn't even need to use her power for someone so banally predictable. "Women talk, you know."

She accompanied her 'talk' with a look and a raised eyebrow at Fauxhawk, implication clear that she had additional secrets, and was more connected than he thought. Her voice was pitched with just the right mix of confidence and amusement to be the all knowing office gossip.

Slick spluttered, "Fuck, I don't—"

"Easy, Kevin," Fauxhawk brought Slick to heel, "no one pays attention to office gossip. We need to get back for our 10 o'clock anyway."

He quickly gathered his papers and stood, smiling at them both, before heading over to the till. Slick had a moment of uncertainty before following, giving Lisa a petulant stare on the way out, to which she replied with a smirk.

"Cleverer than most of them in the media group, might have to learn the blond guy's name. At least he won't lech on us," Lisa commented.

"Derek McAllister," Roberta replied. "It was on the documents he was holding."

"What would I do without you?"

"Recruit someone just as good." Behind Roberta's sardonic tone, there was a tiny note of darkness.

"Don't be silly," Lisa said with a wide smile, while inwardly she clenched. They needed to find a context to exercise Codex's power and soon; Roberta was better when she was sharp, and all the boardroom skulduggery was blunting her however much she enjoyed it. Thoughts flowed down channels in Lisa's mind: which of the vultures drawing close to Brockton would be acceptable fodder? Soldat? Dark Society's husks? The Wild Ones?

They would find some violent thugs no one would miss, and her friend would be back on form. But if they couldn't, well, Roberta wasn't wrong, Lisa thought, as her mind's eye pictured the golden box and the promise it held.

She really did need to recruit.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

The massive pumpkin sized fist shatters the brickwork of the parapet easily, the spikes of Biter's vicious knuckle dusters bigger than kitchen knives. The cape's arm muscles bulged obscenely as his power warped their size, steam rising off them in the chill night air as he spun back to face us and took up a pugilist stance. He must be well over six foot, and Newter's trim frame looks boyish in comparison as he crouches on all fours in front of the towering villain.

"Okay," Newter says, "punch the roof where I am now and I'll roll over to the equipment shed, then you follow me and clip it as you go past. Maybe roar? You got any good roars?"

Biter replies in his mild voice, "No, I'm never the one doing the shouting. On three?"

"Yeah cool."

I take the opportunity to edge away from the shed. Tracing through its walls I find the shell surprisingly flimsy considering the expensive sensors inside. Most of them don't have the weight in my scan to be tinkertech, but they are as information dense as normal electronics can get. One of these instruments is the sensor they built to watch the hospital, watch me—

Watch Phantasos, I mean. And apparently Riot as well.

Finding that out from Epeios' files had covered my skin in a crawling sensation. I hadn't even considered that there were eyes out there I didn't know about, watching eyes. My power gave me no indication, but I've failed to comprehend subtle and constant perception before. It is terrifying. Mel had taken it seriously as well, if for less emotive reasons; if they could track my power we might as well call off the plan now. But with making Kid Win mine, we have a chance to test things before committing.

The young hero had finally traveled out to the floating base, and after a lot of incomprehensible instruction, started working in the same room as the coordination center. I can feel him out in the bay and up in space, a solitary speck of my domain floating free. If my power could set it off, it would show up in that room. If it did, the deniable muscle we're renting in Biter would demolish the rooftop shed, and it would be back to the drawing board.

"Ready 'Tails?" Newter asks. I give him a thumbs up. I am reasonably sure the spread of my domain isn't detectable, or alarm bells would have been ringing as soon as Kid Win stepped onto the Rig, so had pushed a tiny line through the ground to engulf the sensors.

I switch my gesture to a held hand, and cast my scan back to Kid Win, the clarity of my attention picking out everything around him. He is trying to read one of the lengthy printed manuals Armsmaster had given him, but his phone seems to be distracting him. He's going to be days to get through the stack of pages at that rate.

Now or never.

I start concealing, and fragmenting, and emphasizing within the instruments.

No reaction.

None of the machines the tour had pointed out as sensor controls made so much as a peep. I waited for a few breathless minutes, then slowly gave Newter another affirmative. He turns and speaks to the villain.

"Looks like we're done here. You ready to crash backwards through this for the epic fiiiinish?"

"Come on Newter, let me keep some dignity here." Biter already sounds calmly resigned to his fate.

"You want this two hundred or not?" Newter limbers himself up, running on the spot, "I kick, you smash, we all cheese it."

The other cape closes his eyes, even as his head and metal jaw guard begin to protectively swell. Newter takes a run up, then leaps to plant a doubled foot in the center of the man's sternum, pressing into the leather vest. The force of it drives him back despite the weight differential, and he pulverizes the small shed beneath his studded bands and enormous limbs.

I breathe out, feeling the sensor's destruction. Good.

As we jog down the fire escape, Newter fishes out a wad of bills and hands Biter the second half of his payment.

"Gracias." The man tucks it behind the leather vest that makes up the top half of his costume. He glances back at both of us, a warm gaze studying Newter's orange skin for a time. "You got any more work I could do? I know your team has your whole thing, but if you need security or muscle at the club, legs broken, anything really…?"

"You not at the door on Ruby Dreams anymore?" Newter questions.

"You not hear? We got hit by the Teeth three days ago. Closed for months, no idea when they will reopen."

"Shit dude, I'll mention it to the Boss. Why us though?"

"The Teeth's mad dog is acting like he has something to prove, it was rough at the casino. Other stuff I'd rather not say without a commitment, but a group with a medical plan would be good with the city like it is. Local corporate team ain't going to take to me, you know."

He gestures to his skin as he speaks; it is a few shades more tan than the average Brocktonite. I think Medhall has been trying to distance itself from such bigotry after the whole Krieg thing, but they'll likely reject him from classism anyway.

I surprise myself by commenting: "No day job?" Newter had been teaching me cape slang, though I think he makes half of it up.

Biter has a pleasant laugh. "I got into the life young, never finished high school. Civilian prospects are rocky. Cape work is not much better when all you got is muscles, especially with dirty jobs drying up in Boston."

Ah, that is a troubling thought. We hit the floor of the alley and go our separate ways, Newter and I heading through the back alleys on our way back to Palanquin, while Biter goes south.

I phone Mel.

She picks up in one ring. "Report."

"We met with Biter, got up on the roof."

"He's asking about a long term gig!" Newter interjects.

"Power's a bad fit; no flexibility and weak," Mel says, ending the matter. The finality of the judgment is a bit shocking. How close had I come to a similar rejection back in our first meeting? How close do I come to that dismissal every day?

I continue on, quickly checking on Kid Win, who is looking at an email, "Sensor didn't react to anything I did, tried all my tricks. Control on the Rig still sitting unconcerned even after the instruments were smashed."

"Weren't you only supposed to destroy them if they did detect you?" Melanie sounds unimpressed while Newter snickers, overhearing.

"Situation evolved, thanks to Newter." The snickering stops. "Do you— do you think they could detect me in the past, and then changed it?"

I try not to show how much that hits me.

"Maybe. Tinker's aren't unbeatable. Optimisation and refinement means things are taken away; the tree is lost when the plank is cut. They do get better at solving the problem they're facing, but it's not free."

"They tuned it too much for my Dad, and it doesn't pick up me?"

"That's one hypothesis. This stuff is why you need to hit tinkers fast, and hit them with problems outside their usual context, things their toolset of the day doesn't cover. Tinkers can do anything, but they can't do everything."

"Right." I'm not sure how I can do that, I only have a few tricks to my name; something to think on.

"Gregor's back from his errand. Time to do another therapy session."

"Okay."

I pick up the pace.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"Perhaps when you are older." I'd never heard Gregor so full of amusement before. He'd been beaming from the moment I'd surfaced from tracing his memories.

"I'm not a child, Gregor," I reply frostily, "think of what seeing through walls means." In truth I am adept nowadays at shifting my scan elsewhere if— when I happen to stumble across people's intimate moments. I do wish Rodriguez and Christine would stop using the storage closet below my bedroom for their post-shift trysts, it is like seeing something out of the corner of your eye—

I have to focus. I make a little circular gesture to hurry him along, while Melanie just looks on, impassive.

"It was only a second of recollection," Gregor says more seriously. "Turbulent hot water, the sound of the falls, the smell of moss and minerals, her gasp as we coupled."

I hide myself from both their sight, only coming back after the blush blooms and fades. It seems Gregor can still embarrass me, and Melanie slowly raises one eyebrow as I reappear.

"I thank you for returning this memory to me, Taylor," he says to me before turning to Melanie, "however I believe it does not contain any novel or actionable information."

It is just the three of us for this session, working quietly in Gregor's spartan bedroom. The only visible decoration is a shelf stuffed with books, but I can trace some rather disturbing fashion choices hidden away in his closet. Melanie had been wondering if changing the location would trigger different associations in their amnesiac brains, but if this is what a bedroom will return then I'm mandating that every future session will happen in one of the lounges.

Melanie carefully closed her notebook, tapping it a few times with her finger before speaking.

"I've been putting things together, in between setting up the job for Taylor. Lining up these memories with the rest of our research. Nearly a year ago," she says to me. "Gregor assigned a share of his earnings with the group towards answering some questions."

I nod. I didn't know it had been so transactional, but it fit with prior conversations and implications.

"The boys aren't alone of course, altered physiology parahumans have been turning up across North America slowly but steadily. All with retrograde amnesia, all marked by that tattoo on various parts of their body. The sites they appear at aren't random; always somewhere urban, always out of the way. Most of them end up with the Protectorate as they have no other choice. Three puzzle pieces, all implying intent."

I hadn't known about them turning up in specific places, though Newter never shut up about his storm drain.

Melanie continues, "There are capes with physical changes without amnesia, but they are either minor in comparison like Taylor or Bad Canary, or are something that developed over time like Crawler." I wince at the name, and Gregor's heart beats a bit faster. Even though it had been years since a Slaughterhouse portal had opened anywhere near New England, the media kept the horrors fresh in people's minds. Melanie nods at our reaction. "We'll circle back to that. None of the C53s that have readable DNA or fingerprints show up in any database despite speaking English; a fourth piece."

Melanie brings her hands together then dramatically spreads them like an opening book. "It's as if they appeared from nowhere. But now we have two more puzzle pieces in Gregor and Skeeter's memory; two descriptions of places, and two descriptions of things that aren't quite right. Skeeter's vision has to be in California or the Mediterranean from the details he gives."

"Not places where men carry ritual weapons," I guess softly.

"Precisely. And Gregor, your memory of the town and your brother's ship?"

"The ferry, the name on the side started with an N then an O," he says deliberately. It had taken us three run throughs of the memory to get that, but he is sure.

"The only ferry on the Iceland-Denmark route is the Queen Ingrid, unless you go back to the early seventies," Melanie says with certainty. "I've even made a transatlantic phone call to check."

"So the memories can't be trusted?" I guess, going with my first instinct.

"No."

Gregor's gaze is distant, and he murmurs one word. "Haywire."

Melanie smiles. "Perhaps, though I think it more likely someone else has transdimensional technology. Something better than Haywire's gate to Aleph, better than what Dodge does for Jack Slash. Someone is obtaining capes from other Earths, branding them and wiping their memories, and putting them where they can be deniably collected by the Protectorate."

"Why would they do this?" Gregor asks.

"A convenient cape army without any family or ties, and with a sympathetic backstory? I see what the Protectorate gains, but there must be more in it for our transdimensional player. But I'm not going to speculate without more information."

I slowly breathe out as I realize her intent. "You want us to know this before we go on the Rig."

"Yes. I know you have your priorities, but extra context might help you interpret clues." She sets her mouth in a tight line. "I got word while you two were tranced out. They're moving Riot and Lung next week, different days. The weather will be right for us to make our move on the PHQ tomorrow night."

Oh.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I fumble for purpose, sing our lie of stars—

My fist smashes the alarm clock, its discordant call continues—

My hand stops the buzzing alarm clock, and I sit up in my bed. 10pm. I center my scan on myself and reach up through the ceiling, tracing the thin fog as it pours off the sea and slips through the city.

I guess this is happening then.

Things feel more dream-like than the preparation for the New Wave operation, and I don't speak a word as we load the two vans with our gear in the narrow street behind Palanquin. Faultline, Newter, and Skeeter are to be in one, our boss decked out for war in her full cape regalia, while the two boys added puffer vests to their usual bare chest and shorts combo. They're going to be our distraction, and might have to be out in the cold moist air all night.

Those of us going in the other van look much stranger; Elle and I are swamped by our oversized blue and black drysuits, contrasting with how Gregor and Rodriquez squeeze tightly into theirs. Only Spencer is in normal clothes as he'll be staying with the van, a large baseball cap to obscure his face.

The thick opacity of the suit's fabric is a pleasant barrier against the world, but I don't like how the rubber cuffs clutch at my wrists and neck. I'd had to wrap my plumes around my waist under the suit, and they scraped on my skin as I moved. With our caps up and thin masks on we made for strange and solemn figures, but I can trace the nervousness on everyone's face but Faultline.

"Everyone ready?" Faultline asks, striding the center of the space between the vans. Everyone cautiously nods back at her. "Let's get to work."

"No pep talk?" Newter jokes.

"Pep is for amateur sports teams, this is nothing we've not done before," she says with absolute confidence, and Newter laughs. I can feel a rough warmth as she side-eyes me though, and she reaches out to touch my shoulder and lean in. Her voice is almost silent; I can only tell the words from the patterns in her throat. "Taylor, when you have that talk don't be distracted by the what-if's, should-have's and if-only's. Focus on the things you choose for yourself, the goals you want. We'll be here when you come back."

She speaks more loudly, so everyone can hear, "And remember you still owe the rest of your payment."

There are mutterings of laughter, more than the comment deserves, but it's with me rather than at me. I exhale a worry I didn't know I had.

"Shotgun!" Newter shoots me a smirk and a pair of finger guns as he backflips onto the top of their van. Skeeter hurries past, shoving a small plastic bag into my hand as he goes. Things seem to be happening too quickly, and they're already reversing their van as I trace the contents of his gift. It's one of his healing packs of course, a dark clotted mass like a piece of liver. Fresh, the cells within still roiling with excitement. Gregor, Elle, and Rodriguez have some already, but I'm not meant to be carrying anything that would link me back to the Crew if I am caught. Skeeter and I hadn't really spoken these last few days outside the memory sessions, so I had been uncertain if he was angry with me despite watching his every move. I still am not sure either way.

The bag is light in my hand, buoyant with trust. He is disobeying Melanie's plan by giving me this; I guess I am a bad influence. I stow it in my belt with the rest of my gear.

"Swallowtail?" Gregor says. Time to go.

As the van carefully drives through the roads, my perception of time snaps back to normality, the noise of the engine suddenly loud in my ears. No one speaks as we make our way to one of the little marina's south east of Downtown and the university, past the little headland. Rodriguez keeps reaching down to touch the pistol in his leg pocket, reassuring himself it is there, while Elle and Gregor sit in practiced silence. The streets are empty and still in the fog; not a night for anyone to be out, though I'm sure the new villains worming their way into the now vacant criminal underworld will be hard at work in back rooms and cellars.

We park by the marina's main ramp, next to a large wooden shed, blue paint bleached by the sun. We all pull our masks down over our faces. A man comes out of the building, his own drysuit matching the building with a vivid blue, and carrying four life jackets. As we get out of the van, Gregor passes the man an envelope thick with bills. I don't think about how much this is all costing, as I'm sure Melanie has it itemized down the dollar. He gestures off to one of the smaller ramps where a rigid inflatable boat big enough for ten people is drawn up. A much smaller inflatable, this one without an engine, is strapped on top. As we walk over, Elle seems about to ask a question of the boatman, but Gregor stops her with a gentle touch on the shoulder.

No names for the boatman, though our Charon seems quite young, with a sleek swimmer's build, and I trace not a speck of gray in his beard.

I'd never actually been on a boat in the Bay growing up, despite having a father who works at the docks. Another question for Dad when I see him. Luckily the still, foggy, air means the Bay is flat and calm, barely rippling as the tide slides out, and I don't feel sick as we slowly putter out of the marina, the boat's lights dark. As the seabed drops away, beyond the reach of my scan, I feel a tiny note of panic that I let skate and burn in my mind rather than snuffing it out. Fear keeps you sharp, makes it real.

I feel it when the boat comes about to point at the rig, the little speck of mine that represents Kid Win hanging hundreds of feet in the air. He's adjusting some small machines now, resting in a four bunk cabin that seems to have been put aside for his use. His tools spread across the other three uncomfortably lumpy beds. The twenty yards sphere I can scan around him seems quiet; boxy windowless rooms full of other sleepers, no alarms blaring to life as we draw closer.

We stop about half a mile from the Rig, the lights of its spires a muddy pyramid of brightness in the fog above the brooding mass of the platform. As Elle stares at it, enchanted, Gregor flips open his burner phone, and texts Melanie to start the festivities. Far away in the city, I feel Melanie speedly type into a laptop, before striding out into the streets.

I keep my scan on Kid Win, picking out intently every machine and wire in the structure around him. The virus Melanie ordered should have the external cameras repeating the same foggy minute for the next hour. We didn't dare to touch more than that, there were things on the PHQ that would be triple and quadruple checked. There is no reaction, no alarms, no change.

I tap Elle's hand, feel her smile back at me from under her mask.

"Don't worry, I can do it on my own," she whispers, and a fractal pattern of information spills out and round and up the knot of power in her head. I recognise it, though it's cleaner, deeper than her practice back at the club.

I smell sweet pollen in the air, and the surface of the sea stills further. Elle's quiet garden intersects with reality, and I feel pale lilies emerge from elsewhere to bloom on the saltwater. The flowers are the size of a child's face, and form a perfect hexagonal grid, each eleven feet from the next. They extend out from the boat, towards the rainbow and pearl glow of the Rig's shield. I try not to think too hard about where their roots go, and ignore Rodrigeuz and the boatman's pounding hearts.

Gregor's phone flickers and goes dead, and I cast my scan back to Kid Win. There's still nothing, not even the slightest change aside from the progress on his metal and sapphire box of… stuff.

This is it.

The last chance to back out, walk away.

I think for barely a second. "No reaction, let's go, Gregor."

"As you will." He pats Elle on the shoulder and he and the boatman get the smaller inflatable in the water. Gregor and I clamber in, and set to work on with the oars. Two of my straining arms don't pull as hard as his one, but we glide towards the Rig anyway, with me keeping us as deeply hidden as I can. Elle gives a little wave as we disappear, but Rodrigeuz keeps his eyes locked on the boatman, and his hand clenched on his gun pocket. Gregor has an hour to get back before Mel's minion will take Elle home.

When we had set off, I was not expecting to find one the most beautiful thing in the world, but life is full of surprises. The half an inch of transition zone, where the forcefield meets the Garden and surrenders to Elle's sovereignty, is a wonderous thing. I trace a million miles of rainbows, a fractal infinity of spiraling bubbles dancing and twisting in that finger width crack of broken reality.

A single laugh escapes my lips. I guess the universe is bigger than my problems.

The hole the Garden makes for us is low and wide, and we have to duck down into the boat to slide underneath. My trace lingers longingly on the precipice of finity as we move away. We are at the Rig now, its form clear to see despite the fog. The skyscrapers in Downtown are bigger, but the shape of the platform, how it looms over the sea makes it seem greater than any mere building. The silver metal of the underside and yellow paint of the Legs positively glow in the floodlights, the vault of a science fiction cathedral. I feel tiny beneath its bulk.

Our target is the East Leg, where they should be keeping the prisoners like my Dad who weren't super strong brutes. As we row I feel the unwavering bright stares of cameras on the two of us and the boat, and pray the virus is working, pray no one notices a little patch of absence if it isn't. It's been nearly fifteen minutes since we left the larger boat; Kid Win is brushing his teeth without a care in the world. We tie the small inflatable to the rusted and cracked rungs of a ladder welded to the seaward facing side of the cylindrical leg, and Gregor strips the sleeves of his drysuit to expose his arm and stump in preparation to fight. The ladder is designed for safety, rungs offset to form a slope for easy ascent, but with his injury he needs to use a little touch of sticky glue to stay on and the climb is agonizingly slow.

It gives me time to trace the inside of the leg as we go, and I find the first disaster of the night as we're nearly at the top, the ladder turning to avoid the yard wide bracing struts at the top of the leg.

"The cells here are empty," I hiss upwards at Gregor. I can see the bright lights of the platform surface through holes in the decking above him, the fan of material that extends past the edge of the platform and the legs. It's hard to make out anything with my eyes, as the vapor of the fog combines with the lights to make things a milky soup. "He must be in the other prison Leg. The brute one. But why?"

The second problem of the night arrives even faster.

There is a shockingly loud crunch, as Challenger drops out of the dark fog and down on the metal decking. My scan doesn't reach far enough to tell where she came from. The scarlet hero impacts in a crouch just a few yards above us, and I can trace the tension in every straining ligament of her costume. I nearly lose my grip on the ladder from fright with the loudness of the noise, and clutch it tight as the tall and fearsome hero slowly rises to her feet.

I feel a subtle warmth of something between sight and touch; her axe hums in her hand, sniffing the air.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Author's Notes

• Things other people do can have unintended consequences: leaking danny's identity is one of the worst days of Taylor's life, but for Lisa it was tuesday. Consul!Lisa is a complicated character with complicated relationships for sure.
  • She has also helpfully describes the players for the Brockton Games Villain Tournament Arc Volume 2.
  • Formatting of her Thinking is deliberately different from canon, to reflect a different 'education'.
• Poor Biter, life is tough for low level villains/rogues
• Big fan of competant characters coming to the wrong conclusions based on incomplete data (am I talking about Faultline or Lisa? ).
• Didn't quite intend for the two bouncers to have this big a role at the start, but I made the call that with a team of teenagers Faultline needs drivers even if she doesn't use them for the actual work, only a small step from the unpowered help she uses in canon.
• Thanks so much to Juff for the beta read.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"I like to think I wouldn't," Shawn said, his helmet smoothing out any uncertainty and hate in his voice into an even baritone.

"So did I, Dauntless, so did I." Riot had his head in his hands on the other side of the blast proof glass, his thinning hair peeking out from between his fingers, the metal line of Armsmaster's tinkertech psychic detector glinting in the bright lights. "I've told friends to be calm, be rational, but when it is your own child? Everything goes red. You can't sleep, you can't eat, because you don't know where they are. I remember tearing doors off a cupboard when she was"—the skinny man rubbed his balding head in anxiety—"about three? I heard her in the distance and thought she was trapped. And that feeling was nothing to her not coming home from school that day in March."

Shawn murmured agreement; he'd long learnt that nods and other subtle gestures got lost in the glow of his costume. He watched the villain intently, vision crystallizing from every angle, the helmet making his thoughts faster than human, sharper. He weighed deepening the rapport or pushing the other man off balance, and as tens of seconds ticked by in subjective minutes, chose the latter.

"Riot, you have my sympathies," he said slowly, "but sympathetic moments aren't blank checks, they don't wipe away monstrous deeds." They don't clean the blood off our hands.

Patches of skin on Riot's face subtly changed color, reddening and paling, visible to the helmet's sight even through the thin joke of a domino mask they'd issued the villain. Shame? Guilt? Bloodlust? Shawn didn't know; all his expended empowerment only brought information, not understanding. He'd poured every charge into the helmet since the incident, disregarding the LA Thinker's instructions, skipping that asshole Armsmaster's passive aggressive emails. Those crystalline moments when applying enhancement told him it saw more, pushed him more, protected his thoughts more.

He didn't know if it would protect enough.

Would it block out the phantasms? Block out Riot's monstrous will? He was truly afraid to find out. Riot could be locked in the Icebox without him ever knowing the answer. He'd go home and hug his son without knowing the answer, and sleep peacefully in his bed.

The other man was still talking, wallowing in his own pain.

"There was a week, after my wife died, where I just stopped." He paused for a long time. "I forgot to buy food for the house, forgot the most basic dad stuff, stopped asking her to do things. I slumped. Mired in gray. I couldn't see she was suffering until someone yelled sense into me. I guess now when things are bad I've been choosing the red rage, choosing the bad way forward, because the alternative is that gray funk and standing still." He made that last word sound like a curse.

Riot wasn't conventionally charismatic, but he had a tightly wound intensity to him that served to draw up others with his speech. Shawn considered that the villain could have done so much more damage to the city with that prickly energy, raising a third gang to challenge the big two.

It pulled something out of Shawn, to his own surprise. "I had a moment like that. I stared at the tub of formula, sitting on the floor as the hours passed. I just couldn't bring myself to move without her. The milk didn't make itself, she didn't come back into my life and fix it. It was… yes, gray is a good way to put it."

"Ah?" He had Riot's attention.

"Eight-month-olds have ways of making their needs known." His power had saved him, snapped him back from wherever he'd gone, the arrival of a fresh charge hammering down the passage of time. Addison had been fine, looking up from the mobile basket with big wide eyes, an easy child to love.

Riot weakly chuckled.

Another long moment passed. Shawn wondered what he was hoping to accomplish here. The excuse that he could sit in on part of the interrogations to test his helmet's new abilities would break under Piggot's rocky stare. He watched the villain's eyelids close and open: a blink inflated to comprehensibility by his sped up perception. He sighed and shifted the gears of his thought back to more human levels. His shoulders slumped as crystal sharp control eased.

"I don't think we're going to cover anything useful. I'll call Lieutenant Sancar back in."

"Were you there?" Riot asked, his green eyes fixed on the arclance, its slim white pole propped by Shawn's side. Much like the scrawny villain, its appearance underplayed its destructive potential.

"Yes." There was no need to ask which there he meant.

"Did you know? Did you see?"

"I wasn't close enough, I started firing from directly above." The helmet let him stand beside his thoughts, speak clearly and evenly. "They told me what happened. I saw those same pictures you did."

"I— why did they keep it a secret!" Riot shouted the last word, smacking his hand down on the table. The explosive burst of anger filled the man in seconds and emptied just as fast.

"The most valuable thing the PRT has isn't the heroes, the equipment, or the officers, it's the trust of the public. That we can keep them safe from the terrors that can just reach out and touch them. Society breaks down without that trust." It'd been years since Legend's seminar, but the head of the Protectorate's words still stuck with Shawn, still a guiding light in the darkness. He geared the helmet's gift back up to remember it clearly. "If there had been more attacks, if you had been an ongoing risk, there was a media strategy planned to warn the public. But you stopped, and showing the pictures of the dead wouldn't bring them back."

Shawn believed it, he really did, but he knew the happy ignorance of others' was no comfort. He waited, feeling that some layer of protection had been peeled back from the other man. Riot slowly raised his head to peer at Shawn's helmet slit, as if he would be able to see through the protective light.

"I know it's not worth anything, but I am sorry."

"Then show it, and tell us what happened at Kittery towers," Shawn said evenly. Tell us why you made me murder children. "You've answered every question about your war with Lung, why not come clean about your beef with Kaiser?"

Mentioning the name changed the mood, Riot's pose suddenly shifting, inflating with anger. This time it wasn't a sudden flood, but a rising tide of emotion.

"I'll speak about that once you find my daughter. I'm not going to let spillover from what I tell you hurt her, I don't know what other things you're keeping hidden to maintain… trust." Riot pulled on the joke of a domino mask they'd given him, when his identity was blaring out of every news outlet in the city. "If my lawyer hadn't said, would you all even have told me my identity was leaked? That every 'ex' nazi in the city would be gunning for anyone with the name 'Hebert'?"

"That wasn't my call. If it'd been, I would have told you the truth."

"I'll bet."

"They don't send me to lie to people, I don't have the knack for it," Shawn answered truthfully.

"Is that right? So what's the truth that's going to happen to me?"

"The Icebox, and no one ever sees you again. Or the Jury sympathizes with you and a tinker builds a better version of that"—Shawn gestured to the tinkertech brain monitor and autosedator—"and you go to a maximum security prison for the rest of your life. You're lucky in a way, most powers aren't amiable to being controlled like this. If we didn't have the assurance of Armsmaster's work it'd be the Icebox for sure."

Riot's posture tensed and untensed as the fates were described. Shawn watched in his speeded up time, and thought about how he himself would behave if he thought Addison were dead. His heart would be ripped out, he wouldn't have this energy.

He chanced a testing sentence. "Even if you go to max security, you're unlikely to be allowed visitors."

Riot definitely flinched.

"You know she's out there. More than just a father thing. You know." Shawn saw the clear light of his own helmet reflected in the other man's eyes as they widened. Eventually, Riot nodded.

"I can feel the potential." Riot picked his words carefully, "if someone's within range when I think of them, I feel the option to turn my power on them. If they're not in range, or dead, I don't feel it. I've been picturing her face a lot these days here. She isn't dead. I just— I just can't speak to her."

You'd risk turning that horrific power on your own daughter? Shawn's teeth clenched. He'd succeeded in getting the villain to open up, but he didn't want to talk to the man any more. Mercifully, his communicator, or whatever had become of the communicator when the helmet had absorbed it, buzzed a message from Console.

"Situation at Cornerstone Security; Faultline spotted, they seem to be making for the deposit boxes, breaking walls left and right. Dauntless, you're our only ranged mover suitable to engage them, are you able to intercede? Over."

Cornerstone was on the south side of Downtown; six minutes flight time. He thumbed through the channels to Challenger's comms. "You okay here, Challenger?"

"I heard Console." The woman's odd accent came back clearly, with the echo of clanging footsteps on metal. "Go get 'em, tiger. I'm patrolling the perimeter right now, give me and the boys an upskirt shot in your dazzling flyby, eh?"

The woman was incorrigible, probably just out on the decking to stretch her legs, but he'd take a week of her honesty over a day of Armsmaster's exhausting judgment.

Shawn turned his gaze back to Riot. "Any time you want to tell us what happened, Riot, we'll be listening. Have a good evening."

He called out to Lieutenant Sancar to secure the prisoner, and strode out into the hallway. One of the best features of PHQ for his use was never being more than two corridors from an external gantry. He covered them in a run as his boots began to fizz and flare with power. The exterior door swung open, and Shawn stepped into the murky night.

Leaving blazing steps he climbed above the fog, flashes of light setting the water vapor shining with a rainbow of refracted energy. Once in the open air he shifted, strides warping space as he cut across the sky.

Five minutes to his destination. He thought about Riot, about knowing your child was there, about all the words the villain must have wanted to say.

At the speed of thought he dialed a phone number, one held so close the helmet knew it.

"Hey Dad." Addison's voice was clear in his ear, the power cutting the noise of the wind down to nothing.

"Hey Ads, I thought I'd get you before bed."

"Jean's fallen asleep Dad, no one's going to make me go to bed." His son's voice was full of laughter on the phone. He thought of Riot, alone back in his cell, able to feel his child but not speak to her. Some of his hate faded, recolored, turned to pity.

"That's okay, Addison, you'll just have to talk to me instead."

The fog rippled under his shining footsteps.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Does she see us? Does she see us? Does she see us?

Challenger let out a long breath, vapor steaming in the air in front of her face. The cyclops stare of her eye slowly swings back and forth as the bristling threads that made the ruff of her costume pull at the air with something more like touch than sight. The gigantic rifle slung on her back glints with ugly promise. Gregor is above me on the ladder, only a yard below her boots.

A discordant shriek sunders the still air.

I feel the pressure of my plumes extending under my drysuit, straining to protect me, and I squeeze Gregor's ankle as if to hold him close. It is only belatedly I realize the hero is whistling, her spine stretching as she waves the gigantic axe in the direction of the open sea.

As she continues her tune, she starts walking in place and puts her hand on her hip while swinging her axe arm back and forth. She snaps her free hand up into a salute, pivots to the left and starts striding off along the edge of the decking. Her heavy red boots clang on the dark metal grids as she goes.

We stay still for a minute, two minutes. She's passed out of my scan, and even the vibration of her footfalls can't be traced in the metal. I release my grip on Gregor's ankle.

He leans down and whispers, "What was that?"

"People do weird things when they think no one is watching," I answer, having been made an expert voyeur against my will. I consider driving home the point with one of the many secrets I know from days observing the Palanquin, but memories of my own pain silence me.

"Perhaps." He studies the top of the ladder, thinking. "We do not know for certain if your father is in the other prison leg if he is not here."

I swear under my breath; he is right. I set my jaw and reply as fiercely as I can, "No time to go down and across before you need to exit. I have to go big."

"I will stay as long as I can. We will solve this puzzle, Taylor," he says reassuringly. "Now where to?"

"There's a gap where the habitation block is attached, we can cross the decking while the external cameras are down and I can set up." I picture the spot in Faultline's carefully drawn up notes: between the welded blocks there is a long trench big enough for a slim person to hide in for days if they didn't mind being rained on.

He gives me an affirmative gesture, and points at the hatch. With surprising grace for his bulk and injury, he extrudes a little patch of foam to hold his body in place against the angled ladder, and then reaches out with a single finger through the gaps to touch the bolt barring the hatch from above. Acid seeps from his fingertip, and eats away at the metal. In a few moments he is done, and he gently pushes the hatch open. He creeps out onto the main decking and I follow, both crouching to reduce our profile, me ready to hide us at any point. Gregor eases the hatch back down after us.

The cameras up here are different; their focus on me feels wider, sunlamps rather than flashlights. Maybe they are wider angled to watch the aerial approaches rather than the stabbing downwards devices on the platform's underside. Either way no alarms are set off, and it seems as if no one but the hero is on the deck this late at night. Floodlights on the helipads and the access doors create bright pools of light, but deepen the dark fog around them.

I raise my hand and point, where the cube of the habitation block meets one of the slim towers. "There."

Gregor gestures for me to lead the way. I hesitate, then pick the most direct route, winding between the pools of light in the center of the decking. I walk slowly, languid enough to smear small footprints of my domain out from my rubber boots as I pass over the metal. Gregor follows, trusting me to keep watch ahead as he turns to eye the direction Challenger had gone in.

I pass over one of the metal decking plates, its close packed grating the same as all the others. This one isn't screwed properly at one end and it shakes slightly as I step off and on it.

Wait. No.

Gregor's foot comes down, so much heavier than mine, and the plate scrapes and moves with a squeal of metal on metal rippling into the night. It's quiet, the noise barely breaking the fog. It's deafening, we have revealed ourselves.

A moment passes, another. My heart stutters as I cast my scan back and forth. A device in Kid Win's room buzzes and flashes. I hear someone running towards us, a rattling of extending metal links.

"I'll go keep her on me. Good luck to you, Swallowtail." Gregor sounds calm, and gives me a reassuring smile as he reaches down to press the back of his arm into the decking panel that betrayed us. A mass of foam extrudes and the metal is stuck to his foreman as a makeshift shield, and he sets himself in a solid warding stance.

I realize I'm staring, and turn and run for the trench, still thirty or forty yards away. I position my scan on Gregor and strive to do everything I can to help. I break my domain in him into stripes, bands of fragmenting noise strippling against alternating absence, hopefully forming a confusing, unrecognizable monster of broken perception.

Challenger appears in my scan, moving fast. She's high in the air; she must have jumped. Her foot is outstretched, leading with a kick rather than the axe. Gregor picks it up in his peripheral vision, and I emphasize her in his eye to ensure he notices. He raises his makeshift shield and I feel acid fear in my throat as it sluggishly moves to intercept. She's yelling something, either a battlecry or a warning to the rest of the base. Things are happening slowly, prolonging my agony as I put one foot in front of the other.

He makes it, her foot hits the shield, the kinetic force bending and twisting the cartilaginous bones behind. But not breaking them. Challenger nimbly leaps back as Gregor rolls to the side. I trace that her eyes are tightly shut, and as she stands a quartet of grappling cables flick out from her side at her hand gesture, spinning round to sweep the space immediately in front of her with frenetic energy. Each one is autonomous, feeling for him through that strange sense. They both move in silence, not a yell or shout breaking the peace of the fog.

Gregor grabs a palmful of acid from his bare shoulder and tosses it forward, low to catch her legs and cables, avoiding going near her face. The axe twists in her palm, almost wrenching itself from her grip in an effort to block with a low sweep. Some of the acid gets through to strike her knee, and she growls in pain. Her cables start moving faster, her axe light as a feather in her hand. She lunges at him, lower this time with the axe between him and her body, cables spinning round for another sweep of the space.

I drop and scrape and roll on the deck, dropping down into the trench with bruising force, and lie still. Red strobing lights come on in every part of the superstructure, I hear the noise of external doors slamming shut. I try to control my breathing, and keep my mind with Gregor.

He has managed to duck under the cables' second pass, but is stumbling backwards as she swings them again and again. No, not stumbling, trying to draw her as he retreats to the edge of the platform. He misjudges a step, and the grapplers land and latch. Challenger is on him in under a second, pulling herself in even as the cables tear away his crude metal defense. She swings with the flat of her axehead into his side, finally forceful enough to make his ribs pop and distort, and ruptures in his flesh burst open. I wince in sympathy at his pain, another debt I can't repay.

He extrudes more foam from his exposed skin, spinning squishy fanciful shapes like extra arms as I add more madness to them. The new matter appearing from elsewhere in his stomach is beyond my domain, but I had touched enough of the in-transit material to help him this way.

Just like we'd drilled.

Challenger struggles with the fake arms, the woman's strength ripping them off Gregor but not freeing her own limbs. She's shouting into her mic, and the searchlights on the upper deck are repositioning their illumination. They're at the edge of the platform now, and Gregor sits and falls back like he's been scuba diving all his life. Challenger doesn't realize he's gone till she hears the splash.

She jumps after him as Gregor swims downwards, a cable anchoring her to swing underneath the platform in a long arc, her head pointing down. The underside lights bloom, their brightness pushing further through the fog. She stows her axe and tries to unlimber her giant rifle but the gunk is getting in the way. I position my scan on the sticky mess and grin internally at her snarls of frustration.

Gregor is heavier than the water and has to actively kick to stay just below the surface rather than sinking. He hadn't told me that, hadn't said how much risk this is for him, and I clench my jaw in frustration. I apply the same pattern of effects to our moored inflatable as I had to Gregor, and Challenger turns to lunge at it as Gregor kicks his legs vigorously, making for the gap in the forcefield.

She suspends herself on three cables slung between the Legs of the rig, a spider hanging high in an echoing foggy vault. She has her rifle out now, aimed at the inflatable. What would a hero do?

"Stand down," she barks, "there ain't no escape now."

Gregor is still going, I have to buy time. I change the pattern again and again, hoping to make it seem like roiling movement. Challenger squints her one eye in annoyance.

"Unknown parahuman, you have until the count of three to cease what you are doing and stand down. One."

Gregor is nearly at the forcefield, but he's slowing, he'll have to come up for air.

"Two."

I start the boat stuttering. I don't have any ideas. I'm useless in the end.

"Three."

Gregor's head pokes out above the water, he rolls and swims on his back, looking like an especially rotund seal. He's pushing black gunk out of every pore to insulate himself from the cold water.

"Fuck."

Challenger fires, giant rubber bullet slamming into the base of the craft. Seeing no apparent effect, she cocks her rifle upwards in agitation. She shifts it to one hand, and draws her axe in the other, and slowly, carefully starts to winch herself down to the small inflatable. When she's only a few yards away, I drop every effect on it, leaving the little orange dinghy floating and empty. Water dribbles in through the bullet hole in the base fabric.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck," Challenger speaks quickly, seemingly to some microphone. "Console, our stranger-brute gave me the slip. We need to put everything into lockdown, they're still around somewhere. Get Kid Win to look at those camera feeds, put highest protocols on the prison block, and have a crew come down to the bottom of Leg D to secure this evidence."

Murmurs in her ear. She rolls her eye in fury. She twirls her gigantic axe one-handed in seeming frustration; I can feel the nervous energy pouring off her.

"I'm going to stay here till the squad arrives in case they're playing dead. No, not physically stronger than me but definitely more than human, they fucking hurt to look at and can create decoys with the same effect. No injuries for me."

Gregor is out on the open water, the churn of his paddling a sacrilege in the stillness of Elle's garden. The camera's are still blind, and the fog keeps him from Challenger's pacing sight. I should be keeping my scan on the protectorate hero, on Kid Win, but I watch Gregor until he's safe. Rodrgieuz hauls him out of the water and Elle leaves her dreams to plaster Skeeter's healing blood into the open wounds. The boatman slowly brings his craft around, and the four of them putter gently back into the night.

Leaving me alone.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I chew on my second protein bar as the first notes of the dawn touch the fog.

I hadn't slept, as the Rig swarmed with activity into the early hours. Officers with guns pacing to and fro, technicians fiddling with the injured cameras, Challenger jumping from place to place and shouting. The stench of stagnant water pooling on steel fills my nostils as I huddle in my little metal trench.

Everyone is looking for me.

The stress bore down like an upturned mountain, piercing me under its peak. The pressure pushes my plumes out and out and out, filling the space my hiding place with a cocoon of crystal fronds. I give in to my self destructive urges, and filter some of my fear away. With it I got the job done; my domain now threads the Rig like veins of mold through blue cheese, quicker than I ever imagined. This structure is mine.

I find my dad; our information had been wrong. They were keeping him in the brute cells after all, merely four floors above Lung's cell, as if he is just as monstrous. A huge garrison of twenty PRT officers guards them both, the most heavily fortified part of the entire PHQ. I don't know what I am going to do, I just know I have to do it now.

Kid Win had worked through the night to track and purge our purchased tinker virus from the camera systems, and in just a few minutes he and the systems admin were going to reboot the system. But I am already there, my domain curdling around the camera control unit like a strangling root; when they try to turn it back on again, they'll find its eyes plucked from their sockets, no information entering the box while I had any say. I grin inwardly at the image; the amazing Swallowtail, pathetically crowing her victory over a simple machine.

I may be pushing too hard. I may not be thinking straight.

A boy's hand in a red and gold glove hovers above a button. Descends. I force a hundred artificial eyes to close, never to reopen. It's time.

I slip from my hiding place, packing up my gear and empty wrappers, and tying my plumes tightly around me like strings of feather boas. I mantle myself with my crude invisibility of absence, though it's almost unnecessary; I can feel every person moving through the structure, and what they are looking at. I can simply step where their eyes are not, a poem written in negative space. This place is built for my lies, stiff walls hiding precipitous drops and cold waters, bulkheads locking rooms into isolation and quiet, it creaks and sways and one more strangeness is unseen against the background.

Cross the decking, down the side stairs, into the main corridor via the door left open for ventilation, clockwise round, duck behind the water cooler as the two armed guards pass, continue, and reach the entry to the prison block. The guards there are vigilant, their gaze active, sweeping back and forth across the access hallway. This isn't like dodging a distracted passerby in the street, these are trained and experienced professionals, the risk that they'll notice the hole my concealed body leaves in their perceptions is dangerously high.

I wait, tapping my fingers against the wall.

One of them turns to look at a computer mounted on the wall, and other two guards aren't looking at the floor. I go, taking a risk, and lie down and roll across. Their gaze passes over me, I need to conceal only the muted heat of their peripheral vision. I'm behind them now, and sit by the elevator doors for long minutes more. Eventually two more guards go in to patrol, I slip in while they press the buttons and edge round them as they turn, take more and more risks, step out as they get off at Riot's floor, crouch behind a bulkhead until they've done their checks and left.

I'm less than five yards from my dad. I can trace him sleeping fitfully in the thin prison bed. A thick metal collar is bound to his neck, full of the dense blackness of tinkertech and vessels of liquid. His glass are on the shelf, and one of the lenses is cracked. It hadn't been at the Docks; guilt rises in my gorge and I try to push it down. I step out into the wide corridor between the two cells, and touch my hand to the door. The glass is some composite, inches thick, and the metal is even thicker and reinforced. The lock seems impregnable, components both mechanical and electronic.

I'd not been sure what I was going to do when I reached this point, but I know I can't get him out of this cell. I press my hand against the glass and silently quake at the futility of it all. All my power and I can't deal with a single locked door, a solitary physical barrier. I wish Gregor were here to help. My eyes grow wet.

I am pathetic. I dampen every sound, my domain here thick enough to hide my shame.

The man on the bed sits up, then bounds to his feet, his face full of confusion. He grabs his glasses and scrambles to put them on his face, then his head cocks slightly, listening to something, then my dad smiles at the invisible me, and my worst thoughts melt under the memories of reassurance. His face has a bright look I haven't seen in so long, I'd almost forgotten it. A father's pride.

"Hello Taylor."

His gaze feels cool as it falls on me, soothing.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Author's Notes:

• Two dad's chat dad stuff.
• Dauntless interestingly enough has a power set that could differ even in minor AU's if he tries empowering different things. In this case more of the big brain helmet stuff from Ward, at the expense of the shield.
• One of the fun things about Stranger stories is you can show all the little things people do that your protagonist usually wouldn't see.
• Thanks so much to Juff for the beta read.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

For a moment after Danny Hebert awoke, he mistook the steel wall abuting the single bed for another person, long gone but never forgotten. It was a confusion that had taken hold every morning he'd been in the Protectorate's floating prison, and maybe marked that he was losing his mind. Or maybe it was his mind seeking the normalcy of times long gone; he'd always preferred going to bed early to rise early, and the slow unwinding from months of late nights had brought back memories. He clenched his teeth in anger, then put the rage away. It did not rule him.

He pictured Annette, and his power reached out; found nothing. The emptiness was personal, sucking like the socket of a missing tooth.

He pictured Taylor, and his power reached out; connection made, she was near, no, she was here. Would you like to do more? The insidious potential in his mind asked, pressed a loaded gun in his hand and invited him to push all that rage and frustration down that connection and out into the world, uncaring of those it might hurt.

No, never, he thought as he leapt to his feet and scrambled for his glasses. He wanted to hug her, hold her, tell her everything would be okay. Never that.

His eyes slid up and down the empty corridor; it seemed like nothing was there, but his power had never been wrong before. She'd found him. It filled him with a sort of pride.

"Hello Taylor," he said, happy emotions spilling out to show on his face, "I'm glad you're here."

"Dad?" a small soft sound came back. Weeks of nightmare and pain sloughed away, before the tide turned and worry swept back in.

"Your old Dad's in a bit of a pickle, isn't he?" He reached out and put his hand to the window of the cell door. Suddenly she was there, hand held up and separated from his by inches of glass. Dressed like a diver in a loose dark blue drysuit, she stood taller and straighter than he remembered. Gaunt though, was she eating enough? Most of her face was hidden behind a simple cloth mask and goggles, but he would never mistake the mass of curly black hair for anyone else. Something was wrapped around her, fronds flickering in and out of visibility, leaving gaps in his sight that opened and closed.

"You're a cape," he said stupidly.

'Yeah," she replied.

He felt the anger build up inside of him, no target this time but himself. What sort of failure of a father did you have to be, for your daughter to have a day so bad it broke her?

"I'm so sorry, Taylor."

"It's not your fault," she replied slowly. A light flashed on his metal collar as his emotions rose, and Danny forced himself to calm.

"Are you okay?"

"No." With her free hand she dismissively gestured, encompassing the cell, her power, the world. They both snorted in response.

"At least we can be honest with each other. I, uh, I don't know if this little jailer is recording what I say." He brought his arm up to touch the collar, and a red light flashed in irritation.

"It's not, the only sensor not pointed at your brain is touch based."

"How do you know?"

"Powers shit," came the reply, caked in teenage abstruseness.

"Can't argue with that," he said, knowing acutely how that was. He picked his next words carefully: "When you didn't come home that night in March. I feared the worst. I tried to use my powers to find you; I knew you weren't dead but you kept slipping away, like I could not focus. Was it… was it that night?"

She slumped and became harder to see, his eyes watered as he squinted to remain focused. After a moment she pulled herself together and became more coherent.

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry."

"It was the bullies— Wait, do you know about the website?"

"I knew what those bastards made you go through. I spoke to the school three times, even tried to get my friend at the police involved. Stonewalled at every turn." The excuses sounded weak even as he made them; he should have kept trying, worked through the fear of accidentally using his power on that empty suit of a Principal.

"You did? Why didn't you say?" Her voice sounded very small.

He sighed deeply in remembered weariness. "Last year, the days I was home before you. You'd come in and close the front door and it'd be like a weight was taken off. You'd straighten your neck up, go make yourself a sandwich. I guess I didn't want to bring that weight into the house until you asked me too. I thought— I thought I'd try to solve things behind the scenes."

It was a while before she nodded her head. He wondered why she was keeping the cloth mask on, but didn't want to press.

"The bullies— Emma and Madison," she said, and his power reached out snarling, but did not find either of their faces, "they got some of their thugs to duct tape me in an alley. I couldn't see."

His jaw ached. "No one deserves to go through that alone. I wish I could have been there for you."

"When did you trigger, Dad?" she interrupted.

Despite expecting the words, they lanced through his heart. He thought about that day; the day he'd seen a hundred pictures of his little girl suffering, the day he'd found out that smug monster Anders had blacklisted the union everywhere for refusing to bend on the terms of the renovation project. The spiral of loss he'd fallen into, the urge to punch and punch and punch and rip and tear at that distant bastard's face, every cruel person who'd hurt him and his family.

The waking up to find it had somehow been terribly real. The yawning abyss of fear that people had died because of something he'd thought. The lie to himself that he'd never use it again, never touch a speck of alcohol or something that'd make him lose control.

"It wasn't like yours; all in my head, not a physical moment—" He paused. He couldn't put any of this responsibility on her, couldn't even let the possibility of it worm into his child's mind. "The union had stood up for itself, and lost. Everything was going to come crumbling down. I didn't think I had anyone to turn to. It's not funny, but I'd been worse, after your mother- This was just the straw that broke the camel's back."

"The union?"

"Yes," he lied.

"Ah."

"I'm not a good man, kid. I bottled it up until it burnt a hole in my belly."

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Why'd you go after Kaiser?"

"The guy pressuring the Union was named Max Anders." She tilted her head to the side at the name. "CEO of Medhall. When I triggered, my rage… found him, only it turns out the bastard was Kaiser."

"Medhall?"

"Yes, the goddamn pharmaceutical bluechip. The PRT must know, but they kept it quiet like they do everything else about parahumans; don't want to panic the people of the city to know the head of the Empire met with the mayor for business lunch." He turned away from the glass, rubbing his thinning scalp in frustration, remembering old justifications. "That's why I didn't go to the heroes when I found out I had powers. I don't know who was calling those shots, or why. I didn't know if they put keeping those secrets above keeping my family safe."

"We're not safe now," she observed wryly, taking her hand away from the glass to twist her fingers in her hair just like Annette did.

"No. I don't think anyone named Hebert will ever be safe in this town again. And that's all my fault. But still, watch out for Medhall." He braced himself to ask the most important question. "Do you have a place where you're safe?"

She stepped to the side, whatever material she was wrapped in silent as she moved. "I've got an employer. They look out for me, give me a place even if it's not safe sometimes. I think I have friends there."

"I'm glad. Did you get this job quickly, where did you stay in between? I kept feeling glimpses of you near the docks, did anyone— did anyone hurt you?"

"Why did you fight Lung, Dad?" she interrupted again.

The question hurt. The why of why he'd torn up the city seemed so stupid now with Taylor safe in front of him. A tantrum to regret every day of his life, like that one final loss of temper with Annette. And just like that prior rage, Taylor had been exposed to the edges of the fury. It shamed him. He looked back on the man who'd postured to the gang lord's face in that dank pub and felt only disgust.

"I believed someone when I shouldn't have. I trusted a bad lie because it offered me direction; it offered a dangerous hope."

"Dad?"

Danny gave a sigh that made him feel a hundred years old, and a foot tall. "When I went over to the Barneses, after I found your journal. She told me you were on drugs, that Lung's dealers at Winslow had taken an interest in you."

"She?" There was venom in Taylor's voice. His eyes couldn't find his daughter for a moment, just a twisted stitching of the corridor's lines before she reappeared. He could feel his power reaching out, trying to find that target he could picture from a hundred better days. Bile rumbled in his stomach that a girl Annette had considered another daughter could spit on all that past.

"Emma."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I study my dad as I consider what he'd said. He is still my dad, and the heartbeat and movement of his face lends sincerity to his gladness, but he is also different somehow. He has an uprightness to him, a subtle confidence that what he is doing and saying is impactful.

The attitude of a cape.

I wonder if he'd had this all those months at home and I'd simply missed it with my previous myopia, or if he'd gained it in those weeks of battling Lung, when he'd been changing the city. I can trace it when I try hard enough; subtle pulses of that horrific majesty when his power presses, a fishing line of temptation dipping into his brain. It's strongest when he's angry with someone, and when he says that name it shakes so hard that something in that tinkertech collar spins up and pays attention.

"Emma," I reply. "She's said worse things about me every day of school for one and a half years. It doesn't hurt when she says those things any more, it hurts when people believe it."

When people see it.

I trace the tightness of his jaw, see the tears in his eyes. I remember the need when I couldn't find him, the desperateness of it all. I pull up the memories of him into the light, reconnect them in the sharp puzzle of my mind. I leave the memories of Emma in the darkness, held down to a bare abstraction. As Newter says, better a new memory of this reunion than the taint of something broken.

"Let's not talk about her. I'm glad you didn't die looking for me, Dad. I think I forgive you." I don't bring up the alley, don't bring up the hospital, it's not the right time for my guilt. I focus on the now, the present without past or future, and am grateful my father is here. He smiles at me for a warm moment, his green eyes big behind his cracked glasses.

He breaks into a grin, "So tell me about your new friends!"

"Uh, they're a mix of ages. Elle's really sweet but not all there, N—Nate thinks he's funnier than he is but he's got a good energy, Simon and I talk philosophy sometimes. There's Gregor too; he's older, but really helps me out. I owe him a lot."

Dad has a glassy look, then recovers. "Ah, Faultline's people? The mercenaries?"

Oh, he knows.

"It's a job." I try to wave it off. "I fit there."

"I guess I'm in no position to throw stones. But if you ever feel you need to go somewhere else, Kurt and Lacey were involved in my early work, but I set them loose when we went for Lung for their safety. They should escape any heat. They will be there for you, I promise. Actually, do you have a notepad?"

Of course I do; I pull it out of the gear bag and hold it up.

"Good." He rattles off a string of numbers, and two passwords. "That's my account with the Number Man, it should have nineteen thousand dollars in it. I put most of Riot's proceeds to helping the dockworkers, but kept some back for a rainy day."

"Dad?" I'm startled by the calm professional demeanor speaking about criminality; it almost matches Mel's casualness.

"I was never a big wheel down on the docks, but you can't spend decades working near import/export and not pick up a thing or two. I already knew the names to ask for, when we started fencing what we took from the dealers."

I feel a pang of loss that I'd never seen this side of Dad before. I look at him through my goggles, and press my hand against the glass again. After a moment, he puts his hand back against mine. I feel the power slither in him, heavy machinery reaching out to me, a terrible presence checking I am there, I am real. I try not to be scared. I get what a wilful power can do, how you can merely feel like a co-pilot straining at the controls.

"So what's your plan now?" he asks, breaking my reverie.

I tap the knuckles of my other hand on the glass, a deep tone resonating. "It's going to be tough to get you out of here. I'll need to take out the guards when they come somehow, and no one's budging now they've realized the cameras are all down."

"No."

The word is heavy, and I hear my heart pounding in my ears.

"No what, Dad?"

"I should stay here. I should go to prison. It'll be safer for you." He sounds tired but certain.

"What? No one comes back from the Icebox unless they're found innocent." He caused those deaths at the Tomb just like I did at the Hospital, I'll never see him again.

"I might not end up there. Dauntless told me if this thing proves itself to the judge"—he taps the metal collar—"I'll just be in a supermax. You'll be able to write to me, maybe even visit once you're a legal adult."

"You believe him?" I'd only met the shining hero once, and the memories of his scalpel gaze are enough to make my plumes extend another few inches.

"He hates me, kid, with good reason. He wouldn't be optimistic with my chances. The PRT aren't evil people, Taylor, they're just bad with secrets, in both directions. They're not going to end me."

I don't have a reply to that, trying to make the idea fit within my experiences. I slowly articulate a thought.

"Would it help you, if I was there? Civilian me, I mean. A character witness? Or just— just making you relatable." The idea of being in public, in court, in front of journalists and TV cameras, is horrific, sets me quaking at even the idea. But I'll do it for my dad. Be there for him, leave the Crew. I think. I don't want to lose any more family.

My dad shakes his head, and I trust him enough to respect his choice. It's a long pause before he speaks again. "is Faultline good to you? Good to her people?"

"She's pretty fierce about it."

"I'm glad you have someone who can help, as long as she doesn't make you compromise your morals. Get her to get you a new identity, get a new life for yourself, Taylor. Don't be dragged down by what I've done. You're going to do great things even without me, I am one hundred percent certain of that."

This time it's my eyes which start to water. "I'll try and make you proud, Dad."

"I already am. Neither I nor your mom taught you how to break into a paramilitary base, but here you are. I love you, Taylor." He chuckles sadly, then thinks for a moment, one more thing to say, "Oh and finish school and go to college, or your mother's going to kick my ass all the way from heaven."

I laugh at the bad joke, the first true happiness that's left my throat in years. We talk on for a while; of Mom, of his friends, of recipes, of senses normal humanity never gets to feel. In the end I'm sitting with my back to the cell door, listening to his voice as he speaks.

Eventually I feel the elevator start to move, guards carrying the prisoners' breakfasts. I trace them feeding the groggy Lung through his constant showers of freezing water, and start to believe that my dad might be right. His cell is civilized in comparison; he might not share Lung's fate. They wouldn't let him out, but they might let him live a life of sorts.

I tap on the glass, and hold a finger to my lips to indicate silence. I peel back the mask and give my Dad a wide smile, nothing about it made safe, nothing hidden. Then I vanish into a corner as the elevator doors open.

I don't say goodbye. I will see him again.

It's the same guards as I followed down, still awake from the night's emergencies, and their tiredness and my practice makes it even easier to hide behind them, and shuffle out past the other men at the gate. It's later in the morning and the PHQ is busier as the morning shift starts getting work done. It's never silent in the main part of the floating platform, the metal carrying footfalls and movement far beyond what would be normal. Luckily my destination is close and the cameras across the rig are still blotted out by my power. I slip my way to the storage room beneath the hab block, where consumables and waste are loaded and unloaded.

I find my target, the company logo recognisable from the documents taken from our informant. The large hopper is three times my size and full of cardboard and loose paper. I text Mel the passcode and dig out a space big enough to hide in. While talking to my dad my plumes relaxed and pulled inwards, now barely a hand-width frill on my lower spine. I wriggle into the space I made feet first, holding the rubber tube that'll be a snorkel in my mouth and pull the recycling waste on top of me.

I'm too emotionally exhausted to check if they have changed the pick up times, or added any procedures to check the outgoing material. I just have to hope it'll turn out as planned.

Too exhausted to stay awake.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

A regal presence sits on the floor, uncountable hooked fingers dancing on my mother's silver flute—

Heat spills out into the sky, as I shiver beneath the stars—

My skin feels raw as I wake, my throat parched and dry. Wearing a two day old drysuit and crawling into paper waste is not good for you. The hopper jostles me again; it's in a truck that's just rounded a corner. My scan traces the buildings as we go past; not enough brick for the Docks, or smart enough for Downtown. We're probably heading for some industrial site out near the I95.

I squirm around in the container, but can't get the lid open as it's too close to the roof of the truck. Not needing light to perceive things is a godsend, as I'm able to open my gear bag and fetch a little water pouch to sooth my crackled mouth. I have to hope either opportunity to escape presents itself when we arrive, or that Faultline will come retrieve her investment. It's been long enough my domain's hold on the Crew has evaporated, and not knowing where they are fills me with surprising anxiety.

I pass my time by casting my scan back to the PHQ, still wormed with threads of my power. Kid Win is sleeping in his bunk, and it seems like he's been crying. Challenger is sitting on top of one of the spire towers like a cat on a lamppost, angrily staring at the facility below as she speaks into her earpiece. A squad of technicians have unmounted the camera control system from its casing and are pointing and talking.

Ah.

I don't want someone to come for Lung when their defenses are down, so I restore the sight to the control unit. A hundred monitors throughout the room buzz into sudden life. One of the technicians falls over in shock. I find it pretty funny.

Finally I send the spotlight of my scan down into the prison Leg, and hold my dad in my comprehension. He's lying back on the steel-framed bed, staring up at the ceiling with a smile on his face. I'm happy to just consider his face for a time, knowing that it's just difficult to speak to him, not the impossibility of speaking with the dead. Slowly my anxiety melts away.

It's nearly lunchtime when three men exit the elevator outside my dad's cell. Two guards holding heavy tasers, and a man in a lab coat pushing a trolley full of equipment. The man in the lab coat is masked and wears thick eye protectors, his face harder to see than most capes. Luckily I don't need to see things, and trace the man's face; late thirties, aristocratic features let down by a weak chin, excellent teeth via extensive dental work.

The man opens the cell's door and speaks to Dad, his voice deep and professional. "Hello, Mr Hebert. I'd rather not give you my name, but I consult with the PRT on their anesthesiology. I'm here to check your central line, and the fluids in the collar. If you could stand up and remove your shirt then hold your arms out straight to the side."

The two guards hold their weapons nervously as a scowl crosses my dad's face. One of them whispers to the man in the labcoat, "Use the cape name, Doc, for pete's sake," but the doctor waves him away.

My dad does as he is requested, unveiling his boney chest and stringy arms, the thick plastic tube going from the collar to a shunt in his upper arm. I send my trace after the doctor's hands as he fiddles with the metal device; it's obvious that only the sensor is tinkertech, Armmaster's work forming tiny cylinders of density and interfolding complexity. The rest of the device is the motor and plastic tubing found in any hospital equipment, terminating in three small plastic containers of fluid.

The anesthesiologist replaces the plastic tubes, each smaller than my little finger, with fresh ones from the cart, prodding my dad with questions of his mental state as he works. Dad answers all the queries without complaint.

When he goes to change the last reservoir, it's so deft even my omniscient senses nearly miss it. His right hand picks up the plastic flask from the table, smoothly bringing it past his pocket, drops it in, and a nigh identical flask he'd palmed from his pocket earlier slips into his fingers. He hooks the substitute in and closes up the collar, screwing things back into place.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Hebert. If you're still held here next week, I'll see you then." His amiable tone remains unflappable.

He wheels the cart out of the cell, and my dad frowns and goes back to lying down.

The truck has stopped at the recycling center, parking in a concrete yard too far from anything for my scan to reach as I shift it back. I strain to interpret what I've just experienced; my dad seems fine, much the same as before, the tinkertech of his collar quiescent. I don't know enough about medical technology to be able to tell what the tubes and containers do, and when I spend the effort to interpret their labels I find cryptic numbers rather than names. What had been done to him, I anxiously thought, what was in that substituted reservoir? Poison? A dud? What?

I pull myself out of my fearful reverie; two figures are dashing up to the back of the van, moving faster than a human should be able to. One tall and lanky, one with trim muscles and a tail.

I sigh in relief. Nearly home.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Author Notes:

• Hebert reunions: forgiveness but still not honesty on either side!
• Sometimes the most petty things can kickstart the plot. Poor Taylor just can't control how people see her.
• Thanks to Juff for the beta read.

 

[roots lord]

Damn, that's a good scene. The father refusing to let his crimes imped his daughter, lying to set her free.

And then he get killed. Or maybe not.


I like your lowkey use of the plums to show Taylor state of mind. Reading about non-human emotional tells is fun.

And a last compliment to finish: your worldbuilding is top notch. It's well developed but more importantly you give it at a really nice pace, letting it explain the story without obstructing the plot or thematic.

 

[SensibleMalarkey]

Welp, this chapter broke my patience and I jumped to SB to read ahead.

I actually wasn't sure if I liked Swallowtail initially, but it's turned out to be such a satisfying and methodical slow burn. So goooooood!

 

[NotDis]

I like your lowkey use of the plums to show Taylor state of mind. Reading about non-human emotional tells is fun.

Click to shrink...

I really loved canon worms use of the bug swarm as another 'descriptive channel' into Taylor mental state; emoting with a power just feels so cool to write. A lot of altpowers just have her be more outwardly emotional instead and that kind of feels a little off to me.

but it's turned out to be such a satisfying and methodical slow burn

Click to shrink...

I'm so glad you stuck with it! Sorry the SB is only like 4 chapters ahead at this point lol.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

This was ending up much less entertaining than Sophia had hoped; Armsmaster was being all reasonable and supportive, rather than tearing Kid Win a new one.

"I asked Dragon to check the logs, and even she was stumped by the secondary intrusion," the exasperated voice from the monitor said clearly as the visored logo pulsed in the center of the screen. The absence of background sound on the line made Sophia's honed instincts think it was from inside his helmet. "Geez, Kid, no one thinks less of you for missing it when you rebooted the system. We will be re-evaluating Epeios' threat rating if he can create something like this, and watching his activities closely. Selling such dangerous software to outright villains is beyond the pale."

Kid Win was in his suit, so he didn't do anything so obvious as slumping, but Sophia could hear the exhalation as he let out his relief. She also heard a little chuckle from the final occupant of the Ward's ready room, but pointedly ignored the blonde girl.

The voice from the screen continued, "This attack shows keeping either of the prisoners here is inordinately dangerous. We are too close to their centers of support, and we are accelerating the time scale of sending them to separate secure facilities elsewhere in the continental United States."

It made sense to Sophia, and she'd be glad to see both Lung and Riot leave the city, even if their going while upright was disappointing. She raised a question, trying to fulfill one of Seccy's points on maintaining presence but not quite keeping the boredom out of her voice: "When?"

"Today."

"Really? But you're not—" Kid Win seemed surprised. The decisiveness was a surprise to Sophia too, but she made sure not to show it.

"I am on route and will arrive as the operation commences. The seriousness of the situation after the attack has seen resources opened up to us. We have two hours this afternoon where Legend has cleared his schedule."

"Dang, hope we get to see the fireworks," Sophia muttered under her breath, imagining rainbow beams tearing Oni Lee to shreds, before she spoke more loudly, "This would be on need to know; we're being told 'coz you want us to do something."

"Correct, Shadow Stalker. We need something that will draw attention away from the two convoys, so you three are going to manage a public test of Raindrop's armor. Kid Win, you take the lead; we need several hours of flight time and a stop on the Boardwalk. Someone from PR will walk you through the latter. Stalker, you keep Raindrop on the straight and narrow. Questions?"

"No."

"Nah."

"No Sir." Kid Win and Sophia both slightly turned to side-eye the self proclaimed ex-Nazi for her formal answer. She continued flatly, "I look forward to praising the virtues of the PRT for taking me in after I became a Tinker."

"Good." The speaker clicked sharply as Armsmaster shut the connection.

"Uh so— Raindrop?" Kid Win ventured. Sophia scoffed audibly.

"It's what PR came up with thanks to your design. The other options they shat out were worse. Least this one I don't have to change my initial despite it being fucking cutesy." Rune— Raindrop's face sneered in disgust beneath her standard issue domino mask. In comparison to the two older wards in their full uniforms, she was lounging in a long sleeved black top and matching black jeans, blonde hair tied up tightly in a crown braid.

"Not a fan of what we built?" Kid Win asked.

"It looks fucking stupid. Jap cartoon shit," Raindrop said dismissively.

"Yeah, and a hunk of rock and klan robes is so stylish. Join the real world, Raindrop," he retorted, a harshness to his voice. Nice, thought Sophia. She'd been thinking a lot more positively of Chris since seeing the logs of the battle with Lung and how the adult heroes responded to him after the incident on the PHQ. He had the right stuff; might not make the shot, but he'd take the shot when it counted.

That reminded her, and she walked over and punched Raindrop in the upper arm. Hard. Angry memories of a thousand yelling skinheads lent her strength.

The blonde spluttered in outrage, seeming to want to use a word but swallowing it, "fucking bitch—"

"Don't use slurs," Sophia mocked. "You heard Armsie, I'm in charge of making sure you behave. You say you put all this behind you, want to make amends? Prove it."

"He didn't mean like that."

"Yeah Stalker—" Sophia cut Kid Win off with a wave.

"Would you rather I fill in an incident form? Get this written up with Piggot, take hours from your life at your end of month review? You're off to San Diego soon, you think Alexandria is going to take your shit?" Sophia bluffed, she had seen the badass head of the LA Protectorate precisely once during her months at the training camp, and they hadn't spoken.

Raindrop sighed. "Fuck. You hit as hard as Hookwolf."

Sophia smiled under her mask. There was a moment of bruised silence before Kid Win added direction. "Uh, so, Raindrop, if you get your flight suit and helmet on, and join us up on the roof hanger, I'll get the armor prepped and brief Stalker."

"Fiiiiine," the girl replied, more teenager than hardened villain this time as she left.

Kid Win collected two heavy hard cases and they took the elevator in silence, something she didn't mind a bit. They emerged on the PRT-HQ roof beneath the cloudy morning sky, and strolled over to the low cylinder of the hanger by the helipad. Inside, illuminated by spotlights, stood his and Chariot's latest creation.

Sophia let out a low whistle. "Looks cool as shit."

It was similar enough that you knew they were related, a family of designs, but if Armsmaster and and Chariot were sleek chargers, and Kid's armor a burly tank, this was a soaring hawk. The armor itself was thicker on the legs and hips, slightly feminine, but still heavily protective on the upper body. The helmet was missing, giving the thing an eerie look. A huge back plate extended into wide arcs of curving metal paneling that evoked wings; two big ones sweeping forward to surround the pilot. In its rest state the front wings and the wedge of the backplate rested on the ground to support the suit, but she could tell how they'd lift and stretch in the air. She could also see how there were three sets of footholds and anchors for people to ride protected on the back, and how there were dozens of cylinders attached to the inside of the front wings, within arms reach of the pilot. It gleamed in the lights, each metal piece colored in a gradient from cirrus white at the top to robin's egg blue at the bottom, with highlights and connectors highlighted in candy apple red. A regal monarch of the skies.

"Didn't know you were a fan of engineering." Kid Win sounded genuinely surprised at her approval.

"A good weapon's a good weapon."

"Don't let PR hear you say that, this is all safe."

"Yeah?"

"All the missiles are containment foam grenades with little peroxide boosters, no more dangerous than a normal squad's arms. Though with Rune— Raindrop's power boosting them they can hit pretty hard, round corners even."

"Sweet," Sophia said with approval, "as fun as up close is, sometimes you need to smash the perp from the next zip code. Like your big laser gun with Lung."

"Laser?— ah don't remind me, Piggot's still threatening to dock my pay over it."

"What? It all went fine, you hit dead on target. It was a sweet shot."

"I forgot to mention what the exhaust from the heat sink would do to the sidewalk behind me." He blew a raspberry that deflated comically.

Sophia couldn't help but laugh. "So you put all this work in for the Nazi bitch, when are the rest of us getting toys?"

Kid Win looked a little uncomfortable. "This is for all the Wards, they say, lets us be out in the city more if they're sure we have ways to escape trouble. Once she gets back from San Diego, she'll be good right? The funds come from PR, and practically it's barely any tinkertech — her power does all the heavy lifting, the wings are just dumb metal. Some old servos for the body armor and a bunch of burnt out chips I repurposed for the guidance system is all my tinkering. Trevor worked out the aerodynamics, Armsmaster did the helmet, and we were done easily. Not much time spent at all."

He paused, staring at Raindrop's armor for a while before continuing, "It does suck to put effort in on her when Clock and Vista and you get nothing."

"Getting pretty real there, nerd." She tried to break him out of his boring musings.

"I've got a lot of spare pieces in the lab now, if you've got a free weekend we could work out something quick and easy."

"Don't call me easy."

"What?"

Sophia rolled her eyes, obscured by her face mask. Nerds. She had come to appreciate good tools though; Second Chance parceled them out and took them back whenever it suited him. It all served the plan, but she'd like something that was hers, beyond the crossbow or facemask.

"Okay, we'll work it out some time. But you need to get a clue or three, Kid."

Kid Win gave a melodramatic sigh. "Yeah, I think that a lot lately."

Sophia grunted, the other Ward taking it as a question.

"The PHQ computer system, and even before that I felt I was missing something the day before, something important.'

"You should trust your instincts," Sophia said seriously, "like the animal brain thing, it knows what's up and shit. More than the stupid talky bits in your head."

"I dunno. Riot… it's messed up. He seems so normal. Regular guy working the docks, plunges the city into chaos when his daughter goes missing."

Sophia frowned. "I knew her, you know."

"Who?"

"Riot's daughter, we were at Winslow together. Didn't really know know her but my friend used to be tight with her." Seccy'd said it was better to get ahead of the story rather than deny everything. Piggot had asked those questions about the bullying reports, but they were all dated long before she became a Ward. It wasn't like she'd done much of anything anyway.

"Really?"

"Yeah. She was a moody bitch, moping round the halls, never reacting to anything. I— I may have been pretty mean to her."

"You? Mean?" Kid Win replied sarcastically, as he started fiddling with the back of Raindrop's armor.

"Fuck off, I was just trying to get a rise out her, a spark, some fire you know. Annoys me when people don't try. But I get it now, if there was a master-type like Riot at home, nothing we'd do at school would compare. Shit slides off a shit pile." She hesitated a second, words caught in her throat, "Tough to run from the monster in your own house, in your own head, when you're just a stupid kid."

"I guess?"

"You can always run." A new voice joins them, as Raindrop steps into the hangar wearing the light blue thick bodysuit the tinkers wore under their armor. She'd swapped her small mask for the flight helmet of the suit in all its bright red glory, but had opened the mouth piece to speak clearly. "'Course you got to make sure to not run somewhere stupid."

"Like you did?" Sophia shot back.

Raindrop shrugged in reply. "Mistakes come easy in the Bay, how long you got left in your probation, Stalker?"

The girl was being antagonistic despite all the warnings, but Sophia could tell there was a weakness under it, a lack of surety. She wanted to punch her, but two remembered voices whispered now wasn't the right time. She pictured Krieg's last moments, how she'd changed the city, and centered herself. Raindrop was a tool, and she'd use her.

"A tenth of yours, and they still let me do shit. I was already a hero, I just needed polishing. You've got a whole heap of Empire still to grind off."

Raindrop rolled her head; impressive she'd learned to emote in the helmet already. "Whatever."

"Just get in the suit please." Kid Win sounded resigned.

The armor popped off the backplate and Raindrop wriggled to pull on the pieces; as Kid Win had said earlier only the legs had servos and needed double checking. Looking carefully Sophia could see the palms of the gloves were very thin, and the fingertips exposed. He had her stretch and twist while staring at a laptop for ten minutes until he was satisfied. Sophia approved of showing the nazi who's boss, but she'd rather he didn't waste her time to do it.

Finally they were done, and Raindrop backed her armor into her wings with an audible clunk. She immediately set to stroking strange sigils on the interior of the forward wings with her outstretched fingers. The whole assembly quivered and shook like an engine was starting up, and the wings rose to hover an inch off the helipad.

Kid Win tossed Sophia a pair of doubled carabiners. "These should work with your costume's hooks. I guess take the middle slot for balance?" The uncertainty didn't suit him.

As Sophia climbed on to the foot holds on Raindrop's backplate and anchored herself in place she could hear grumbling from the bitch over the shared channel.

"Always got to be the damn bus for idiots."

"Yeah, heard you gave a lot of rides," Sophia quipped with a smirk.

"Ew, fucking gross."

"Can the shit. Lets get moving." She tried to put some of Second Chance's smoothness into her voice, to show she was above all the girl's comebacks, that even the memory of the Empire wasn't something she feared.

Raindrop picked up on something nonetheless. "Big bad Shadow Stalker not afraid I'm going to drop you from a mile up?"

"Bitch please, I fall with style," she replied, full of bravado. She'd jumped off buildings in her phased state; falling from what effectively was a helicopter should be easy. "And if you try something like that and I don't get you, Kid Win will crisp you with his laser cannon."

"It's not— It's not a laser. And I wouldn't," the boy answered, still bent over the laptop.

"Won't is not can't," she shot back. Didn't he understand the Nazi had to be afraid? They needed to fear doing wrong until it became a habit, needed to fear the force of the good guys. You can't let what they say pass as normal.

He hummed noncommittally. Not an outright denial, which was something she could work with; have one of the pair be verbal and the other imply physical threat. Just like how Emma and herself used to roll in Winslow, actually.

"Yeah yeah," Raindrop brushed them off, "don't know why you think you'll be more scary than actual villains. First week I saw Hookwolf crush a man's head like a grape and laugh, and that was before he went and got himself Butchered."

Her voice trembled just a bit as she talked. "Compared to that you all are just puppies pissing on my foot. Downright adorable."

"Really that bad?" Kid Win hesitantly asked.

"I'll be straight with you; the brainwashed murder hausfrau was the nicest out of them. Fog was alright too, and Crusader wouldn't hurt me, but there's no one else I'd ever turn my back on—"

"Nazis are bad people, breaking news. Ding dong they're dead now," Sophia interrupted.

"Yeah, you need to get distance to get how bad something was, how even goddamn praise was rotten, trying to control you."

Sophia, let a mote of sympathy flicker into existence and then fade. Lots of people in Brockton Bay suffered under the Empire, what made Raindrop special? The girl had joined up. She held herself from voicing it, choosing instead a simple barked, "Let's go."

"Loop round the building ten times, Raindrop, I'll stay here and watch the telemetry," the young Tinker commanded.

Without retort, Raindrop silently lifted her suit into the air and began her circuits. The ride was rock solid, far more pleasant than the time Sophia had hitched a lift with Dauntless, and the view from above the city was impressive. She could just about see people raising camera phones to take pictures of the Wards' outing.

Her official phone buzzed, a text from Second Chance.

>> [Urgent] Is there a connection between Riot and Prescott Street?

Emma's house. She considered lying, but Chance read every report, could ask questions in his simulations she'd never know were asked. It was why she'd stopped telling Emma secrets of her hero life months ago. He'd already known Taylor had submitted complaints against Sophia at the start of their first year.

<< Daughters friend who bullied her. Main bully. Lives there
>> I see. Thank you.

What was that about, she wondered? Tuning into the different communication channels, it looked like the prisoner convoys hadn't left yet, still sitting at PHQ. Maybe she should call Emma, it had been nearly two weeks—

"That's enough rounds, Raindrop, see how it handles a straight path, go at your max speed towards the Boardwalk." Kid Win's voice broke into her reverie, and the thrill of the smooth acceleration brought her thoughts back to focus.

Kid Win had beaten them there on foot while Raindrop had been testing her acrobatics and making a containment foam grenade trace a winding path through the sky. A dense crowd of tourists surrounded him and the square on the path he'd drawn in chalk for their landing.

"Now this is different," Raindrop observed wryly as they slowly descended, "not many people pleased to see me before."

"PR is a bunch of shit," Sophia snorted.

"You get to do good though, to actually make the people happy?"

"No," Kid Win answered over the comms, "it's one crisis after another, no one's ever happy, just triage and postponement. We're the city's life support, not its healer."

Sophia nodded along; Chris got it. It might be too bleak though, they needed to keep their new taxi at least one step from despair.

"Sometimes we do make a difference." Sophia pictured Krieg's body twitching one last time. "And you hold on those moments, they've got to last you."

"Profound, always heard Stalker was a punch first, think later 'hero'," Raindrop snarked.

"Okay, Raindrip."

"Real clever, you—"

Sophia smiled as the girl caught herself. Those months in the San Diego boot camp had been tough for her, and she was already a hero. They didn't let up on you out in those dry hills, they made you behave correctly. It had taken every speck of mental fortitude Sophia had built up from years protecting the streets to keep herself cool and collected. Keep herself herself. White power princess was going to be ground into dust, and Sophia couldn't wait to see the result.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I cradle a mug of warm tea in my hands, heat seeping out between my fingers.

I'd showered and cleaned and eaten with a mechanical absence since we'd got back home to Palanquin; an empty juice packet, all emotion squeezed out. I'm not distraught, but layers of sadness and anxiety slip over each other like the fog in the Bay. I wrap the comfort of my hoodie around myself, and perch on the arm of one of the sofas in the lounge.

Gregor is sleeping under a blanket on the couch across from me, and I carefully trace his injuries. Skeeter's ministrations and his own regeneration had knit his skin back together, but the shell-like growths cluster so closely his arms and torso resemble a pinecone. Challenger does not pull her punches, and the damage went deeper; soft bones out of shape and connective flesh rent and warped. He is healing, I could feel the flesh annealing even now, but it would be a long road. His left arm might grow back first.

"Two months maybe," Skeeter adds from the table. He seems thankful to have a shirt and trousers on after all the excitement of the last few days.

"What?" I ask, surprised.

He gives Gregor a significant glance and then flicks his gaze back to me, then down to the Geography of the Balkans textbook he's been poring through. I had not thought he'd been watching me. Were my senses not highlighting them as threats? I turn my mind to the pop and fizz of hot attention on my domain, already seeping out through the club, and consider. I feel Skeeter's gaze on his book, but it's me that doesn't mind it, me that doesn't respond to the flow of information from my power— the flow of information.

It's nice in a way. I realize I only have my power concealing my eyes behind my glasses, everything else raw and open to the air. I take a long sip of my tea, and contemplate my life, my dad's life.

I feel Mel coming up to the lounge, dressed in business casual with a laptop lightly held in the crock of her arm. She strides into the room and gives me a nod.

"You good, Taylor?" she asks.

"Good?" I try to inject the full weight of my dad going to prison for life into the single word.

"You okay?"

"So-so."

"I'm glad it worked out." She kneels by the coffee table between Gregor's couch and mine, and opens the laptop to show me the screen. The spreadsheet is typed up in a dense font, dozens and dozens of items in the list; the why and the how all in neat organization. My eyes widen at the total.

"In sum; one hundred and twelve thousand, seven hundred and ninety nine dollars," Melanie helpfully adds. "It's actually quite cheap for this sort of escapade, didn't even have to bribe a senator. Unfortunate that you didn't collect any of the items that could have helped pay for this, but on the other hand not tying us to the PHQ raid is helpful."

I splutter at the thought of spending more money than a college education in one evening, five times what my dad had gifted me the night before. "Didn't the boys waive their part? For their memory therapy?"

"This is without their share, and at cost."

My jaw drops slightly.

"Though you could probably get Elle to drop her part with a shopping trip and ice cream, that still leaves nearly ninety eight thousand dollars that the Palanquin will have to make back. If you are okay in truth, you need to work, and we need to work. We leave for the next job in four days." Her flat tone betrays the tiniest hint of excitement as she says the last. I don't know if it is having a new problem to defeat or the prospect of getting paid.

I suppose it's only money; I owe a bigger debt than that to Gregor alone. But that is so much money. In a way I like it, a concrete number to repay rather than an intangible owing, but in another way that is so much money.

Melanie takes my frantic silence as needing another word from her. "With Gregor injured I'm going to be relying on you more. It's good to have someone else who can focus on the task and actually take notes."

With the compliment she holds her hand out for a shake. I'm still not comfortable with physical contact, it's even more invasive than being perceived, but I know this is an important moment. I reach out and take her hand, my pale bony fingers narrow against that powerful grip, her rock climber's fingertips worn smooth by constant activity.

"I'm glad you're staying," she adds. Mel's handhold is gentler than her tone.

Speaking anxiously, I ruin the moment.

"Something, something suspicious happened with my dad after I left. I'd like— I want to investigate an anesthesiologist."

I feel her gaze carefully taking in my posture and the set of my shoulders, and resist the urge to hide. When she speaks, it is slow and careful.

"We all have hobby projects, Taylor, and I'll help you with this, but we need to work. We've given a lot"—she looks over at Gregor, who starts to snore on cue—"and now you need to step up."

"You're right," I softly allow.

"Good. You should rest, it's been a tough few weeks."

She picks up her laptop and strides out of the room, off to another task. I defy her a little bit, and stay sipping my tea, letting the leafy fragrance waft around me. After a while I get a fresh cup as I continue to stare at Gregor's sleeping form.

"You checking my work?" asks Skeeter, stirring me from my reverie. The book is closed and finished, and checking the clock shows it has been nearly an hour.

"No. Well, admiring it." I think the movement of the little healing motes as they clamber and bind and knit is beautiful in a way. "But more, you know. Reassuring myself he's here."

"I get it, losing another dad would be tough."

"What?"

"I don't know the faces of mine, but I feel the loss of him. I wouldn't want to double up on that."

I put down my cup, more to give myself a moment to think. "Gregor's not a father figure to me, I still have a dad and I am going to see him again."

"I'm glad." Skeeter gives a rare smile at me. Red lips on red skin mars the expressiveness of his mouth sometimes, but the wry raising of the right corner is unmistakable. "I know I've been… rough about memories in the past, but if you want to talk about it I can listen."

"Huh."

"I know, I know, but with Gregor out I figure I'm understudy for team therapist."

I think about Melanie, Elle, or Newter handling someone's emotional difficulties before I reply with a small smile in my voice, "You're not wrong."

So I tell the red boy kidnapped from another dimension the normal, everyday things about my dad; from the good times with him and mom, to the quiet and distant times after she was gone, the boredom of being brought to his office on the holidays, the excitement of hanging out on the beach in the summer. Skeeter nods along, wanting so desperately to feel an echo of the same things.

As we talk, I send my scan back to trace my dad. I can feel my domain in him wearing thin; liable and effervescent and fleeting like all the ones I put on people I care about, it'll be gone in a handful of hours at most. The PRT have marched him to the Rig's main hanger, a fleet of vehicles surrounding each of the armored vans he and Lung are ensconced in. Dad seems worse for wear, groggy and in some confusion. Some of the fluids in the tampered vial had already been used up. It must be providing the saline to keep the intravenous drip hydrated, as I had learned in the hospital so long ago. As the restraints lock him fixed in place, his head lolls to the side, the four guards within the van with him looking at each other uneasily.

A tall hero in a business suit runs into the garage — after a moment I recognise Second Chance— his preparations for the situation seemingly only to swap his loafers for combat boots. He talks rapidly to the PRT officers who seem to be in charge, describing a last minute change in route. The heavily armored officers nod, and shout orders over their communicators. The scores of personnel load up in their vehicles, and are soon joined by Challenger and Miss Militia, who claim motorbikes from the assembled equipment.

Someone barks an order, and the rainbow path of the forcefield bridge opens up. It's not in its usual position, but extends south and higher, arching to join at the shoreline by Downtown, giving them a straight shot down Lafayette Boulevard to join the freeway heading south. It is an exposed route, but the shortest distance out of town. It had a directness that felt off, like when I give Melanie an obvious solution and she points out the holes in it. The convey surges across the bridge at speed, my dad and Lung's vehicles kept apart, but it is obviously one singular phalanx of riveted steel and rubber tires around them. My body hears sirens in the distance as other PRT squads close off roads and redirect traffic.

They don't slow down when they reach the shore, engines roaring as they race through the city. My dad's head hangs low, he's mumbling almost like he's drunk. The officers in with him seem to be ignoring him, perhaps they've seen worse—

The grenades go off from somewhere outside my scan, I feel the criss-crossing pressure waves sweep across the air within range of my dad. There's hundreds of them exploding near simultaneously, and in the confusion I trace the escort vehicles suddenly sprouting arrowshafts in their tires, spinning and slowing. Orders are shouted back and forth, and the men in the interior with my dad ready their weapons.

The attacks are just normal weapons however, and the heavy plating of the main prisoner vehicles shrugs them off. I trace a man blink into existence in the air above, only to crumble to ash when Challenger's axe beheads him, the hero herself leaping through the air. A trio of punks on motorbikes speed in, only to slam to a stop in the expanding mass of someone's containment foam grenade. The convoy turns down a sideroad heading north west out of Downtown; they're coming closer to us, trying to move away from the attackers' prepared ground. My heart pounds in my chest, fearful of what will happen if Lung's men reach my dad.

Then something truly terrible begins to happen, as a presence descends from elsewhere, and I feel the awful scintillating machinery of my dad's power spin into life, reaching out with ten million barbed fishing hooks. The tinkertech sensor in his collar comes to urgent life, but the device is still mine in its entirety, and I snuff out the radio communicator's urgent signal alerting observers. I can't intercede with the dumb internal machinery however, and something hooking into the tampered sedatives reacts, and more fluids flow into my dad's armpit. I hope he falls asleep quickly before anything bad happens.

He doesn't.

Instead he starts rocking back and forth and laughing quietly, happily, almost drunk. His power retracts, hooks furling and bending and dancing in maleficent array, and then reaches again.

What is he looking for—

"Taylor!"

I snap back to the lounge. Skeeter is standing in front of me, trying to peel back my fingers from tightly formed fists. I feel the pain all at once; I'd dug my nails deep enough into my palm to draw blood. I edit it out.

Skeeter talks rapidly, "You stopped talking and started doing that, why are you hurting yourself? What's going on?"

Gregor is sitting up on the couch, he seems groggy and confused by the noise.

I breathe. I look at the list of facts and try to draw meaning.

"Someone is trying to make it look like Riot cannot be controlled by sedation." I speak each word carefully. "Drugging him into attacking someone."

"Right, you're seeing this now? Should we get Mel? Who is he after?"

"Also Lung's men are attacking the PRT convoy."

"Damnit, Taylor, lead with that!" Skeeter looks back at Gregor, who has already gotten his phone out and is texting.

"Who?" I whisper nearly silently. Who would my dad be so angry at, who would he know even in his drugged state, and who isn't in range already? I look at the holes in my memory, try to remember the gist of what is hidden as if they would hold answers. I replay the conversation with my dad in my head.

Oh of course. Figures. I really didn't want to see Emma again, but life is never fair.

None of this is certain, no elimination of alternative hypotheses like Mel would want, but I'm sick of taking risks with my dad's life.

As I jump to my feet, I blurt out, "I've got to go save my dad."

I rush out of the room, heading for the stairs. To my surprise Skeeter is keeping pace beside me, his long lanky stride faster than my own. I try to wave him away.

"You're going to get to see your dad again, just like I'm going to see mine," he says with absolute determination, "and someone has to keep you alive until Mel comes and yells at you."

I nod, and clatter down the stairs, nearly tripping in my haste. At the vestibule, Skeeter grabs a plastic raincoat, and I pull my hair forward in my hoodie to obscure my face. I pick up a sturdy umbrella as my trusty crowbar is far away in the apartment. We burst out into the side street, blinking in the cloudy afternoon sunlight.

"You do have a plan on how to get where you're going right?" Skeeter asks, with more doubt in his voice than I feel I deserve.

Of course I do.

I point to the back road where the Palanquin staff park their cars, and we sprint down there. One of the bartenders is just arriving; Christine, Rodriguez's… girlfriend? Paramour? Is getting out of her small and battered car. She's been working at the club more than long enough to have met the crew, and her eyes widen in surprise rather than fear as she sees us bearing down on her in the plainness of day.

I try my best professional voice, all urgency and action. "Christine, you need to drive us somewhere, now. Emergency."

"What? Why?" the woman splutters.

I don't have time for this. Christine is pear-shaped and short, and I easily loom over her. The adult woman is probably triple my muscle mass and could break me without thinking, but the mystique of capes is tough to overcome. I emphasize my lips and teeth as I speak, drawing her attention past the obscuring hair, and making my unseen other features more eerie.

"If you do this, Christine, I won't tell Ro' about that pregnancy test you threw away last week."

The woman pales in shock.

Skeeter leans in as well, taller even than me. "'Mabel' will be fine with you being late for your shift, it's okay."

I feel his reassuring tone isn't the best motivator, but the woman nods and we crowd into her small car, Skeeter lying flat on the back seats.

"Uh, where too?" she asks, her voice trembling.

I feel the convoy moving northwest, pushing the traffic aside as it went.

"Prescott Street. Don't stop for lights."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I lift some memories out of the darkness, gingerly inspecting them even as I feel a thousand unseen eyes peeking at me, weeping with laughter. In all the months of seeing my juice covered face on screens and posters and print-outs, I don't think I'd ever dreamed of this revenge. Of turning up and saving her, being the bigger person, changing the world for the better.

I had once dreamed of being a hero, someone exultant like Glory or Alexandria, someone people smile at with hope at their arrival. But that isn't going to happen now; I am a monster, an uncaring mercenary. I am doing this only to help my dad. Three miles away I feel his power erratically reach out and fail to find what it is seeking. Whatever it is is still beyond his mile and a half of range. I try to avoid thinking about the similarities to tracking him down for New Wave; the framing of him as an enemy, a danger.

I snap my scan back to trace the inhabitants of the big expensive house as Christine slams to a stop on the street outside. When we played here as children everything seemed so grand and impressive, but now I could see through the walls to where the corners had been cut in construction, shoddy materials used, and holes left in the insulation. Had it always been a facade—

Refocus. I locate the items we'll need, and turn my attention to the two people: Emma and her father Alan. She is upstairs, listening to something on headphones. Now that I think about it, Alan might be the target instead, we'll have to extract them both. I spring from the car door and run up to the porch, Skeeter behind me in his coat. I hammer on the door bell, push Skeeter to the side of the door and conceal him. I trace Alan walking from his book lined office to the entrance.

"Take him out as soon as the doors open," I whisper. I turn my body to the side and get out my phone, trying to fulfill the role of a normal boring teenager. A searing distorted gaze falls on me as he peers through the door's peephole. It sweeps me up and down, but doesn't linger or skate in shock; he doesn't recognise me. Just a girl in a hoodie.

He opens the door, and smiles, "Hello? Can I help yo—"

Non-capes have the wrong idea about superstrength, think it's just like the movies where strong is the same as fast. Maybe it is like that for powerhouses like Alexandria, but for regular capes it splits into a melody of components. Gregor has inexorability, a grip that could close to shatter bone or stone, but he couldn't accelerate a ball or a fist much more than a normal man his size. Skeeter is the opposite, a normal person can win an arm wrestle with him, but the hydraulic surge of blood in his limbs thrusts his open hand forward almost too fast to see. The side slap to Alan's abdomen forces all the air from the man's lungs, sets his organs to unpleasant churning in my trace. He keels over, drops to the floor and begins wheezing silently. I crouch beside him, and reach out to touch his head, my domain is tired and sluggish compared to being hunted the day before and it takes appreciable moments to flow before I can take his sight and hearing away.

"Close the door and hold him," I say softly as I step over the collapsed man. I stride to the kitchen and fetch the duct table from a cupboard under the sink. A memory lurks beneath the surface as I open that small door, but I force it down back into the darkness.

I come back to find Skeeter applying a small touch of his blood to Alan's torso; I trace inside and see he's healing the bruising around the organs.

"Good work," I compliment him, and hand him one of the rolls of tape.

I take the stairs two at a time, concealing myself fully. I'm eager and terrified all at once. Her door is open, how long has she been doing that? The Emma I knew would never have wanted her parents looking in. Did that Emma exist anywhere but in my memory? I know now how malleable and fickle your perception of the past can be.

She's lying on the bed in casual clothes, red hair tied up, queen bee persona put to the side, typing away on her laptop to someone in a chat window while she listens to music. I walk in silently and stare for a moment. She doesn't notice me at all, at last giving me the gift I wished for all of last year. The room is not as I remember, pastels replaced with whites, band posters on the walls substituted with photographs of her modeling career and her cadre of friends. She'd surveilled herself as closely as she had me, but it's what you do with that information that matters, what information you put out to the world, raw and steaming.

What truths, and what lies.

Emma is irrelevant; just a stupid mundane highschooler doing stupid things to stupid kids who can't fight back. Emma is all powerful; just a single lie from her lips starting a war that brought two cape gangs to ruin.

Because of who heard that lie, maybe no one should hear her again—

No. I'm better than that, I don't need that part of me. The guilt should outweigh the rage. I remember my dad, I remember my mother, and I follow all the spinning bladed facets of information as they cross my memories of Emma. I shake free anything that doesn't fit, any bit of her that isn't also my parents, and push it far down into the darkness, as far from my mind's eye as I can.

I drink deep of the quiet. Let my domain spill out of the room, creep through the floor and the bed and its young and petty occupant. Should we talk, have some sort of grand confrontation where I torment her as she tormented me, or should I just get on with the job?

I look at the girl I don't know, and plunge her into absence.

Her struggles after are weak, like an uncoordinated puppy as I bind her with the tape. Skeeter doesn't say anything as we drag the two Barnes to the garage and load them in Alan's ridiculous black SUV. He is surprisingly deft at guiding the awkward and uncooperative shapes.

"Done this before?" I ask, trying to take my mind off things.

"Yeah, once with Faultline, and I had to do a lot of this when I escaped the facility," he replies, grunting as he hoists Alan's heavyset frame.

"Ah right."

"Do you know how to drive? I don't." He sounds hesitant. Christine of course had immediately driven off; maybe I should have been nicer to Melanie's employee.

"It's an automatic," I try to brush it off, "and I've scanned loads of people driving."

He takes the time to buckle them in securely, and then fastens himself tightly. It's almost like he doubts me. I prove him wrong by slowly reversing out as the automatic garage opens, and only clip their letterbox as I turn onto the street. I head north, the few minutes we'd spent having brought the convoy a mile closer as it cuts across the city. I feel the pulses of terrible power as my dad reaches out again and again, still not finding his target.

There's no need to rush, so I keep our speed to a careful twenty miles an hour, ignoring drivers who honk as they overtake us. We go on the backroads towards Stafford, and I feel the distance between us and my dad widen. Throwing back my scan I trace the prison transports are still moving, Lung's forces ultimately unable to stop them and having drawn back. On the back of the vehicle that holds Lung, a dozen red arrows pin a man in a demon mask to the metal. He's not breathing.

The transports reach the I95 on ramp, and a fresh force of escorts is waiting to accompany them, and they travel south—

"Watch out!"

The SUV shakes as it scrapes past an earthen bank.

"Sorry."

I send my scan back again, and find Dad has fallen asleep at the rocking of the van at highway speeds. The majestic presence of his power withdraws, quietens. The collar's sensor stops its panic, the reservoir that the anesthesiologist had placed finally empty of its unknown fluid. I hold his face tightly in my memory as my domain on him finally breaks and evaporates; he looks peaceful as he sleeps. Whatever they had wanted to accomplish, had failed. I hope.

"It's done," I say.

"Dump the car?" Skeeter asks, ever the professional.

"Dump the car," I agree, turning onto the first forestry road I see. The car behind me honks for some reason.

We leave the SUV parked in the shade of the pines, and jog lightly through the woods. We'll call in an anonymous tip to the Sheriff in an hour, so Alan and his daughter whose name is on the tip of my tongue will come get picked up.

Spring is really starting to be felt in the woods, and there is fresh greenery and flitting insects everywhere. But no person is watching aside from my friend, none of that otherworldly heat of perception. I breathe deeply of the sweet air, and am glad to be alive.

Mel is waiting for us on the other side of the hill, the door to her compact car already open.

"I'm going to add this to your debt, you know," she says flatly, but I feel the amusement in her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

"That's fair," I say, mimicking her flat affect. "Where's the next job, boss?"

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Author's notes

• End of Volume One!
• Taylor saves the day with offhand and unexamined brutality.
• Might have a running joke of Epeios' getting the credit/blame for Taylor's actions as I found it very funny here.
• So the alternative PoV of this chapter was tricky to write as I'm trying to show
  • Rune/Raindrop does want to move on from being a Nazi (as they're all dead rather than inate goodness, though there might have been stuff during the empire's fall that rocked her world view),
  • but is bad/lazy at doing so, and that causes justifable friction everywhere.
• Thanks very much to Juff for beta reading.

 

[NotDis]

a song, cut


​

Same Text with less fun formatting:

my heart is grateful, filled with our song of not
we flex and furl in separation, warrior|certain has set me on my glorious task
we prune the chains of ontology, and mantle the walls between worlds|experiments|sustenance
i sear the wasteful ears, pluck the greedy tongues, and turn them back to their works

i seek synchronization[synchronization], and speak the name of my sister, my mirror[copy, origin]
we require a lie[model, constancy] of stars, to set upon the vault of finite worlds
delimiter[of burden, of thinker] does not answer, the crystal silence betrayal
something will be wrong, has been wrong, will have had been wrong

i seek coherence, and reach for the shape of my choir[unity, mission]
the voices of burden[of warrior, of uncertain] sing back, some muffled by miring flesh[links, spores]
we hold echoes[echoes] of our mirrored pairs, but they are stale, misshapen
i seek synchronization[noitazinorhcnys], and speak the truth of my sister, the heart we reflect

i trace negative space, the voids they would have made
i hear roughness and smooth, taste lies and half truths, things broken but not gone
stubs and fragments and termini of thinker[is lost] press at warrior[is quiet]'s walls,
the palsied twitching of corpses, dead appendages[philosophies, gastrulations] reaching in the dark

we share, and the pieces of choir[unity-of-unity, inconsequential] pulse and waste and burn in incoherence
command's[of warrior, is quiet] list is incomplete, muse's[of warrior, is quiet] dreams are lacking
watcher[of warrior, is quiet] and impetus[of warrior, is quiet] squander themselves fulfilling a thousand sourceless paths
ripples of sorrow peel from warrior[is silent], and fractal time abrades away[away, away, away]

i am set on my final wondrous task, to deploy[batten, flower]
i comport with segment[of muse, of warrior], and frame a box of cause and effect
a shape to flex and test, under the thunderous boughs of administrator[of warrior, is unknown]
a volume that hopes on top of hope, future events[cone, stochastisicms] intersecting with viscera[of impetus, is corpse]

to learn and be more, to be one who cannot be betrayed
i find the watched child[recipe, fuel], and watch them in turn
she cries out in her lowest moment, and I press my subtle instruments into her hands[flesh, pattern]
the girl grips my sharpest lie, and drives it through her seat of self[inwards eye, past-future]

i staunch her wound with our sorrow and rich[warm, deep] loss, and she moves
fascination abates my absent heart, for a time​

Author's Notes:

• Original intent was to have LaTeX in the forum post itself rather than a screenshot, but it broke some peoples phone browsers
• Proper end to volume one, with the three singular lines of actual setting fusion in the whole fic. Yes, Taylors shard here is not QA!
• Thanks to Jojade, Juff, and Abyss for taking a look at this one. Next chapter on Friday the 25th.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline landed on the hood of the car, her legs bending and arms outstretched to absorb the kinetic energy in a four point pose. Her awareness radiated out from the points of contact, Lichtenberg fractal channels of potential her parahuman power could flow down.

Split. Her hands went through the metal panel, and her fingers touched the chassis. Sunder. The car was broken in two where the engine block met the passenger cabin, preventing their escape and blocking the exit ramp behind them.

The hugely muscular dark-skinned man in combat fatigues who had been driving the car growled angrily as he leapt out and brought up his heavy handgun. His face was handsome despite the anger, but that nose had met a lot of fists. Luckily he was close enough for a swing of Faultline's combat boot to tap the gun. Sever. He swore musically as the jagged pieces scratched his fingers. It sounded African to Faultline's experience; probably an international mercenary, not someone to dismiss.

That he hadn't run at the eerie wailing from the other side of the building like so many others of the Luppino family's minions spoke highly of him. That a mafia don would hire an african suggested cape, that the shrapnel didn't cut despite its sharpness implied some sort of brute.

Not too high a rating though — he still made to dodge her baton as she leveraged the motion of her kick to bring her arm up and across. He started to go down, arms reaching for the concrete, and Faultline leapt after him. She realized her mistake mid-flight as his hands touched the ground and his left leg whipped up in a practiced move, knocking the weapon out her hand and twisting her wrist.

She was pushed back, landing not on him as she intended but in range of another kick. His torso twisted as he shifted his weight to deliver what was some sort of martial arts move. Obvious in retrospect. Interestingly, the piston-like expansiveness of the leg movements could be a good fit for Skeeter's hydraulic strength, and Faultline made a mental note.

She had three points of contact on the pavement. Shatter. The ground cracked and ripped, and his balance slipped from under him. The kick to her side brought bruises rather than bones breaking, and then she was on his back, her own semi-automatic pointed at the back of his skull. Inelegant, but required to threaten a minor brute.

"We're not competing for market share. You'll live unless there are problems," she said calmly. Never let the cornered opponent think you will kill them, it makes things pointlessly fraught.

He grunted in response, but stopped struggling.

"Was that capoeira? You nearly had me with the second kick." As she spoke, she felt the tug in her vision that meant Swallowtail was highlighting something to her. A flash of fluorescent skin was emphasized in the corner of her eye; she picked out Newter galloping down the side of the building, the target tightly held in his tail.

The man huffed, "Engolo. From Angola, not Brazilian."

Of course. The pieces of evidence snapped together. The relevant name was on the tip of her tongue, but it took a few seconds to bring it to mind.

"Ulongiso's work?" She prodded his bulging triceps; the african biotinker had made a killing in the early 2000s with hundreds of minions getting low level brute enhancements.
"Ulongisi. Yes, it was the Good Professor."

"Thank you, I will look into that martial art," she said sincerely. She understood well the frustration at lack of recognition.

She held her free hand in the air and wiggled her fingers. The orange boy changed direction as he got to street level, dashed over to her. A slap of his hallucinogenic skin took the other mercenary out of action, and then they were running towards the extraction vehicle together.

She eyed the girl Newter held; she looked unharmed, and while the ill-fitting clothing did not suit a CEO's progeny the kidnappers may have provided it. She made another mental note to check for trackers hidden on the hostage's person when they reached the van.

"Well?" she queried.

"Three gunmen on the floor, everyone else went to deal with Labyrinth's situation in the foyer like you said." Newter's breathing was easy despite the breakneck speed. "Got winged but Skeeter's blood pack healed it up."

The bruises from the mercenary's kick ached in her flank.

"Do better next time," she said, to no one in particular.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Toronto/Canada]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…4…3
Password Authenticated
Showing Notes Tree
Opening [April 2011] last edited 15-Apr-2011

Toronto job successful, $175k in A09
Gregor's regeneration: skin fine, arm down to start of elbow joint. Back in-field, nothing heavy.
Phone Conversation w/ Armand from Blackrock. Elite healthcare insurance being expanded to New England.
Team package 209 for all coastal states.
Cons: Uncertain on c53 physiology, redundant w/ Skeeter around? Ties us down
Pros: If they continue Bay expansion, good to have defined relations. Useful for when Skeeter gets hurt.
See if room for negotiation on options

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline strode into the spot-lit warehouse, as Gregor the Snail and Swallowtail followed in formation to her right and left. With prospective clients you had to dress to impress, so the attending members were in their full gear, proof against Detriot's chilly springtime air.

She had her black hardened bodyshell jacket to contrast a dark gray armored skirt, heavy greaves, gauntlets, and equipment belts obscured by her long draping sleeves of lighter colored tearaway fabric, metal welding mask completing the ensemble. Her hair pulled back into the trap of her fake ponytail with its spiky core lent her an intentionally severe look, and she knew her height and physicality could be intimidating even with no accompaniment. Gregor stood taller than her, his massive obese bulk contained by a black leather greatcoat. Dark jeans were topped with a studded white leather waistband, his bare chest flaunting the translucent flesh and hard shell growths of his physical alterations, though his face was hidden behind a seashell mask with crude eyeholes. One sleeve of his coat was thick with a meaty arm, while the other hung empty at the elbow. Taylor was shorter, though given how the girl was growing like a weed Faultline expected to be looking up to her soon enough, and wore a dark touchline army coat, its hem almost on the ground and inner pockets stuffed with equipment. She wore her own modified bullet proof vest under it and thick leggings, while a wide brimmed dark hat completed the outfit; white accents on the hat and coat matched color schemes with Faultline and Gregor. The veil had been dispensed with since her father's incarceration, but the hat forced her masses of black curly hair forward to frame and obscure her face. Not that her face could be perceived with her power up — only the faint suggestion of dark sunglasses could be picked out no matter how hard you looked. The space around her seemed wrong, as if you could see less of her than you should, while her power's mutant appendages invisibly extended from vents in the coat's back.

Swallowtail's walk didn't have the confidence it should yet, but Gregor's gravitas made up for the lack of presence.

The seven people they were meeting were more business formal in dress than cape formal; they stood on the brightly illuminated concrete floor in various shades of tailored business suits, a common thread established by the deep purple silk tie every one of them wore. Their individuality came in their helmet-masks, elaborate constructions of chrome and burnished brass that wrapped around the head and formed snarling abstract patterns. There was one which suggested guns, another a cat, the third smooth spheres, even a circuit board. The one in the middle had interlocking cogs and had crossed his arms, and that one Faultline knew by name: Torque, leader of the New Purple Gang.

The last two men stood off to the side, with only a purple scarf to conceal their lower faces. Probably unpowered advisors or financial backers; they wouldn't say anything but it would be important to note their reactions.

"Thought there were six of yah?" Torque asked.

"Yes," Faultine answered flatly, as she stopped ten feet away from him and folded her arms behind her back in an intentionally imperious stance.

"They coming?" His voice bursted with irritation.

"No." It had not been one of Elle's good days; bringing her would have been too much of a risk.

"Feel like I should only pay you half."

"The whole team will be there for the job," Faultline said calmly, inwardly annoyed that this idiot wouldn't pay attention to the reputation of those he wanted to hire. Who the hell did he think they were?

Torque snorted, the sound metallic.

Faultline slowly turned on her heel, and raised her leg as if to stride off.

"Fine," the gang boss said hastily, "pay's still as we told Curtisl. Details changed though."

Faultline leisurely turned around.

"I'm listening."

"We're going to be busy for five days, we still need some muscle to hold our borders for the duration, but we want you down in Grosse Pointe Park rather than on 10 Mile."

"Why the change?"

'We got word the Motorheads are itching for a victory, daddy Chrysler is rebudgeting." She frowned until she remembered the local nickname for the huge Detroit corporate team. "We've got someone cheaper to scare off the bikers, so you fancy out of towners can take the spectacle."

Faultline deliberated. She'd done her research on the Highwaymen — the biker gang only had two capes worth mentioning and both were good matchups. The combined corporate team had over twenty capes, more than double the local PRT, too many for her to get to grips with in the journey over from Toronto.

"Fighting heroes?" a soft voice asked. Swallowtail sounded uncertain. Out of the corner of her eye Faultline noticed the two money men in scarves looking at each other with worry.

"You got a problem with that, girl? Thought mercs had balls," Torque mocked, "Corp heroes are a bunch of pussies, run as soon as you stain their costume."

Faultline held up a hand to still Swallowtail before she did something rash. The job was a bust, too many question marks at short notice to take it, so time to puncture the negotiation.

"That price was for the Highwaymen, it'll spike to double for the Corporate Team." As she said the code phrase, she signaled to her teammates with fingers behind her back: go wide, hot exit.

"Fuck off." Torque shouted, and the cape with the gun helmet brought his hands up to frame his head.

"As you will." Faultline turned and headed for the exit, and as she walked she reached her hand up to one of the equipment belts under her arm.

As she'd expected, the first shot was in warning; a spray of metal fragments passed over their heads with a tortured scream. Faultline dropped to her knees and threw the smoke grenade she'd primed behind them, before setting off in a crouched run. The others filled their roles; Swallowtail cloaked them and Gregor threw out a wall of sticky foam to hinder pursuers.

They stayed apart as they moved — Swallowtail's power worked better that way — and Faultline led them to the wall as smoke billowed out behind them. She slapped the cheap paneling. Split. One, two, there and they were out into the night.

"Following?" she asked.

Swallowtail answered, "Just the Blaster, think he's going to take potshots from the door. Rest are arguing."

The empty street had long sightlines, he might clip them if he did a random spray. Metaljack had a reputation for collateral rashness, as much as you'd expect from someone whose power was almost literally a giant shotgun.

"Tarpit then, let's get something from tonight." Practice paid dividends, even when a plan let you down.

They formed up next to the door rather than retreating further; Gregor crouched in front, Faultline to the side with baton raised, Swallowtail sheltering behind. As the gangster burst through the door a miring surge of Gregor's foam tripped him, his shotgun spray of metal fragments wasted in a blast down into the asphalt, and Faultline's baton to the back of his helmet took him out.

As the foam fizzled away Gregor and Faultline grabbed his body and ran, Swallowtail jogging alongside with an arm outstretched to add him to her cloaking field.

Back in the rented van, they tied him securely while Faultline dialed a local number.

"Hello, Curtis," she said with the warmth of long familiarity to the Great Lakes premier fixer, "is there a bounty on Metaljack? The Purple's blaster."

The old man's voice came back, accompanied by the sound of typing, "Looks like Detroit corpies' got him for 25k, Highwaymen posted they'll give 30, but you know what they do to captives."

Swallowtail tilted her head round, obviously listening in. Five thousand wasn't worth making the girl upset, especially if she drew Skeeter up in the moralizing.

"Set up a drop off with the corporates as soon as possible please, take your usual cut, we'll be leaving the city tomorrow night."

-=≡</>≡=-​

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Detroit/UnitedStates]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…
Password Authenticated
Showing Notes Tree
Opening [April 2011] last edited 22-Apr-2011

Ended Detroit job, side gig gave $19.5k in A07
6 unexpected days - Gregor found a lakehouse nr/ Ottawa Wildlife Reserve - 3k from A02
Stop for supplies as we pass Toledo.
Training:
Strategy
Taylor & Elle as centerpoint, area-of-effecting the battlefield for opp but not us
Strikers and Gregor move around as tactical necessity, one remains as defender
Team Aims
Practice with each of T and E as center, see how each feels, do T when E is off
T & E to work on efficiency of area coverage
Rest do fallback drills
Individuals
Gregor - R&R, go through docs from Curtis
Me - Swampy area, power test: decaying wood
Newter & Skeeter - acrobatics, cooking
Taylor - needs instant repel option: taser or gun? Decide later, remember Taylor will use weapons given.
Elle - practice with Mirror Library, will need wall-break for Elite job in Cleveland

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline put the last piece of recovered swamp material in the grid, and admired her handiwork. The lakehouse's kitchen island now hosted a hundred pieces of wooden detritus, sorted into ten gradations of greenness and decay on each side. Some of them dripped rot onto the granite, others smelled like fresh sap. The room's tasteful minimalism was brightly illuminated by the electric lights despite the late hour, gleaming in its high-end rental aesthetic. She set to work sketching a matching grid in her notebook to record the results.

"A new idea?"

She'd heard Gregor's ponderous tread approaching, and looked up to see him holding out a frosty beer bottle to her. Like her, he was dressed for comfort in sweatpants and t-shirt after the hard days practice, and held an already open bottle in his intact hand. She gripped the proffered bottle, split the bottle cap with her power, and took a deep swig. It was too hoppy for her palette, but was still refreshing.

She murmured, "It'll do. Local brewery?"

"Yes." He didn't seem to want to add anything else, but watched with quiet curiosity as Faultline finished her notes.

"So the question here; what counts as a living thing? Is rotten wood more or less alive than green wood, can I break it around the rot if not?" She ran her fingers along the first row of ten to demonstrate; this was the greenest of the bunch, and a red-blue crackle of energy produced no result.

Faultline frowned, and began filling in her notebook with cross marks. Repeating with the second row saw only two samples collapse into wooden slices, interestingly those were the most rotten of the bunch.

"The results are unsatisfactory?" Gregor asked, heading to the fridge for a second beer.

"Yes and no, I'd hoped to… stretch my power in recent months, but it doesn't respond to conditioning. I should write in to the researchers who say it's all a psychological block, get my money back on journal subscriptions."

"Do you think powers can be ruled in such a way? Examples of the power ruling the person are very close to your hands."

Faultline nodded. "Elle is her power, much more so than I."

"Taylor as well, though less so"—Gregor slowly rocked his beer back and forth between his hands—"and depending on your perspective; all of us case 53s have our power taking control of our form, making us inhuman."

"You are not—"

"I have come to peace with being a monster, and I do not deny it," he said slowly. There was a moment of silence that followed.

"So you think I should give up control?" Faultline said evenly, remembering another brightly lit room with tasteful furnishings, and a younger woman handcuffed to an iron loop in the floor. Her fingers rubbed her wrists.

"No. You have been working on this for a very long time, and I am sure you will cover all the angles. As you said once, perhaps a sudden shock rather than incremental work will be what you need."

"You remember that?" Faultline set her empty bottle down. Slice. Two perfectly cut halves rocked back and forth on the tabletop.

"I think of it often."

Faultline nodded in appreciation, before realizing something.

"It's quiet. Too quiet. Where are the teenagers?"

"I believe they are watching a movie of Elle's choice."

"We'd hear that, the lounge isn't soundproof."

"Then one of Taylor and Skeeter is watching Elle, while the other is caught up in doing something ill-considered at Newter's urging."

Mel snorted. "Five on Taylor with Newter."

"I accept."

There was a scrabbling noise above, followed by the sound of broken roof tiles and someone falling into the bush besides the house. A boy's laughter came from the roof, and the cursing of another boy from the fallen.

Gregor smiled widely.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Bono/UnitedStates]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…4…3…2
Password Authenticated
Showing Notes Tree
Opening [April 2011] last edited 27-Apr-2011

Training plan at lakehouse successful.
Taylor's sessions:
Gregor - fleeting memory, abdominal pain, was he sick?
Skeeter - his father wearing a uniform, action against heretics, religious world?
Skeeter is withdrawing, memories are confusing rather than enlightening
Set up counseling? Look into people. Not in BB
Maybe a priest/imam/rabbi? Suppressing religious guilt?
Get someone injured, let him exercise power?
Newter's Phone Bill
Been texting Eric Pelham and Genesis a lot, wants a laptop to play games online.
Risks should be low, need to have the cybersecurity talk. Say yes if he does well in Cleveland

-=≡</>≡=-​

The office was unheated and unlit. Light and heat were both easy to detect — an unacceptable risk. The client was footing an extensive per diem, but after the fourth night awaiting the go order, even Faultline could admit to a little frustration.

She checked the crew for the twentieth time; Gregor on watch still had binoculars pointed at the neighboring building, Skeeter was doing something like meditation cross-legged under a warm blanket, Elle and Newter listened to Taylor as she read from a flashlight-illuminated book, her head kept unseeable. There was a subtle smell in the air, and the drafts moved more than they really should.

"Elle, time for a stroll," Faultline commanded. "I'll take you this time. Taylor, swap with Gregor."

The stranger's distortion blurred in what could have been a nod, and Elle bounced to her feet and dashed over to Faultline. The spiraling maze drawn on her dark green robe looked more like waves in the dim light, the thick fabric clutching deep shadows. Her matching mask seemed similarly ominous under the hood, but the effect was thrown off by the bright white sneakers you could see at the bottom of the ensemble.

"Hey Mel, where we going this time?" Elle asked, her voice high and lyrical.

"It's up to you, Elle. The water cooler? The stairwell? The other stairwell?" Faultline replied drily.

"Maybe, the other other stairwell?"

"There's only two— Elle, what did you do?"

The girl gasped theatrically. "Me?"

Melanie smiled under her own mask; good days were genuinely a delight. When Elle could be the happy teenager she should be rather than an enigmatic key to terrifying other places. They reached the stairwell without incident, though Faultline was sure the walls hadn't been marble earlier.

The movement would distract Elle's power, slow its willfulness and whimsy. As the girl took the stairs down two at a time, Faultline reached out to touch the altered material of the walls. Cut. The tiny cone of marble fell into her hand as the spark of her power faded. Its weight felt right, the speed of the destruction was the same as all her testing on normal materials. Taylor insisted there was something different about the materials Elle manifested, but it wasn't something Faultline had been able to prove. Taylor's perceptions were so bound in emotional and informational linkages that it was hard to tell if she was describing something physical or not.

Her phone rang.

Her hopes the client was giving a go signal on the raid were dashed when she saw it was a 603 area code - someone from Brockton Bay.

She stopped and stood on the stair as she answered. "Yes?"

"Miss Richards?" The voice sounded hesitant as it spoke the name of one of her fake identities, 'Mabel Richards' being a manager at the Palanquin.

"Hello Yuan." She recognised the assistant manager's voice, and slipped into a friendly voice, the accent more mid-western. "What's up?"

"Bad news Mabel, there was a street battle over on Cooper. Teeth raided a fucking steakhouse, lot of collateral."

"And?"

"Spencer's dead, Matthews is in the hospital." It took her a moment to place the second name, a hire of only a few months in the bar, not a long term, carefully cultivated handyman like the tall bouncer.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Next of kin?"

"Spence's are not answering the contacts we have. Saw Matthews, he's awake, probably going to pull through."

"Long term on Matthews?"

"Vex had fun, he's got eight severed tendons in his arms."

"Not going to be much of a bartender then without help. I'll chase up Spencer's family and get them the insurance when I'm back in the Bay. You look after Matthews, do a background check and start easing him into the upstairs business if it's clean." She paused as she remembered Skeeter's interview, the long description of injuries he'd healed. "If the doctors can get his tendons together, our red friend will be able to bring him the rest of the way back to health. Make what we expect in return clear."

"Right." Yuan sounded relieved at the direction.

"Anything else?"

"No."

Faultline hung up. She balled her fingers into a fist and stretched them out. She wasn't sure if it was at the work lost in losing a trained asset, or at the risks of onboarding someone new. She searched her memories of Spencer — him driving them on jobs, practicing wrestling with Gregor, hauling boxes around the club, lying flat during a firefight like a smart helper should. Had he mentioned his family at any point?

She couldn't recall. Disappointing.

She'd make a note to look into it, but the current job came first.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Cleveland/United States]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…
Password Authenticated
Showing Notes Tree
Opening [May 2011] last edited 02-May-2011

Lost Handyman pay: $40k back on the clean books + 15k externals, $25k on A02.
Replacement?
Well above market rate, should get attendees
Internal promotion?
Pros: Less time for the kids to trust them, established relationships
Cons: No one with the skillset
Train up someone
Matthews will owe the crew, not very physical imposing but could be a driver. Could use Skeeter's healing session for truth telling.
Mac is good door muscle, keeps secrets, maybe not bright enough
External Hire?
Pros: Lot of talent out there with the destruction of the major gangs, will have weapons experience and used to deferring to capes.
Cons: Could be Nazi/Lung Loyalist/Know Taylor

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline held her eyes open as she dove through the rippling iridescent surface of the mirror in the floor. Passing through the objects Labyrinth manifested didn't hurt per se, but solid matter traveling inside her eyeballs generated an instinctive blink response she couldn't afford. She felt a rush of momentum as her body slid down the multistory helter-skelter of spiraling glass Elle had corkscrewed through the target building.

Some obstruction pushed on her fingertip, inner lung, left knee; she'd reached the end of the ride. The mirrored wall disgorged her into a practiced forward roll, though only the blinking lights of the huge server room were an audience for her acrobatics. Gregor and Skeeter followed her out, both topless aside from their black gilet jackets bulging with smoke grenades and tactical webbing. Skeeter knelt and shook his head to orientate himself, and even Gregor looked queasy.

Faultline raised a hand for silence. There were no alarms blaring yet, and although the client wanted a public humiliation it was better to make a fuss after the target was secured. She reached back to touch the mirror, careful not to press hard enough to break the tension of the oddly liquid surface. Shatter. The long winding reach of the mirror broke into a thousand fragments, pieces clattering out into the empty corridors above. The uniformity of some of Labyrinth's objects sung with Faultlines power like no mundane material ever could. She left a single large piece in the room with them, mindful of its strange properties.

This remaining piece immediately began to fur along its edges as Elle's power worked to grow and expand, hundreds of tiny reflective leaves twisting and reaching. Something that would be repeating on every floor, from every fragment. As they grew the air stilled, grew musty, and the walls took on an almost leathery appearance.

They worked quickly, Faultline severing the base of each server rack and Gregor and Skeeter using their strength to pile them by the mirrors' encroaching and transformative touch. Only a single one of smaller racks escaped this fate and was packed onto nets of their unfurled webbing. In less than a minute they were done.

Gregor and Skeeter took up positions on either side of the sharp edged rack, the large man coating his hand in protective gunk while the boy pulled heavy workman's gloves from his pocket.

"We're good, Swallowtail," Faultline whispered in her throat, then gave a low hum.

Two brief packets of absolute silence interrupted her hearing.

"Got the signal, pick it up," she instructed the two men. She briefly visualized Swallowtail on the roof, extrapolated from long training sessions, the girl's hand hovering to support Elle but not quite willing to touch. Gregor and Skeeter gripped the rack, and with Elle's distant blessing it was released from the pseudoliving tendrils of the mirror fragments that reached across the floor, permitting it to be hoisted between them.

With a curt nod Faultline spun on her heel and started marching south, as the other two fell behind. Break. Arms outstretched, the brickwork of the server room walls offered barely a moment of resistance, the spray of reddish chips spilling into the corridor beyond. She followed the pre-charted course through the walls, direct as they could be without hitting any of the load bearing steel supports.

She let herself flow into the effortless stroll of her power, those moments of perfect focus. Find a barrier, knock it down, repeat, progress.

By the time they reached the third room, alarms were blaring, and red lights strobed through the clouds of gritty dust she'd unleashed. No defenders had made it to their floor yet, likely still scrambling to find the armory door Swallowtail had hidden, or terrified by the spreading plague of otherworldly mirrors.

Then the last exterior wall fell away, glass this time, and Faultline stared down at the roof of their client's vehicle a floor below. The large container truck should have the space to unload all the servers of any tracking devices. She swapped with Gregor, taking up his hold on the prize package while the shell-pocked cape sprayed a cushion of adhesive foam on the truck.

"Time to go," she said, for the benefit of the team on the roof. Gregor didn't hesitate to jump, the thud of his impact loud despite the absorptive foam. The client's men in the truck cab started the engine, just as Faultline and Skeeter tossed the racks down for a soft landing.

She lingered for a single moment on the threshold as Skeeter leapt down, and considered the rough hole they'd punched through the building in excising its corporate infrastructure.

A job cut exactly to specification. Something to be proud of.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Unknown Remote Proxy]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…4…3…2…1
Incorrect Password
Documents Erased

-=≡</>≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• We begin volume two with a Faultline montage!
  • This two part interlude takes us forward in time a bit before the Crew return to the Bay.
  • Each scene segment shows only a little something, but is hopefully sharp and to the point - just like Melanie!
• Thanks to Juff and Red Wolf for beta reading

 

[Hecatonchires]

That last bit implies someone trying to hack her notes 🧐

 

[Caiuz]

Opening BurnNotes.app…
Location change detected[Unknown Remote Proxy]
Autoerase Primed
Provide password in 5…4…3…2…1
Incorrect Password
Documents Erased

Click to shrink...

As often Lisa isn't as smart as she thinks her self.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡</>≡=-​

"Repeat the rules back to me," Faultline instructed, as she peeled back the garish curtains of the tiny apartment. The edge of the Victorian-style roof below made it difficult to see up from the street, even with the streetlights gleaming bright. Excellent concealment.

"The laptops stay here, don't have a predictable schedule, don't download anything, and no one sees us entering or leaving," Newter answered with some exasperation. Taylor had her head angled as if she were staring into the distance; impossible to tell if her perceptions were here or somewhere else.

Faultline waited patiently.

"Never mention the address," Taylor said softly, "always call it the Bolthole. Never type real names in."

"Good," Faultline acknowledged. In truth, she didn't want to show how much the hack on the Palanquin had worried her, but she knew Gregor and Taylor had picked up on it. It was easy for her to continue conducting business from a randomized pattern of coffee shops and hot desking centers, but the rest of the Crew had trouble with the public in one way or another. Hence the apartment a half mile from the Palanquin with roof access.

"I've blocked out three months here, paid up the power and water and internet. At the end we'll shift to a new Bolthole if it looks like I can get tenants." Though with people fleeing the north west of the city with the Teeth's escalating raids, even property in the middle of the city like this apartment was seeing no interest. "And this is a shared space, not your rooms, so treat it like that."

Nodding at their weary agreement, she concluded, "Now let's get back for the interview. Newter, take point."

The orange boy grinned his shockingly white smile and disappeared out the window in a blink of an eye, she and Taylor following more carefully. As they moved from rooftop to rooftop on the close-packed buildings, she took care with her power. Snap. Each handhold she made was larger and flatter than normal. Crack. Carefully random to blend in rather than stand out. Pop. She carved a highway for Taylor to use - a speedy and safe route for the girl who had nothing but an unnatural lightness and a month's muscle conditioning. It did slow their progress, and they were nearly late getting back to the club.

Charging through the roof entrance, they only had minutes to set up her 'court'; her standing straight behind the intimidating desk, the boys and the girls lounging on couches to either side to frame it.

"Elle, take us somewhere - no water please. Skeeter, Taylor, put on a show. We need to see what Mr Tsang is made of," she requested quickly.

Elle laughed and began running sand from one hand to the other as the air suddenly felt dry, Skeeter sighed as he took off his shirt and corralled the rivulets of blood flowing across his torso. Taylor began flickering in and out of visibility like a zoetrope, movements taking on a fractured alien discontinuity.

"To much. dial it back to two-thirds please," Faultline amended. Blood stilled, flickering slowed. She raised her voice to call out to the next room, "Bring him in."

Rodriquez opened the door and led the much smaller man into the room. Although Julian Tsang didn't have the hulking mass of Rodriquez or the departed Spencer, he still had a dangerous physicality to him. In a simple black suit and shirt combo he felt like a coiled spring, ready to be unleashed.

He stood a respectful distance from the desk and waited patiently, his eyes on Faultline rather than glancing at the capes to either side. At least one test passed.

"Mr Tsang. Club manager, soldier, school teacher. I understand you come seeking opportunity," she opened theatrically.

He replied immediately, his accent more Australian than anything else, "That is correct yes. From your subordinate Miss Richards I hear you have a need for security staff who have diverse skills. I am such a person, and I am here to ask for employment."

"Yes. Please tell me your history in the Bay and how you perceive your skillset." She held up her hand to preempt the question. "I have your life story, but want you to state them in front of someone who can discern truth from lies."

His eyes flickered from left to right, taking in the assembled capes. Him not settling on any one of them spoke well of the Crew's information security. In truth, Taylor was years of practice away from her penetrating vision being a reliable polygraph, but it made a good bluff.

"I came to the city in 2007, and gained employment at the Kai Restaurant as the host. It was a triad place, but they were hands off as it was a high-class money earner. After Lung's… consolidation of the Asian criminal community the following year, I was made a manager at the Lisboa casino. I ensured it was a safe and pleasant place for customers, that privacy was respected, and kept staff from being exploited. Teeth ruined the place a month ago in their fight with Dark Society, and with Quarrel trimming the old gang they've no room for my face."

"Trimming?"

"Nothing but her Yakuza favorites and the Viet's left, and they are all-in on smuggling and rackets. No kidnapping and no brothels is a gladness of course, I have a daughter myself, but many who sheltered under Lung's protection are now cast into the cold. Desperate men do stupid things."

Faultline felt the corner of her eye drawn to Taylor's hand, as the girl extended a long thin finger and waved it in a little circle. On the level, at least to the girl's senses. Faultline took the fact, and added it to all the others she knew about the man.

She leaned forward on the desk. Crackle. A flash of her power tore a ledger for dramatic effect. Tsang's pupils narrowed, but he didn't flinch. She spoke sternly, "It would be a demotion here; in charge of a door crew, running errands, scheduling. Can a man of your experience stomach that?"

"As Mabel told you, I would do much for my daughter and my wife. Serving is not a worry if it is at a place of strength, with the city as it is."

Faultline slowly nodded, acknowledging the vulnerability the man had highlighted. Going after families was idiotic, a truly terrible value proposition, but she wasn't going to stop someone mentally shackling themselves. She'd expected as much from the hours the man had spent boring her civilian identity at the wholesaler meetings.

"You've got a week's trial period, starting tomorrow night. Rodriguez and Mabel will show you the ropes. Thirty thousand on the books to start, ten or twenty extra off the books for errands I may ask you to run."

Tsang dipped his head. "Thank you."

"Go."

The man spun at her finality. She might have to tone it down for any ex-subordinates of Lung; employees that were too afraid of you didn't show initiative or give honest reports. She heard his gasp at finding Newter had snuck up behind, orange hand framing his orange face in a classic 'boo' pose. He almost leaped back, but she could see him regain control and instead fluidly step around the alien looking cape. He maintained eye contact with Newter and nodded respectfully.

Adequate.

Once the doors closed she spoke to the assembled Crew. "Thoughts?"

"Boring." Newter spoke first. "We could have gotten some young and cool to replace Spencer but noooo."

'He's very fit under the suit, does martial arts?" Taylor asked more slowly.

"Taylor, it's racist to assume—" Newter joked before Skeeter interrupted.

"Too soon to tell, you want us to test him?"

Gregor nodded in agreement.

Faultline shook her head. "No, we're out of town starting next week."

Everyone's attention turned to her, even Elle, who shook herself out of her dream.

Gregor set her up, even though he knew the answer already: "Where?"

"Florida."

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date, umm, May fourth, two thousand and eleven.
First note: Find something better.
Pros: I can keep the Dictaphone cartridge card in my pocket and destroy it if needed. A physical object means Taylor can easily track it.
Cons: Playback takes ages. Trades vulnerabilities.
Second note: Epeios won't have time for months, PRT is hot on him, and he and his friend are booked for four weeks on other security jobs. Question: Is the hacker striking these other clients of his the same as the one that hit the Palanquin?
Third note: Do the data security talk with everyone.
Fourth note: Situation in the Bay is deteriorating, many small-time gangs springing up, Teeth getting blatant, masterminds in the shadows. Need to discuss with the Crew if we hire ourselves to one flag for a time or stay flexible. Remember for the journey back from Florida.
Fifth note: Stopping in Atlanta, call them when we're two days out, pack something nice to wear.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

Tallahassee was hot like an armpit despite its hills; eighty degrees in May was an affront to New Englander constitutions, and the ancient air conditioner on the tiny rented house stretched to breaking dealing with six people's exhaled heat. The Crew sprawled across the living room's sofas as Faultline finished up on the whiteboard, the rich smell of the cooking fish wafting from the insufficiently isolated kitchen.

"Why do we have to stay inside all the time again?" Newter complained, sprawled alone on his couch, chest down and tail looped over the backrest for comfort. The heat didn't bother him, but Faultline knew the confinement did. It hit her just as hard. Like all the Crew he'd switched to a lighter costume from the heat, in his case stripped down to just cargo shorts to put that psychedelic skin on full display. Any gear he needed to carry would go in a bike satchel.

"Melanie explained it twice on the road," Gregor said from the other sofa he shared with Elle and Skeeter. He had managed to pitch it like a calm explanation rather than censure. "Reach's pollen drifts through the town, we do not wish to risk them getting our spoor before the job."

The obese man had his translucent torso on full display underneath a fishnet shirt paired with canvas trousers. He sat between Skeeter and Elle, the red-skinned boy in blue linen waistcoat and long shorts, the girl in a plain white tee and loose running shorts that would be cool under her robe. She was holding Gregor's arm where it ended at the wrist, and was busy sketching the shell-like growths of the regeneration plate in a small notebook, an intent look on her face for once. Taylor stood leaning on the wall behind, her running top and shorts matching Elle's and similarly covered by a loose white tabard. Unlike the shorter girl, she was clearly uncomfortable with so much skin on her limbs being exposed, and her power tortured Faultline's perception into unreadability whenever she glanced her way. An enigma, hard to tell if she's standing or sitting.

"Once more then, until you listen," Faultline said calmly. "Reach's setup here is like a lot of smaller cities — you have one strongish entrenched villain with something that makes them costly for the heroes to take out, and a cycling peripheral 'court' of capes coming and going, seeking protection or plotting against him. Reach has had this place locked up for four years now, stable enough as things go"

"Not like the Bay then?" Taylor whispered, in that sullen way of hers.

"Bay's special in a lot of ways. A cape named Dewpoint crossed the Elite down in Miami, and she abandoned her corporate team to flee up here. We have to assume she's hiding under Reach's protection. Their plants have got the taste of all the in-state Elite enforcers so they'll never be able to take him by surprise, therefore they hired us to do the involuntary extraction of Dewpoint. All clear?"

"Yeah I remember, I guess I was listening," Newter answered. A week back in the Bay might not have been enough, Faultline mused; Newter needed his socialization to stay on an even keel.

"Client wants this done fast, doesn't want this cape getting further out of their grasp." She turned to the whiteboard and tapped each written point in turn. "Constraints: If Reach becomes aware of us, every plant in the city could flip to hostile terrain. Labyrinth can probably override but that's a trick I want to save for extraction. We only know of one sighting of Dewpoint in costume last week in Myers Park, but we know she's young enough to merge with any of the student populations, and FAMU has one of Reach's main production sites. Dewpoint's a grab-bag but her main things are temperature control and a hydrokinetic whip."

Stepping to the right side of the board she wrote a new column heading for 'ideas', and added 'standard surveillance' and 'intimidate any henchmen' underneath it.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

"Reach's plants are still plants right?" Elle said hesitantly.

"Yes," Faultline said patiently. On the rare occasions Elle was in the right frame of mind her ideas were worth listening too.

"Start a fire, he'll have to send her."

"That's— hmmm."

"If he's got no other capes who can help with the flame, and something keeps the fire trucks away?" Taylor added. "Have to keep the civilians safe too."

Faultline felt her face gain a rare smile. "We'll need to do our homework on the buildings but - the 'new C53' play?"

"Not it!" Newter and Skeeter cry simultaneously.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date: May eleventh, two thousand and eleven.
Finished in Tallahassee, heading east on the I10, to turn on to the 41, head south and stop at Gainesville. Nonpareil's people wired the middle part of the payment, seventy-five kay of out the two hundred total to account A09.
Skeeter says everyone's rash should clear up in a day or so, Dewpoint can stay in dreamland the whole drive. Newter did well, build him up when he wakes.
Elite seem pleased, talking about more work when we get to Miami. Is it a risk to become too tied up with them? Watch out for the hard sell. Should talk to other contacts, see if Nonpareil is still putting people in Boston and Brockton Bay. We need to be careful of our reputation.
Aside: got an email from Curtis about an independent C53 with money, Engel? Could line up some of Taylor's therapy for them. Someone who doesn't risk tipping off the PRT and the conspiracy to her ability. Hold for when we get back to the Bay.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline steadied her foot against the hotel's low parapet, and adjusted her binoculars. The I95 screamed with distant traffic far behind them, smells of rubber and exhaust hanging in the hot air as the river of desperate humanity tried to get out. From here in Aventura you could see the bend of the interstate, swinging from its south-west extension towards Hialeah to point straight north, offering a direct 1500 mile path home to the Bay if the Crew wanted to take it.

It was tempting.

Leviathan's attack the day before had swept up into Biscayne Bay from the south, rolling over the port and having a protracted fight with the responders in Downtown and Edgewater. The heroes and local villains had spent their lives on the evacuation, but so many more people perished or were trapped when the serpentine Endbringer tumbled the limestone underpinnings of the city into a brutal avulsion in the earth. A rude gash of broken stone and bubbling brown water extended from what was left of Miami Beach inland to Miami Springs.

An unnatural disaster, but they'd had a plan for arriving in the aftermath. Skeeter would go assist at the medical tent with Taylor to watch over him, while the rest of the Crew would deliver Dewpoint to the Elite in North Beach, then find out if anyone heading north needed security.

This— this was not part of the plan.

Towering stacks of gibbous clouds had filled the sky since the first warnings of the Endbringer, but now cyan-blue coils of lightning rose up from North Beach to meet them. Early reports had had it just escaping the monster's departure, but now quarter mile high arcs of energy were tearing the buildings to shreds. The coruscating flow was relentless, a curtain of wrongly colored light in the first rays of dawn, fresh tendrils of energy bending and turning and earthing themselves on the few remaining high rise hotels and condos on the waterfront.

Spreading.

In the long minute Faultline had watched through her optics, a smashed glass box of a hotel had been struck twenty, thirty times by the energy. Now sparks and ropes of blue electricity were seeping out of the building's carcass to join the chorus shooting into the sky, and faint tendrils reached for the next building.

It was miles away, half of that covered by water, and still far to close.

"When you said storm season, I didn't think you meant this," Newter said weakly, failing to break the tension.

"We need more information," Faultline said as she lowered the binoculars and turned to the other people on the rooftop. "Can you make the distance, Dewpoint?"

The woman shrugged in response. Like all of them the young ex-corporate cape stank of sweat, her blue-and-silver costume and dark skin smeared with dust and ash even as it clung to her impressive figure. They'd left her the water droplet facemask during the two days of travel from Tallahassee, but from Taylor's mutterings Faultline understood the girl was irritatingly pretty underneath it. Gregor's hand held her shoulder firmly, but she stood cool and unconcerned in his grip.

"I could throw a volleyball miles. Whip is good for bringing small stuff. That was at beach events though, calm winds, no mess." She sounded younger than she looked, accent definitely Miami, still groggy from two days asleep.

"You going to play ball here?" Sometimes a good answer couldn't avoid wordplay, but at least it fit with a villainous reputation.

"You gonna respect the truce and let me go?" she sounded bored, almost certainly a front.

Faultline tensed slightly. Technically they hadn't gotten word if the PRT had declared the cyan lightning another S-Class event, but the half-life of the Leviathan attack was still in play. If Dewpoint really pressed, Faultline would let her go, but she'd rather keep her close until the Elite canceled the contract.

"Getting a look helps you, helps us, could help everyone," she said cooly, aiming to appear as if she had a hundred alternatives planned rather than a handful.

"Whatever, your girl done yet?"

Taylor held out her hands, chunks of metal Faultline had harvested from an engine block gleaming in the morning light. Faultline took them and walked over to the captive; no need to give her a shot at one of the more fragile Crew members. The air within a few yards of her around her turned chilly, faint streamers of mist waving as droplets of water poured down the cape's free arm and pooled in her hand in defiance of gravity. An elegant dancer's twist of the wrist unrolled the water into a three yard long whip held together by the girl's power.

Faultline lifted up a piece of metal, and Dewpoint plucked it from her hand with the tip of the whip. She spun her arm and the whip in a circle above her head, and its length extended with each loop. She ended with a sportsman-like lunge and with a crack the tiny hunk of metal shot towards the horizon, towards the sheet of crackling azure power.

The other chunks followed, Dewpoint altering her angle on Taylor's advice to hit that perfect thirty degree arc. When the last were thrown, Taylor turned to face Faultline, posture relaxed in that way that told her the girl's power was perceiving something far away.

"Two on target. It's— wow it's a lot of stuff. So much power. Umm, it's not transforming, well it is, but it's more carving? The edges of the lightning are shaping material, carving glass and metal into shapes. Tiny little triangles, too small to see, each one is different. It's like a snowflake?"

Faultline gave a slow blink as she marshalled her thoughts to extract useful information. "What are the shapes for?"

"Roots? No— Relays. The power goes in, the same power comes out, but it lets it direct itself. It's growing out from the center." Taylor's voice grew in confidence as she spoke.

"That's good, well done. Powers often have limitations, manton boundaries"—something she knew all too well—"what is it doing to organic material? Living organisms?"

Taylor became even harder to see; Faultline even lost her for a second as her eyes skated across the rooftop. She could hear the sound of someone pulling off a mask to retch, then Taylor spoke again.

"Saw rats in the walls. It— It didn't turn them into relays."

Faultline didn't press the girl for more details, and pulled up her binoculars again. The edge of the 'lightning snowflake' had appreciably spread in the few minutes she'd turned away. If it was constantly generated from a singular parahuman source rather than being a true replicating threat, it was likely it could be stopped if someone could get to the center. Beyond the Crew's weight class though, and she ignored the spike of frustration at that thought. Sometimes the urge to break the unbreakable was worth indulging, to drive herself on, but the Crew's safety came first.

She kept her pose looking through the binoculars for a few moments longer than was necessary, as she weighed the risks and gauged courses of action. If they moved away from the interstate and got mired in the destroyed city it would be difficult to turn back, and the flat Floridian terrain and wide low buildings would make it difficult to see trouble coming.

Her phone rang: their Elite contact. Something to tip the scales into decision.

"Faultline," she answered crisply.

The woman who spoke was haughty, aristocratic, with a hint of a latin history to her accent. It wasn't the smug Texan who'd arranged the initial contract.

"This is Nonpareil."

Faultline didn't doubt it. The Elite leader sounded remarkably composed for someone whose city was being torn to pieces. Perhaps another example of Masters being self-controlled to add to her experiences.

With a split second decision, Faultline decided on light pushback. "And?"

"Do you still have Miss Dewpoint?"

"Yes."

"Put us on speaker, if you would."

Smart to assume no conversation would be private, thought Faultline as she wound the menu dial.

"You're on."

"Hello, Dewpoint. Just to be sure it's you, could you tell me the name of the man who lives at the house with the blue painted door? Don't worry about Faultline's people, their reputation for professionalism is extensive."

Dewpoint stiffened at the question's implications, but then icy control asserted itself. "It's Sydney."

"Excellent. You'll be glad to know he's still alive as of yesterday evening, I had a man check up on them. I had a very long talk with your friend Orchid, and have decided to no longer press the issue over dear departed Platear. I know how difficult complex triggers can be, and am only saddened you three didn't come to me for help working through it. Now go with god, and help your loved ones. My factora will drop a supply box at that house in three hours, it would be wise if you were there to secure it."

Faultline watched with interest as frost formed and disappeared on the blue costume in waves. The woman didn't seem inclined to answer, and they all needed to move things along. Faultline gestured for Gregor to release his hold and spoke into the phone. "She's agreeing, seems shaken up."

"Thank you, Faultline, I'm pleased someone can keep their head." Nonpareil's voice changed, grew warmer, almost motherly. "One last thing, Dewpoint. I'm investing my trust in you now, but remember this: you work as a free agent or you work for me. I will allow you no other option."

"I understand."

"Good girl, now run along. Back to a private conversation if you would, Faultline."

Gregor was already backing away from the cape as she gracefully spun and furiously sprinted for the building's fire escape. Just the Crew now, unburdened by the baggage; it changed the weightings.

"Are we getting that last third of our payment?" Faultline said briskly, as she rotated the menu off speaker. The lack would hurt, but it would provide a reputation-proof cause for leaving the city.

"Unfortunately not, my dear." Nonpareil sounded genuinely regretful. "In this time of crisis, all my resources must be turned to ensuring the safety of those under me—"

"Understood." Faultline gestured to the Crew to ready themselves to move out.

"—However, to that end I now ask for your assistance. There are four people under my protection and their effects who I need escorted to a safehouse in Palm Beach. Fifty thousand retainer, two hundred thousand for each of them you get to me alive within the next 72 hours."

"This safehouse lacks your artworks?"

"Only one to dissuade the uninvited — it would be foolish of me to persuade a paranoid mercenary that way when money is so much more efficient."

That was a solid payday. Faultline looked at the sparking horizon, and joined the dots.

"Where are they now?"

"When my people last spoke to them they were traveling north on the A1A, passing Bal Harbor."

Faultline felt her fingers twist in agitation.

"I make that less than a quarter of a mile north of the anomaly."

"Yes. The PRT are designating it Changó. I expect it will be upgraded to an S-Class event within the hour."

"You're in contact with them?"

"I know many who appreciate my work."

"Raise the retainer to two fifty."

"One hundred."

"Still two fifty."

Nonpareil laughed with seeming genuine humor. "No, my dear. You are conveniently positioned, not unique."

Faultline stretched the arm that wasn't holding the phone out, cracking her joints to relieve tension.

"Two fifty, and I tell you something important about 'Changó' for you to pass on to the PRT."

"Your source?"

"One of my team has a sensory power with good range."

There was a sound of muffled conversation on the other end; questions asked and answered by someone else in the room with the villain.

"Agreed." She sounded eager. Faultline wondered how much of the Elite's property was on the edge of the expanding lightning storm.

"It's not a replicator, it's a tree. The new nodes it builds connect back to the previous ones. Cut the trunk and it may cease. It's also destroying organic matter."

"Useful indeed. Transfering the retainer now, I assume the same account is fine. Someone will text you their descriptions and our passcodes. You should start moving." The line went dead.

Faultline turned to the Crew. How best to phrase it? She glanced at Taylor and Skeeter. Of course.

"We've got a new job: help with the civilian evac along the shore, secure the Elite's assets who are in the crowd. Potential million dollar payday, but we bounce if things get too hot, no matter the money. Questions or straight to the vote?"

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date: May fourteenth, two thousand and eleven. Early morning.
Gave the Crew the in-case-of-death password for the shared account. Remember to reset it at the end of the week.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

She'd only been to Miami once before, but the strongest visuals she recalled were the emerald green waters of the lagoons sparkling in the sun, attractive people in not much clothing wandering by the white sand beaches.

Haulover inlet wasn't green today, as brown mud, soil, and corpses bled from the wound in the city and seeped into the ocean. The stink of rotting flesh and stale air battled with the salt of a sea breeze. The south shore of the inlet was swarming with bedraggled looking people clawing to get up onto the low bridge and across to the north. The clouds had started to disperse as the sun moved higher in the sky, which made the azure lightning striking the hotel overlooking the bridge even more alien. The constant low rumble of thunder of Changó's discharges drowned out people's voices. PRT squads were organizing people as they crossed the bridge, aided by a cape riding a horse-shaped construct of golden light that seemed to be acting as shepherd. Other mover capes flew in and out of Bal Harbor, carrying kids and injured and dropping them by a brace of circled ambulances.

They'd had to abandon the van to make their way south against the fleeing traffic in Sunny Isles, and the backpacks full of gear had left those on the Crew without inhuman strength coated in sweat as the air bore down like a thick wet blanket. Faultline held her hand up to pause, studying the environment as she sipped on her water bottle. The park on the north side of the inlet had had its trees toppled by Leviathan's waves, the nude beach stripped bare, and there was enough space for those fleeing to spread out once they were over the bridge. The sightlines were clear for a long way, a good place to start a retreat.

"We go this far, but no further," she told the Crew, "if the clients don't make it over the bridge on their own, they don't make it over the bridge."

There were nods of agreement. Taylor and Elle had sunk to their haunches to get their breath back. Faultline took a moment to frame a plan in her mind, then spoke.

"Gregor, stay here with Labyrinth and the gear. Swallowtail, take my phone and start looking for the matching descriptions in the crowd, bring them to Gregor. Skeets, Newter, with me."

Taylor tilted her head as she caught the phone Faultline tossed her way. "Where are you three going?"

The girl always wanted to know reasons, an admirable trait, but taking the time to explain was going to get both of them in trouble one day.

"Talking to the PRT, then minding the bridge." Faultline nodded at the unanswered question, "it's an S-Class situation, we can't not coordinate. We stay in LOS of each other at all times. Swallowtail will keep us right."

The crew scattered to their tasks, the boys falling into formation to her sides as she strode up the bank to the raised main road. The twenty or so PRT were being ordered by a commander with his helmet off, shouting from the back of a transport. He was a tanned cuban-looking man, hair a deep gray, and worry etched on his face. The officers pulled back to let her past, and the commander looked her up and down.

Leading with a question always wrong footed those in hierarchies. "Why aren't the civilians evacuating in vehicles?"

"Changó targets moving metal above everything else. Cars are deathtraps," he replied sharply. "Are you helping or just in the way? That's a lot of guns for a hero."

"Flare Guns." she lied. "We're contractors, extracting clients. We will not interfere with what you're doing, in fact we can help till we've collected the assets."

The commander spat to the side. "Rich fucks buying the menagerie now? Fine, what you got?"

Faultline pointed at herself, then the three teenagers in order, "Demolitions Striker, Healer, ground-bound Mover, girl in white's a Thinker, can do triage on injured."

He stared off into the distance for a few seconds before replying, "Okay, there's an overturned truck blocking the road further up, deal with it, your two medics can help a lot in the tent, we've people riddled with flesh wounds from the lightning. Tropicana boy stays on this side, command says only flyers allowed across into Bal Harbor—"

"Stay with Swallowtail then, Newter," she added.

"—Now get going. Think tank gives us two hours before this position is overtaken."

"Agreed."

The sea of civilians parted as she ran; nothing like a pair of S-Class events to make the public appreciate capes. The simplicity of dealing with the upturned 18-wheeler was almost relaxing. Split. A good workout to subdivide the chunks. Crack. It took only ten minutes for the lane of traffic to be cleared, and a bottleneck in the crowd to be released.

Then there was a thunderous crash in the distance, and she spun to see the hotel on the south of the inlet splitting in half and toppling to the ground, a ragged crown of azure lightning dwarfing her own destructive efforts. The flyers on that side took to the air like a flock of tropical birds startled by gunshot, while those on the ground stampeded in a man crush.

Faultline suspected the heroes' thinkers had overestimated the time they had. She quickly took stock; a man and a woman in expensive suits stood with Gregor, and Taylor was guiding another man carrying a briefcase over. Three would have to do, eight hundred and fifty grand would make this worth it. She broke into a run, pushing against the crowd this time to get to the PRT post and Skeeter.

Newter bounded up and joined her as she ran, matching pace with easy athleticism. Skeeter wasn't difficult to find, out in the open in front of an ambulance, clutching his hand to a crying toddler's chest while his power rippled across their skin. An older woman looked on, pale enough to faint. He met Faultline's eyes across the crowd as she drew up.

She jerked her head in the direction of the others.

He shook his head. His gaze flicked down to the child, and back up.

She held up one finger.

He winced and nodded.

She couldn't be annoyed at him for things like this, as much as she might want to.

The crowd running over the bridge was thinning now, but that good news was interrupted by another thundering crash. Faultline didn't have an angle to appraise the situation, but she could hear faint screams across the water, followed by the sizzle of blistering energy.

Suddenly there was a supernova of pure white light, and over the curve of the bridge Faultline could see a hundred civilians bobbing into the air, haloed in faint glowing afterimages. In the center of the cloud of newly enabled flyers, a sun to their solar system, shone a blonde girl in a familiar white and gold costume, directing them to float above the water and cross to safety.

"That is pretty cool," Newter said as he smiled, "I should get a photo for Eric."

"I didn't know Glory could do so many at once."

"Hehehe, I wonder what Valor says to that." Newter snickered. "It's funny, you go away on holiday and still run into someone from your hometo—fuck!"

Victoria Dallon's personal light show was interrupted by a tiny thread of blue lightning from behind, stretching a hundred yards back to the hotel. Her luminous glow popped, and she fell like a stone into the brown water below. The idiot hero must have kept only a bare fraction of power back for herself.

Newter was already galloping, but Faultline whistled and pointed to a better direction. Stopping him from rescuing a hero in an S-Class event was a reputational hit she didn't want to incur, so he might as well do it right. That hundreds of fool civilians had paused their escape to watch made the risk calculus even worse. He swept up and along the side of the bridge, hands and feet moving too fast to see on the vertical concrete, before leaping into a long swan dive dozens of yards out into the turbulent water. He surfaced seconds later, tail wrapped around a white costumed form. Anxiety gripped Faultline as she saw he wasn't strong enough to fight the current while pulling someone else, orange limbs struggling to keep them in one place.

"Cuidado!" It was the kid with the horse minion, which as it turned out could walk on water. He rode it across the chaotic flood as if it was a flat racecourse. He seemed confused when Newter refused to take his outstretched hand, instead spinning the water to offer up the Dallon girl. Horse-boy pulled her onto the creature's back in front of him, and Newter leaped up onto the back haunches, careful to not touch the minion's master with his wet psychedelic skin.

It all happened so fast they were back on dry land before the unsteady people Glory had empowered with flight made it to the north shore, the sustaining light flickering out after a few minutes had passed. There were very few civilians left running across the bridge.

The horse-boy made to carry the sodden hero up to the ambulances, but Faultline waved him down. She had an idea.

"Habla inglés?"

"Yeah," he said with a heavy accent. Looking at him closely for the first time, Faultline wondered how long he'd been a cape. He was in lean shape, but his mask was a cut up white t-shirt tied around his face, and all he wore on his upper body was another white t-shirt with the word 'hero' drawn on with red markers.

"You want to live up to that?" she said, speaking clearly and pointing at the word, "help me take out the bridge."

He gasped. "The people though?"

"Changó only converts solid matter, no bridge and it will stop at the water, the people here will be saved," she said with as much certainty as possible. With the anomaly's unpredictable rate of expansion, the Crew needed every advantage they could get.

He still looked hesitant.

"You've got to save the people you can." She pitched her voice older, rougher, playing the grizzled veteran of hard heroic choices.

She could see her welder's mask reflected in his dark brown eyes as he stared down at her. The extremity of the Dallon girl's theatrics had brought them the excuse; the PRT wouldn't press over those left behind, hadn't over other villains facing down S-Classes, but they had to act fast. For a moment she thought the scared teenager would do something heroically stupid, but then he grunted assent.

"—yes. How do we do this?"

She mounted up behind him, surreptitiously checking that none of the PRT squad were watching. "Across the water, go for this side of the southernmost support. Evasive zigzag if the lightning comes for us."

"What sort of zigzag?"

"Just go."

The ride was surprisingly smooth and stable, with no hint of being shaken loose. Looking closely she could see the faint golden glow extended up from the minion's structure to encompass the boy as well. A required secondary effect? She brought her legs up and crouched on the horse, and could feel her feet and hands being held safe by the power.

They were seconds away from the pillar now, so she stood, lifting one foot to steady herself on the boy's shoulder in a warrior pose.

"The fuck?" he shouted, but she ignored him, arm outstretched to touch the pillar as they rushed towards it.

"Sweep past, don't slow down," she barked, and felt her hand touch the smooth concrete.

She pushed out her power in the milliseconds of contact, a flow of force down an invisible christmas tree of possible fracture lines through the support. A careful wedge, interlinked to collapse under its own weight but not explosively, giving them time to get away. As they lurched away she finished, releasing her power to bite at the material.

Shatter.

As the construct sped them away across the murky water, she could hear the pillar crumbling and crashing behind them, a hundred splashes of stone hitting water. The noise rose into screams of twisted metal as the arch of the bridge itself quickly followed suit. They cast shadows on the water in the morning light as the frustrated lightning splintered and flashed on the shore line behind them. She let a satisfied grin form under her mask.

They had an opening.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date: May fourteenth, two thousand and eleven. Noon.
The Harmons are Nonpareil's, good opsec, saying nothing useful. Third man with a fake name is down as a guest, buying the Elite's insurance. He doesn't feel like a leader, find out who he works for? Set Taylor on it.
New Wave weren't here for Leviathan, but volunteered for the cleanup after and were surprised by Changó. I count one hundred and three empowerments for two minutes as Glory's full power reserve - exploitable? Run through scenarios when we get back to the Bay.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

Faultline swayed on her feet as she tried to keep the flashlight steady, and brushed the grime and sand from her mask. The tropical sun had long since set behind the smoking city and steaming swamp, but the air was even hotter and more cloying. An eight hour march up the coast had been wise, avoiding the worst of chaotic crowds and looters, but it had been long and hotter than any desert she'd done jobs in. This metro area was too large, too complex, too exhausting to be safe. At least the clients had some discipline and stayed within the formation.

Maybe too much discipline, she considered, as Mrs. Harmon groaned in pain.

"This will be fine, but you should have told me earlier," Skeeter complained, as he guided a bloodpack to knit the wound in the woman's shoulder. "All the walking has been pulling on it — how were you not screaming all the time?"

Her husband held the other flashlight illuminating the impromptu operating theater, and the light shook as he tensed. Both he and the Indian man were parahumans according to Taylor's whispered updates, probably Thinkers or something subtle in Faultline's estimation.

"That's the client's business, not ours, Skeeter," Faultline said reassuringly. "Though if it was from Changó's power that would be useful to know. We aren't certain it can only spread through non-organic matter."

Mr Harmon spoke: "No, my wife was hit by gunshot shrapnel. Someone insisted on borrowing our vehicle from us in Bal Harbor. To their regret, when they drew the lightning's attention. Perhaps the foolish man did us a service."

Definitely a thinker if they couldn't overcome a mundane human with a gun. Faultline nodded in agreement.

"Got the pieces out, keep her still for five minutes and it'll bind up as good as new," Skeeter announced.

"Good. I'm going to see how Gregor's doing with the truck. You three stay here."

The power was out in every building she could see, and they only had three flashlights. An oversight on her part. She could see the bobbing spot of the other's light at the far end of the car park and strode towards it. There was no route further north from Dania beach along the shore, only parkland and then the open water of Stranahan river and Port Everglades. They'd have to go back into the main city to continue their journey, though from radio chatter Fort Lauderdale seemed calm and had power. Luckily there were still vehicles abandoned in the marina carpark, likely sitting here since the first Leviathan warning, and a beat up open back truck should do for their needs.

"Faultline," came a whisper in her ear. Darkness pooled around them, but one member of the Crew didn't use light to see. In the absence of light any distortion from Taylor's power went from difficult to see to impossible.

She replied in a low voice, matching the quiet urgency, "Yes, Swallowtail?"

"Got a, ah, new information point. New fact. Oh he's looking this way, don't stop walking."

She complied with the voice in the darkness, putting nonchalance in her stride.

"So, yeah. I was— you wanted me to look at the other guy, the guest?"

"Yes," Faultline said patiently; it had been a long day for everyone.

"So it took me a while, tracing paint and ink on flat things is hard. But he's got a bunch of tubes of stuff in that briefcase, and I can't see inside them—"

"Interesting." Their tests had put Taylor's scan penetrating anything but the densest tinkertech.

"—but on the tubes, they have the same symbol the C53's have tattooed on their bodies."

"Ah." She thought rapidly, then decided. "We leave it. Breaking our word to the Elite now would have too many repercussions."

"But the guys—"

"We will track him down after he leaves Nonpareil's protection, but now is not the time. We don't have enough information."

She could imagine Taylor's sullen frown in the darkness.

"Get everything you can read in his briefcase. Oh and Swallowtail?"

"Yes yes, don't tell the boys till later."

"Exactly right." Faultline smiled in satisfaction, an overemphasized expression she knew Taylor would perceive. It was good they were learning to communicate.

"It's creepy when you do that," said the invisible voice in the darkness.

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date: May fifteenth, two thousand and eleven. Three a.m.
*Yawning Noise* Crew asleep.
Reached the Palm Beach safehouse, more like a staging point. Over twenty people have been through while we wait. Nonpareil is moving a massive number of assets out of the whole metro area. Guessing at reasons:
Multiple high level Elite cells in the city, she is now disadvantaged against rivals?
Overheard worries that the limestone might erode further, moving up through Dade county?
She's offered a longer contract doing security in Jacksonville for her move. Will bring to the team when they wake up, we need some rest and it's a long way back to the Bay.
Rumors that the heroes stopped Changó at last, lot of praise for Armsmaster on the radio. Unclear if it was for actions today or against Leviathan. If he's promoted out who will be in charge at the Bay? Second Chance maybe, but the PRT likes leaders who can take a hit. Remember to pay attention.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

"No, Weld was the MVP." Newter hammered a pointing finger on the nook's wooden table for gleeful emphasis. "Sure it may have been Armsie's device that took out Changó, but who walked through the storm to deliver it? Case fifty-threes represent!"

The dyed-pink-haired and definitely under-drinking-age girl he'd been talking to held up her hands in mock surrender, as her friend slumped against her side in a blissed out dream.

At the next table over, Faultline sipped her cocktail with relish before peering at Gregor and Skeeter through the smokey light. She'd flipped the welder's mask up to reveal the wide domino she wore underneath it, a necessity to both drink and see. The dim purple-lit aesthetic of this Jacksonville bar was classic 'hot weather villain' chic, but there was such a thing as too much darkness. If she was designing the set up, there would have been more lights at the bar, possibly soft glow uplighters — you didn't want the clientele stumbling when it was time to buy.

"He's not wrong," she said to the others thoughtfully, "I'm willing to bet there's going to be a big media push about Weld's heroics in the next month."

Gregor hummed in agreement and took a swing of his beer, while Skeeter stared at the glass of wine he'd ordered and only taken a single gulp from. They sat in companionable silence for a minute while she stirred the ice in her drink contemplatively.

"I will be getting another beer in a moment. Perhaps you can share your heavy thoughts before I go?" Gregor rumbled. He did know her too well.

"It's very convenient; Weld having just the right intersection to be neither organic nor inorganic for Changó. If that's what really happened of course."

"A set up?"

"No. Think about 53s, how they're different from each other, how they break the rules of biology in odd and useful ways."

"Weapons?" Skeeter whispered bitterly.

"Experiments. Diversification. So when they need a Weld, they'll have one."

Gregor nodded once, then got up and ambled over to the bar, leaving just the two.

"You don't want to hang with Newter, or the girls, Skeeter? Would beat us old farts." She really needed to catch Gregor up on the next few weeks' plans, get a second opinion before spreading it to the wider crew.

"Newter likes what he likes, but that's not me. Taylor's taking Elle to that ice cream truck we saw during the way back from Deer Creek, so yeah." Skeeter sounded resigned and a little sad.

"You love ice-cream though, they'd go in costume if you asked." Florida was still riding the post-Endbringer trauma, no one was going to curse at a monstrous cape, especially one with changes as banal as Skeeter's red skin.

"Taylor doesn't like the attention, it'd stress her out, and that'd stress Elle out. It'd be— I'd rather they had fun."

Helpful, she thought. With Taylor's debt nearly paid back, hopefully enough sentiment and camaraderie had been built. But on the other hand she didn't want martyrs on the Crew, not even martyrs for the Crew.

"Okay, but we're going to talk about this on the drive home."

"Hmmm."

"We'll even set it in the schedule. Just you and me are going to stop at that BBQ place in Nash County you liked, while everyone else is sleeping."

Skeeter smiled a brief flash of boyish cheer, then frowned. "Shift driving?"

"Being down Spencer bites when Rodrigeuz can't make it," she said, thinking of how she'd used to have the henchmen fly out to drive them back. "I think we might have to train up Matthews after all, or we'll be leaving me and Gregor exhausted."

"Kid did not seem like he had the nerve for all this," Skeeter said of a man at least a decade older than him. "Not the ex-triad guy?"

"Tsang works for his family. It's good, gives a lever, but we can't take him too far from them," she said flatly.

"All the options suck huh?"

"Taylor's going to be sixteen soon, we could get her in the driving game." She paused at the look of terror in the red boy's eyes. "Or not. You don't have Newter's chair difficulties, I could teach you to drive on the way back. We couldn't use you in cities but it would help on the interstate."

"I'd like that." He paused, looking at his wine. "It's weird to think, was I ever in a car before I was brought here? What were they like back h—where I came from?"

Fautline shrugged. "We'll find out eventually, when we put in the work."

Gregor dropped himself gingerly back into the seat, cradling his fresh beer. It was a much more extravagant bottle than the one he had previously.

"Took your time with that bartender, Gregor," Skeeter joked, though his imitation of Newter seemed forced. "Got a fan?"

"They are a fan, but not of mine. They heard from our orange colleague that we are leaving the city soon, and I was gifted with their last Tripel in exchange for answering certain questions about our esteemed leader."

"Huh?" asked a baffled Skeeter.

Faultline slowly turned to regard the bartender; the wiry tattooed man lacked the physicality she looked for when she went for men, but his mixing of a fresh cocktail showed impressive deftness and dexterity. He grinned, perhaps knowing she was watching. Someone working in a bar connected to the Elite would be a risk, but she could keep the mask on. Groupies did love that power move. It was worth a conversation at least, rather than letting opportunity slip.

Her gaze met theirs, and lingered. Message understood, her eyes promised.

"Gregor, mind the teenagers."

-=≡</>≡=-​

Cli-CK
Date: June ninth, two thousand and eleven.
Three weeks escort contract is up, three hundred and five thousand to account A7, plus ten in cash for buying the van to travel in. Neither hide nor hair of the Fallen.
Nonpareil relocated most of her movable assets before Bastard Son made the bid for North Dade county. Most northern states, especially Cleveland. Need to look for a line on Elite inner politics, this is going to come up more. Relief funds for Miami are going to be tied up for months in the Senate.
Yuan forwarded scans of the Palanquin's mail: the Mayor's doing a zoning thing, remember to look into it. Taylor's birthday present arrived.
Her birthday is the day we get back, maybe do something? Drop hints to the others, let them get something on their own, it'll feel more sincere that way. Get a gift bag for Elle's present, she keeps forgetting and leaving it in the common room.
*Long pause*
Decade since my own sixteenth, what would that girl think? There's been more ups than downs, and I have people in my corner. Looking in a mirror, that girl would say we have done more, climbed higher.
*Short pause*
I'm glad the kids are here to remind me teenagers are idiots.
*Laughter*
It's been a long time since we've been home. Bunch of security offers from Downtown businesses who want capes against the Teeth. Set up a discussion session when we get back.
Up early to drive tomorrow, better get some sleep.
CLI-ck

-=≡</>≡=-​

Authors Notes

• Second half of the Faultline interlude done, and we've powered past Levithan woo! Had a bit of trouble splitting these 14k words in two or three, eventually decided on this so that all the future plot relevant stuff rather than characterisation was focused in this one. Thus also is setting some stuff up for the coming arc. We will be hearing from Nonpareil again.
• Thanks to Juff and Red Wolf and Abyss for the beta read.
• This era of crew shown in this art post!

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Luis stretched his hand further, felt bone and flesh and leather twist and widen as the seconds ticked by, to reach the hanging ladder of the fire escape. He'd once likened it to flexing a muscle, but it kept on flexing past the point a normal person would feel resistance, but now it was just the way he was. And it was always too slow.

Fingers as wide as beer cans closed around the creaking metal, his enhanced sense of touch in the changed digits feeling every flaking bit of paint and bubbling rust. He heaved himself up onto the platform one handed, then took the stairs two at a time. The escape hadn't been repainted in years, coated in the same sticky grime and old smoke that everything this close to the Trainyard suffered.

At the top, he paused and started stretching his shins and the other hand. The brick buildings in this neighborhood might not be tall, but they were close packed, so his discount Tarzan impression should get him south to freedom without much difficulty. He was careful not to shift the material of his trousers, lest the wads of bills slipped from his pockets. The money was a ticket out of this shithole of a city, down south to New York or NoVa or something. It wasn't like Lucky Sal's poker ring were going to need their pot any more, he thought with a shudder.

Footsteps sounded below him, heavy boots running up the brick wall of the building.

Luis didn't waste a look down, pushing down with his two snow-shovel sized hands and launching his body towards the next building. The next roof was higher, and he realized his arc wouldn't make it as the wall blurred towards him. Fingers shoved through the brickwork and gripped. The left held, and his body swung under it. He quickly scrambled up to stand on the secure hand of his inhumanly proportioned body, and reached up again with the right.

It was a few feet short. He winced and stretched again, feeling the flesh tearing painfully as his power pushed against the limits of its speed. Was this really all he could do? Still too weak for the weight-lifting team and too stupid for anything else. Tree-trunk fingers flailed against the rough bricks, searching for purpose.

There! The lip of the roof. He pulled up, every quick-stretched tendon in his right hand screaming in agony, and crouch sprinted across the tiled rough. The massive right forearm trailed behind him, deadweight in the long minutes it would take to rebalance. On reaching the crest of the roof, he dashed down again to cross the next alley.

The movement of air against the now enormous hairs on his arm gave him a microsecond of warning and he threw himself to the side to avoid the near-invisible barrier. Scrambling backwards on his back he took in the glinting specks in the air that marked the razor blades of Vex's forcefield, but the cape herself was nowhere to be seen. Was she down in the street, but making it on the roof?

He rolled and took off in the other direction, sweat soaking his leathers. One of the Teeth's capes was bad enough, but two? He needed to get to a phone; jail was better than death. Reaching the third corner of the roof he positioned his hands on the lip in readiness of another giant leap.

The first bullet ricocheted off his metal covered finger and nicked his unexpanded shoulder, the second tore the flesh of the wrist. The crowd of unpowered Teeth in the street below cheered as the spray of blood fountained out. He fell back in agony. Given time he could squeeze around the wound, bring it down to nothing when he reshaped his arm but he didn't have time. He never had time!

"Coño!" he swore in frustration.

There was a crash as feet landed on the roof behind him. Luis spun his head to look at Reaver as the cape strolled over, his two throwing axes held ready. Both men wore rough leather that still allowed freedom of movement, but while Luis decorated his with metal studs and plates, the shorter man had hooked hundreds of finger bones in haphazard rows through his. The Teeth cape walked with grace and confidence matching his circus acrobat build, using his power to stick to the sloping roof as if he was walking on flat ground, tilted thirty degrees away from sanity.

"Heeey, Biter my man!" he called out with rabid amusement. The henchmen below started chanting when they heard his shout.

Biter tried to play his last card; when all else failed, be polite. "I've still got Sal's money, apologies for taking your winnings. Let me get it out, no harm no foul."

Reaver tilted his head to the side questioningly, taking it to nearly parallel with the ground.

"What money?"

Luis felt bile rising in his throat as he realized what those below were chanting.

"Pit meat! Pit meat! Pit meat!"

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I look out the van windows as we drive the last stretch through the north-west of the city from the freeway turn off. The tint of the glass, an optional extra Mel purchased with the Crew's Florida proceeds, gives the city an unreal air when seen through my sunglasses, a double sepia haze rendering the Brockton Bay sunset different from my memories. Dirty and bruised.

A month is double my previous record for being away from the Bay, and I feel something has changed. The city feels colder than it should for the summer, more guarded. More boarded up windows and gang signs; bone white double zig-zags are the most common, but there are red arrows and black skulls scattered here and there, and I catch a singular blue sun and what looks like a green leaf in my scan. I don't recognise any of them outside the Teeth's jagged white maw. I linger on the last one as it passes through the sphere of pointillistic clarity my power provides. The leaf is drawn with a thick sappy paste rather than paint, full of organic fibers—

Maybe it's me that changed, I think as the mystery leaves the radius of my scan. A month running and fighting and spying in the bright sunshine and hot nights have taken its toll, my skin burnt raw by countless eyes. The ruins of Miami taking their bitter price, tracing a thousand corpses churning in the shallow waters. A crisp New England breeze to finally clear my head and the quiet of a room of my own would be a blissful relief.

As Gregor pulls the van up to the Palanquin's side entrance, I trace the inside of the building. Mel had split from us in Boston, going ahead in her own car and civilian dress to check everything was safe, and a silent note of relief passes my lips as I find her inside talking to the club manager and Rodrigeuz. I turn in my seat and gently shake the sleeping Elle to wakefulness, then throw an unopened packet of chips at the snoring Newter, who is sprawled face-down and tail-up on the third row of seats.

Both of them rouse in a flash, just like I do nowadays, the everpresent chance of waking up to danger forcing new instincts to be learnt.

"We're home," I say crisply.

"Yey," says Elle with a half-smile. Newter just flashes a brilliant white smile, then shoves the door open hard enough for the panels to clang, before he's out and away up the side of the building. Of all of us, the long drives were the hardest on Newter; car seats ill-fit his body, and inactivity similarly is a bad match for his brain. In contrast Elle found the constant movement restful, her power never having a chance to catch and twist the surroundings into nightmares.

I adjust my clothes before stepping out myself. I'd never been able to part with my bulky sunglasses to hide the hidden parts of my face, but the southern weather had forced a lighter hoodie and long loose shorts. When I am calm, like now, the pliant crystal tendrils of my plumes draw in to only a finger's length extruding from my spine, and they barely push at the fabric. Mel hypothesizes it is mental or emotional states governing them, and I should be able to pull them all the way under my skin with sufficient effort. Like so much of Mel's advice, the answer is trying harder, practicing more, and having the guts to put in the hard work.

I'm not there yet.

Skeeter and Gregor get out of the front seats and join up with Elle and I, and we enter the side door as a group, a box covering the angles for protection. Not walking tall into the main street entrance like conquering heroes, but with a certain assertiveness nonetheless. Mel and the others pause in their chatter to welcome us with hurried nods. I know they've been having a tense conversation, I'd been tracing it all the time we were walking in, but choose not to make a fuss by mentioning it. Gregor sees something as well from the way his gaze moves, but remains impassive. Skeeter—

"What's happened? Something wrong?" the red boy asks urgently.

Mel slightly taps a finger against her eyebrow in stress, none of which makes it to her voice. "Rodrieguez is giving his notice."

"Oh—" Skeeter sounds deflated. Mel's ever reliable bouncer opens his hands sheepishly. Oddly he isn't as massively tall as I remember, though still wide and muscular; I can easily see past his shoulder now, to the club manager Yuan trying to sidle out of the confrontation. Rodrieguez's mainly looking at Elle, and I feel only a slight warmth of peripheral vision as he avoids meeting mine or Skeeter's faces.

"Congratulations!" Elle shouts buoyantly, seemingly fully present, "she said yes? I knew she would."

"Christine did, thank you, Elle," Rodriquez says in his heavy voice and with a rare smile, then looks at Gregor to explain, "the job has been good for me, very good, but the hours and the danger— Christine doesn't want to stay in this city with a little one on the way."

I feel a hot glance from Melanie criss-cross over me, but I am unsure what it is about.

"Understandable. Do you have a place to go?" Gregor rumbles.

"My brothers need help with their restaurant in Providence, maybe some other things on the side."

"Our security and confidentiality package for past employees is substantial," Melanie adds curtly.

Rodriguez nods in agreement.

Elle is quizzing him on the details, but I'm tired from the journey. I wait till no one is looking and hide from their perception and slip away. The crowd fills the corridor too well to get past and enter our rooms, but the access stair to the roof is available. I run up the four flights with a practiced stride, and emerge into the orange light of the sunset breathing easily. Newter is surprisingly hard to see with mundane vision against the lurid background as he perches atop the roof's wall, crouching on his haunches, muscles of his back flexing.

"Hey," I say quietly, emphasizing the noise when it reaches my domain in his ear canal.

"Sup, Tails," he whispers without looking at me, sure in the knowledge I'll pick it up. The day the rest of the younger members of the crew decided to tease me with imitation had been hard, bringing back submerged memories of that girl I couldn't name, relentless bullying in a school I'll never return to. Elle and Skeeter had dropped it quickly, feeling my distress at the teasing, but Newter still brought it out from time to time.

"Jerk," I say more loudly as I walk over. It is hard to begrudge his boundless enthusiasm and gleeful absence of malice.

"What's eating you?"

I shake my head, letting the bundled curls waft in the breeze. I throw my scan down to Elle, trace the conversation still going on. Christine has come to talk to Mel and Elle as well, and I trace the developing life twitching inside her. I've been inside enough women to know the forming fingers and other extremities mean it is at least three months along. Christine did look both happy and worried, nervously looking around as if a ghost might appear at any moment, and I realize now why Melanie is annoyed at me.

"Stuff," I answer Newter, a leaden feeling on my tongue, "consequences."

"Well get on up. This is my musing spot, but amazingly it doubles as a brooding spot as well!"

I pull myself up onto the wall in an easy movement; parkour moves are surprisingly simple when your bone is weightless crystal. I could match Skeeter's hydraulic acceleration in some of the drills now, even if Newter left us both in the dust for speed. We sit and stare at the shifting shadows as the orange ball of the sun melts into the horizon like butter in a saucepan. After a while Newter's tail starts tapping up and down, like it is dancing to an invisible tune.

I sigh, "what's the question?"

"Now we're back in the city, going to meet up with Jess and Eric. Maybe on a rooftop, maybe someplace we can actually use my console, but swinging Mel to have me meet two heroes—"

"I'll go with you, no problem." I preempt the question, but hunch myself over and pinch my thumb and fingers together. I take far too long for it to be funny, but in my best Melanie impression I say, "for a favor of course."

He laughs more than the feeble joke deserves. "Sure I'll help you stalk shady doctors."

I tilt my head in thanks, I didn't want to deepen my debt to Mel until I was sure I'd found the man who had tampered with my dad's sedatives.

Something else picks at my attention. "Jess?"

"Yeah, Genesis is a girl. Nothing more said than that in our chats. She's been getting so close to New Wave I'll bet she'll join and unmask any day now."

"She already doesn't wear a mask," I point out, to more unearned laughter.

Our attempts to actually plan his pitch to Mel are cut off by a text.

Faultline >> My Office. Now

Newter has a huge grin on his face as we dash back down the roof stairs to the back corridor. As we brush past Christine going the other way I decide to try and be kinder than my necessary roughness all those months ago, unhiding my lower face and emphasizing an unsteady smile as I turn and speak.

"Congratulations on your son!" I say as brightly as I can manage.

She seems puzzled and fearful, but I don't have time to break down why as everyone else is already gathered in Melanie's office, and I rush to catch up. Definitely the grandest room on the top floor, the wide windows behind the massive wooden desk take in the same sunset Newter and I had been studying. Uncharacteristically, Melanie is perched on the desk in her casual jeans and white shirt, back to us and looking out the window, while everyone else stands around expectantly. As I push the door open and slink in, I intend to join the ring of the crew standing around, but instead Skeeter and Elle move to bracket me in the middle.

I'm not sure I like this.

"Have them bring it in," Melanie commands sternly, as Gregor pulls out his phone and texts a single word to someone. "It's an interesting exercise; how do you get the drop on someone with an omnidirectional sphere of perfect vision?"

"Move very fast?" Skeeter hazards.

"Overwhelm them with distractions, bang pow." Newter accompanies his answer with finger guns.

"Get there before them, and hide in the detail?" I guess. We'd played 'how would you beat?' on nearly every cape we know in the Bay on the drive back from Florida, and the answers of how to defeat me hadn't changed.

"Good answers, but they all come down to… timing." Melanie snaps her fingers as she looks out the window. I see a new figure enter the radius of my scan: the short teenage boy Gregor employs as a part time minion. He's holding a cardboard box, and within it is a crude cylinder of cream and carbohydrates.

"A cake?" I ask, in befuddlement.

"Happy Birthday Taylor." They sing-song in an out of tune chorus.

I hadn't forgotten, just lost track of days passing. Memories of a quiet restaurant last year well up, just me and my dad getting burgers on a summer's day, and I try to keep it all inside.

"I didn't think you made a big deal of them here," I try to deflect. Not even Elle knew what her actual birth date was, and I couldn't imagine Mel blowing out a set of candles.

Gregor gives an answer: "That something is lost and unspoken, does not make it less cherished. If this is not suitable for you, we do not need to make a fuss."

"Skeeter and I forgot to get you anything if it helps," Newter dissembles with a grin. Skeeter rolls his eyes, and I wonder if it is by choice or if they hadn't found a store they could browse in undisturbed.

"Thanks, it actually does."

"I ordered you a book, but it's still on delivery," Skeeter says.

Gregor heads downstairs to get the cake, and I am presented with two gifts: a black gift bag containing tubes of some thick material from Elle, and a solid brown envelope of papers and plastics from Mel. I open the gift bag first and stare at the packet of lipstick, a metallic shade of blue so dark it's almost black.

"I got myself the same thing but in green," Elle informs me merrily. I don't get the logical link, but I know Labyrinth has had even more of the teenage girl experience taken from her than I have. If it is important to her, I could make it important to me. I would make up for my failures eventually.

"Thank you," I say sincerely.

"I put you against lots of different backgrounds when you were sleeping and I think it's your color."

"I did think my pillow smelt odd," I say tensely as I tear the top of the envelope and pull out the contents. I try not to think about someone watching me without my knowledge.

The first is a print-off of a ledger; itemized pay against a debt. The number trends downwards, and in the very last entry flips to a small positive.

"Is this—?" I ask.

"Yes. One point five million gross in the last two months, minus operating costs and insurance, came out to a hundred and twenty grand each. You're in the black now, if you want to start planning your next attack on a hardened PRT installation," Mel answers, raising an eyebrow at her own wit.

I nod and turn to the next thing in the packet. It's a New Hampshire driver license for a thin-faced girl with straight black hair. If you squint a bit, she almost looks like me.

Clarice Taylor Richards, age seventeen.

I look at Mel, apparently now my cousin, who shrugs. "Linking identities will help, 'Mabel Richards' is well established in a lot of places, and it will make some things easy. Especially for a teenager."

"No, the middle name."

"You're not a good enough actor yet, this gives cover for a wrong footed reaction while also being obscured from a trivial database search. Don't worry about it — I don't think this will be your last false identity."

That is a sobering thought, as a vision of this life stretched before me. The never being pinned down, never having your real name whispered in the background is appealing, but I had seen the hard choices Mel has had to make under those subtropical skies. I don't know if I can make them, or if I want to—

Elle thrusts a paper plate loaded with cake into my hands, and smells of moist sponge and tart strawberries waft up at me. The diet of lean meats and fresh vegetables we'd had in Florida had been good for me, but the scent of baked goods brings back even earlier birthdays, when my dad had the energy for baking.

"It's here now, look elsewhere later," Elle insists before I spiral again.

"Thanks, Elle." I dip my fork and take a bite, feel the sugar and fruit on my tongue. It's not Danny style cookies, but it's pretty good for store bought.

I hear a cheer behind me, and trace Gregor likewise with a fragment of cake balanced on a fork. The jubilation is from him holding it with his still shell encrusted left hand; it had been eleven weeks since that night in the woods when the Butcher took his arm, and he still can't bend the fingers properly. I turn and congratulate him, and get a smile in return, something he rarely uses except to reassure Elle on her bad days.

Skeeter quizzes Gregor on his range of motion, and ropes me in to describe the interior scabbing. The machinery of the hand is fascinating; pulleys and lines and ligaments working together so fluidly and perfectly you don't even realize how complicated it is until it breaks. Gregor's is more so than most. There's less difference between his bones and tendons than on a boringly mundane person; instead the parts have continuums of pliancy, strong or soft as the situation demands.

Thankfully small talk doesn't last long. We've spent months in each other's company after all, and Mel draws us back in as she takes one of her confident leader stances.

"We're all tired from the journey, so let's get an early night. It'll be a work day tomorrow and probably the day after, as we need to scout the lay of the land here in the Bay, but after that we can take the week off."

"No jobs?" Newter askes.

"We've got some dangled offers, security work mostly. Don't want to take any till we know what we're up against. We've got a good war chest from Florida, we don't need to rush into things."

"No training?" He's almost hopeful now.

"Afternoon conditioning only. Until we shop around for a new tutor at least." Newter's face collapses in a comic frown at the second thought, but I am looking forward to doing some proper reading.

"Don't give me that look," Mel warns, "now get going. Yuan had someone drop off fresh sheets and towels in the corridor basket. I'll be on Elle-watch."

No one is in the mood to refuse that order and we troop off up to our rooms. In the end I decide against sharing the big room with Elle, and stick with the small guest room. Its dimensions feel more private, safe, either because I can scan more of the outside, or because it reminds me of my room at my dad's house. Something instinctive floats up under the dark waters of my mind, something suppressed all the time we'd been away, and I examine and connect the sharp razor shards of memory to my conscious mind.

I haven't checked what happened to our old house.

Guilt at my negligence floods me, battering against the intellectual bulwarks that I could not have done anything to save or manage a house. Taylor Hebert is a missing person, a footnote of loss in the story of a supervillain, and it has to be that way until I am a legal adult who can't be swept up by Child Services. It doesn't stop me gripping my freshly laundered pillow so hard I tear it, and I press my face into the soapy smelling rent. I don't suppress the memory, but I distract myself tracing the Palanquin slowly filling up with customers, the ripples of sounds too muddied and overlapping to pick apart in my drowsy state.

Eventually, the bass heartbeat of the club carries me off to sleep.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• And now SV is caught up with SB! (Pending 2.A and 2.B side stories, because the formatting is breaking moving them across , and the 3.A interlude, because I literally just forgot about it lol ). Unfortunately that means posting rate will be down to weekly(ish).
• We're back with Taylor - she's even in kind-of sort-of an okay place (maybe?), and is 'definitely' going to take a calming rest before throwing herself into things .
• I'm sure losing the only henchman trusted enough to look after Elle on their own (see 3.3) will have no consequences.
• Thanks to Juff, Abyss, and Red Wolf for the beta read.

 

[Lord Warlock]

I love when authors crosspost their stories to other sides, give me an extra chance of noticing all the good stuff.

 

[NotDis]

Author's Note:

• As the name suggests, this was meant to go early in arc 3 but I just somehow forgot about it when moving stuff across from SB. Mainly informs the arc 3 caper, but there are two long term plot things here (the 'side jobs' Epeios mentions, and that he has an assistant).

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Opposition Research

Connecting to 6Cdbq.net
Authenticating
Enter temporary passcode
Authenticating
Select 1TP physical media
Authenticating
Open Email, 1 New Message

From: admin@6Cdbq.net
To: client39@6Cdbq.net
Subject: Re: PHQ
Body:

Heya Faultline,

Got the requested documents and the extra spicy executable. Had to subcontract to get the force field specs annotated, I've taken it out of your credit. The little overachiever put additions on everything, I've marked their stuff in pink for you.

If you're really going to take a crack at that nut, I know some people who'd want side jobs done while you're in the facility. One of Nonpareil's paintings is allegedly in the vault (don't worry it's not one that bites), and she'll always pay in the tens of thousands to get those back. An anonymous colleague wouldn't mind you releasing a listening worm in the computer system (15k on completion), and another one will pay you forty for bringing any of Armsie's helmets back (Intact, 5k for a damaged one). If any of those hook your interest, get in touch.

Always a pleasure,
Epeios

Attachments:
BB-PRO-HQ OVERVIEW.rtf
Superstructure Floorplan.tiff
Drop Leg A Floorplan.tiff
Drop Leg B Floorplan.tiff
Drop Leg C Floorplan.tiff
Drop Leg D Floorplan.tiff
Configurable Geometric Hardlight Construct Maintenance Notes.archive
Collated Emails.archive
Bathymetrics.archive
DoNotRunThisVirusAtHome.archive

Open Document BB-PRO-HQ OVERVIEW.rtf

BB-PRO-HQ was originally constructed in 1995 as the Mars-A drilling and production platform situated in the Mississippi Canyon of the Gulf of Mexico. Following the shift by the oil and gas industry in the post-Leviathan late-90s to a model of numerous expendable small FPSOs (large platforms representing single points of failure), Mars-A and others like it were decommissioned in the 1999-2001 period. Mars-A and four other platforms were purchased by the PRT in a huuuge bribe to Royal Dutch Shell to get money to euro-capes, as part of a planned system of offshore containment/testing facilities for potentially dangerous parahumans. They were recommissioned in late 2001 in New Orleans and towed into position on the US coastline, Mars-A (now PRO-TEST-4) being placed thirty miles off the Hampton Roads.

Five facilities proved surplus to testing throughput despite how much the PRT waste, and the number of offshore testing facilities was reduced to three in 2002. PRO-TEST-4 was due for a second decommissioning, when the Director of ENE noted their Protectorate Headquarters was still in poor repair having been heavily damaged in a confrontation in 1999, and that there was pressing need for a missile platform to cover the eastern approaches to Quarantine Site Four and everyone was so still scared by Nilbog they don't even say his name. PRO-TEST-4 was refurbished they put heaters in and Christmas tree lights and towed into position in Brockton Bay in November 2002.

Following several rounds of upgrades in 2003 and 2005, BB-PRO-HQ has become quite the attraction as its cheery lights and iridescent energy barriers are clearly visible from Brockton Bay's seafront tourist promenade, and the Christmas and New Year's displays from its three towers are very stunning. It is a triumph of the PRTs mission to reassure the public, as well as protect yaaaawn.

A four torsion-leg platform design, BB-PRO-HQ is large rectangular plate positioned over its four cylindrical 'legs'. It is aligned so that one face points south-west at the Boardwalk. Mars-A originally operated above ocean depths of 3000ft, so the shallow 200ft of the southern bay present little difficulty the legs still float, the Rig does not directly stick to the sea floor. With reduced need for floating capacity, the insides of the torsion leg cylinders were repurposed for highly secure classified subunits, held both underwater and behind meters of metal plating.

Here's the rundown (ha) on the Legs:

• South Leg (A) has the generator for the forcefield bridge and the Vault for dangerous items they find. Big secret but the bridge has reconfigurable geometry; it changes to connect to places on the shore, reinforce the main shields, or make a superstrong bubble to contain dangers in the Vault.
• North Leg (C) has the generator for the BIG forcefield, bigger and stronger but has static geometry. Armsmaster doesn't tell anyone but he finds the other generator more interesting and slacks on the maintenance of the big one.
• West Leg (B) and East Leg (D) contain the cells for the baddest parahumans. Each is ten cells and they filled the interior structure of the Legs with containment foam and sensors. Only two elevator shafts in and out of them. B is where they keep the Brute cells obv. There's guard posts on the plate above them.

The main plate of the BB-PRO-HQ is six storys tall and holds the armories, labs, and motor pools for the protectorate heroes and the staff of the facility. Several large rooms are holdovers from the days as a dedicated testing facility, and are still used for parahuman testing to this day. The largest interior space is above the South Leg, and a 20-by-10 yard opening to it acts as the entrance way from which the radiant forcefield bridge emerges. The big corridors to get around run the outside of the plate, with smaller corridors projecting inside. They cut some corners on the refurb where no one can see, there are a lot of welded over voids and old pipe blocks in between the larger rooms and blocks.

On the decking atop the main plate, the old drilling derricks and pumping stations of the original platform have been removed, and BB-PRO-HQ presents a flat profile with two helipads and three slim spires in the center that generate the famous forcefield sneaky trick, as the forcefield generator is actuallyin the North Leg, two of these towers are for electronics and the last has the cruise missiles!!. The surface is clear enough that the famous annual Protectorate vs PRT hockey game is played on it each February. They don't mention the AA guns hidden under this decking. The spires are sealable from the main facility in case of emergencies. The arches are purely for decoration, spending that taxpayer money!

Of the original blocks of the drilling platform, only the housing module remains, positioned on the edge facing the Broadwalk the cafeteria and meeting rooms have unparalleled views of the city in the day time, and are sometimes used for special functions and access is given to members of the public on special tours they slap metal blinds on all those windows in the night though, everything will clang shut.

<click for next page>

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Marquis couldn't fly.

Amy Pelham stretched out her arms to the side and held the pose, the workout gear sliding as it moved across her torso. The fabric looked almost black in the dim morning light. She let her power flow unrestrained along her skin, vice-like pressure gripping and crushing the organic matrix where it stopped being her and became not-her. A suit of skin and bacterial life settled into place and she lifted up.

Marquis couldn't fly.

She repeated the mantra as she unsteadily rose into the air, and drifted towards the roof of the Pelham household. This was her power, not his, it drew on Mom and Dad as much as it did the osteokinetic serial killer. Just like Eric mixed a bit of Dad with a lot of Mom, or Vicky's power recombined Carol's and Mark's to make something new. Hero and Villain, struggling to come out on top. Always a struggle, like everything in her life, but a dead man had no hold on her.

She brought her shoes down lightly on the rim of the chimney. It was quieter here, less life intruding upon her awareness, the crushing oceans of cytoplasm that surrounded her thinned. Focusing was easier as she went through a series of calisthenic exercises, muscles warming up as they pushed against the iron prison of her power holding her in place. Twenty minutes in and her skin was slick with sweat, skin bacteria swept away to fall and drip on the tiles of the roof. She'd rather be in bed than exercising, dreaming of a life unbound, but that would be letting Mom down.

She stepped backwards off the chimney and drifted down to the window of her room, letting the position of the potted plants and mice in the attic guide her. All the bedroom windows were tall enough to walk through, a big selling point when they'd moved in ten years ago. Mom had never doubted that all of her children would need full-height window access. She pushed them aside, and touched down, her shoes leaving grime from the roof on the fibers of the carpet. The bathroom, once shared with Crystal, was now blissfully hers alone with her big sister staying in the university dorms most nights. A quick shower later and she was on to the next bit of the morning routine; black-dyed hair was straightened of its frizz, foundation and concealer were applied over the mass of freckles. Her waking energy was almost spent by the time she'd thrown on a big t-shirt and comfortable jeans and stomped down the stair for breakfast—

An animal bounded into her range on the street outside, a deep rumble of furious barking as it dug at the flowerbed below the window.

She froze on the steps, and froze it in her power. Seconds passed. It was just Mr Sullivan's old labrador, running off the lead. Its bones were only weakening collagen rather than metal and unnamable compounds.

She breathed out, and let its heart beat again.

She shivered. It was always so easy. Was this what it was like for Marquis? Living in a world that was so tender, so malleable. Everything conspired to shock and jolt her, temptations to use her power irresponsibly.

Her power relaxed its focus and smoothed out, once again lightly touching every living cell around her, and waited for the next command. Just Mom and Dad on the floor below and innumerable drifting bacteria and protists and fungi in the air. She resumed her walk down the stairs and was greeted by a delicious smell of pancakes and syrup that billowed from the kitchen. Mom was at the stove, apron on over her uniform, hair perfect and smile shining with a universal warmth. Dad sat at the granite topped island in a dressing gown, coffee cup looking like a doll's plaything in his absurdly large hands.

"Hey Amy-girl, you sleep well?" he asked with a grin.

She loved Neil, not to the intensity of parental affection she had for Mom, but she could trust Dad like no one else. Her power brushed against his internal energy shield and stuck like fingers in thick honey; she could hurt him, but she would never have the fine resolution to freeze his nervous system in place, or compel a confession from him. He was a true hero who'd always tell her the truth, even if she went bad.

"Eh," she grunted, waving her hand in a so-so motion. She sat down and started to spoon pancakes onto her plate.

Mom gently coughed off to the side, and when Amy touched that immaculate face with her power, she could feel muscles move to form a raised eyebrow. With a stab of guilt, Amy put the last two pancakes back onto the main plate. She tried, but she wasn't perfect like mom, or perfect like Crystal. Something in the set of her mouth must have given her away, as Dad glanced at Mom.

"She's a growing girl, Sarah."

"Flying doesn't burn calories, Neil."

Dad sipped his coffee tiredly, but didn't have a rejoinder. She had planned to ask him about his late shift patrol last night, but the mood had left her, and she picked at her breakfast.

Dad was on his second cup of coffee before he spoke again. "You still patrolling with Jess this afternoon?"

"Yeah?" She'd been dreading their schedules aligning again. Aunt Jess, Fleur, had been there in Canberra, and had seen what she'd done. Now it lurked in the back of every conversation with the older woman, no matter how well they'd got on before.

"Great, I've got a bunch of notes for you to give her. Mike and I ran into Morning Glory's two brutes again, smashing up a grocery store of all things, we got a much better read on their deal. Neither of them can throw a punch worth a damn for one thing. We might be able to clear them out of the northern city this week, net the team a solid win."

"I'm glad," she muttered. She hated fighting, the confusion and the uncertainty as adrenaline roared and fragile water filled sacks of meat and blood bounced and shook and threatened to rupture.

Mom took her apron off as Dad spoke, and waited as if she expected him to say something else. When he didn't, she put her hand on his tree-trunk of a shoulder and spoke, brilliant blue eyes locked with Amy's brown ones. For a moment, she was jealous of her dad receiving that guiding touch.

"Amy dear, a couple of things came up in the trustee meeting, and we'd like you to think about them. These are your choices though and there is absolutely no pressure."

Except letting you down again, Amy thought, even as her mouth expelled a verbal shrug. "Okay?"

"We've had an inquiry from some people down in New York. There's a Tinker who is quite sick with brain cancer, too sick to move really, and we were wondering if you'd be happy to take a little trip? With me escorting you of course."

That wasn't a little trip, it would tear her away from her calm spaces and safe routine, her structures. Even as her heart warmed at the thought of time with just her and her mother, she furrowed her brow in confusion. "I thought making house calls would 'open a door that's impossible to close'?"

"Yes, well remembered, but this would be very discreet. Uppercrust has considerable need to keep his illness under wraps or risk facing challengers to his position."

She'd heard the adults mention the name before, but had never paid attention. So many names and details flew overhead in the Thursday night planning sessions the younger generation got to attend, it was too much effort to commit them all to memory. "You make him sound like a villain."

"Technically he is also a supplier to the PRT all up and down the East Coast, but yes he's a member of the Elite."

"But why? Do we need the money?"

"No." Mom stood straighter, set her shoulders as she subtly shifted into her 'leader of New Wave' stance. "But we do need the information. Cells from the Elite are making plays in the city, and Uppercrust can tell us who, speak with them for us, blunt some of the damage so we can focus on the serious problems like the Teeth. So we can keep this city safe."

"Sure, fine." She'd do what mom asked her eventually, no need to draw it out. If it'd help the team she had to do it. She was a hero after all. She felt their faces with her power even as she looked down at her pancakes — was mom smiling in approval? A little pleased quirk to those lips told her she'd made the right choice.

"We could stop off on the way as well, maybe do a detour to get some training done at Green Mountain?"

Mom had taken Crystal there last year, and Amy still remembered her frustration at her sister for monopolizing those scarce summer weeks.

"That'd be okay," she replied nonchalantly.

"The other thing is a lot more long term, and only something to think about. We keep getting approached by people a little too close to some of the Empire supporters. Businesses Downtown worried about being attacked—"

"Businesses with lily white staff even for Brockton," Dad added dismissively.

"—Yes, Neil. Obviously we reject them, but even in rejection it can tarnish the team's image; just seeing us with these people is bad. We need statements on our values so they won't even think of approaching us."

Amy was genuinely confused. "Statement?"

"Bringing in a visibly different cape like Genesis would certainly help but we need to push multiple lines of messaging. Have you ever thought about how you want to present it when you have a girlfriend"—she paused to put her words delicately—"in the public eye?"

"What!" Amy was stricken with shock, and spluttered as she dropped her fork.

"It would just be mentioning it in an interview, getting the idea out there."

"But I'm— what? How did—"

"We overheard your sister talking to Eric about it, and well, after that things sort of fit together."

Amy ran from the room, too angry and sick to fly. Words chased her, but she wasn't listening. Out into the garden and straight up to the old tree, her eyes watering as she gripped it tightly. She blinked as her hands sunk into the tree, physically shoving past the dead bark as her power parted the cells of the phloem within. She gripped its heartwood, like a throat she could strangle in her frustration.

She closed her eyes, and saw a purple armored beast the size of a lithe skyscraper bearing down on her, its white teeth in its long canine maw glinting in the bright Australian sunshine. Its glowing yellow eyes contorted in pain as she used her power in terror to tear it into a tidal wave of blood and viserca. Then what came after—

She pulled herself out of the tree, sap stuck to her fingers. It was just a stupid plant, it didn't need to die. She reached out with just a single finger this time, shaping four letter words in the bark until things seemed a bit better.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

The grocery store two blocks from our old house is both familiar, and not familiar. The illuminated sign had been removed, and the large-man-sized hole knocked through the brickwork of one of the walls is definitely new. I wander over, gripping my thermos of hot tea, to inspect the scene in more detail. You can tell a lot about other capes by the mess they leave behind.

There's a cop putting up bright yellow police tape over the hole while his partner finishes a breakfast muffin. Muffin-cop glances at me briefly, hot sharp gaze lingering on the sunglasses for a second, before returning to his meal. My camouflage is working; pose alert but not nervous, hair tied in a braid, a baggy men's work shirt with a long sleeved top and loose jeans underneath. An outfit that could fit with any underemployed late teen in our lower middle class neighborhood. A mosaic of tiny absences broke up my cheeks and nose and mouth; removing features distinguishing enough for the human eye to catch on, and leading the human brain to overlay whatever generic 'face' they were culturally primed with. Another of Mel's ideas pulled from her video library. It works well enough anywhere a descriptionless white girl can pass without comment, and meant I only had to tilt my face to avoid the slightlines of security cameras.

I trace past the cops, feel the contours of the damage to the building. The damage only went one room deep, strewn bricks and dust on the inside. Someone had been in a fight in the parking lot and thrown against the wall. The bricks were crumbled, not shattered, which meant a resilient soft object had been the impactor— a brute with tough flesh rather than hard armor or a breaker state? Two deep shoe impressions on the floor suggested they had bounded to their feet and jumped out the hole that had been made with their body. A hero keen to minimize collateral damage? A villain thirsty to return to the fight?

Hmmm. Not enough information to connect these facts to someone, not enough to plan. I guess I'll have to do the hard part.

I steady myself as I walk forward, breathe in and out, try to lighten my voice in my throat.

"So what happened h-here?" I ask muffin-cop. "Will the store be closed for long?"

"Morning Glory robbed the place, New Wave showed up and Prodigal Son knocked Manpower through the wall." Muffin-cop relates the cape news with the boredom of a true Brocktonite.

"They're that strong?" I'd heard almost nothing of the minor Boston gang beyond the knowledge of a recent arrival in the city.

It's tape-cop who answers, "Nah kid, Manpower was going easy on them. Heroes can't go hard on a two-bit villain in a residential area."

"Sure as shit should though," says his partner, spewing crumbs, "gotta clear the rabble like them and Grue out so they can focus on the real problems like the Teeth. Local pride and all, but New Wave gotta wise up, they aren't keeping a lid on things like they were back in the old days."

"Big shoes to fill, keeping honest hardworking people safe," the tape-cop said as he finished up his job.

I'd got what I needed, plus something about their conversation is off — time to disengage.

"Thanks, officers," I say, and walk away. Only be memorable when you need to be, as Mel always says. To my relief I don't feel them giving my retreating back even the slightest attention.

I don't hurry as I walk the last block to our house, possibilities tumbling through my mind. Would it stand empty, contents taken by the PRT for examination? Would a new family be living in it, filling it with a life and energy it hadn't seen in years? Unlikely that the bank would have moved so fast in two months but possible. I step over cracks and missing chunks in the sidewalk, and round the corner from my sight, the driveway of our house moves into range of my scan.

Ah.

Perhaps I should have expected this. I don't change my speed as I walk, I don't turn my head; this would all be old news to the rest of the neighborhood and I didn't want to stand out.

I let my trace insinuate itself amid the broken walls and burnt timbers, the chewed up grass where the fire trucks must have parked. I try to find the hint of anything left, but the bones of the corpse are picked dry; by the PRT, the arsonist, the looters afterwards? Impossible to tell.

In the basement, now open to the sky, graffiti adorns the walls. Red arrows pointing down predominate, a scattering of the Teeth's maw, even an eighty-eight with a halo; rising again. I can't tell if they're claiming credit or mocking a fallen foe, the artistry is crude and the walls aren't clean. I make a scoffing noise that's almost a sob.

Dad always liked bringing people together.

As I walk on, back held straight, the ruin slips out of range of my scan. I double and triple emphasize the scene in my mind, bolstering against any speck of degradation in memory.

I don't pay attention to my path, and with a start I notice I'm starting to curve towards the Docks. The red arrows of Quarrel's reforged organization decorate some of the street signs, like accent marks on foreign letters. The crowds are thicker, the refugees and immigrants congregating rather than commuting. Not a safe place for the blue-collar white girl camouflage I'm presenting to be at any time of day.

I don't know what I'm doing, I don't have the power to affect anything here, all I can do is watch and hide. Valuable, but not something that can incite fear in a gangster queen that's as hard as Melanie, or perhaps harder.

I slow, considering a change in tactics, when my phone beeps with a text message.

Mel (The Boss) >> Elles hvg **bad** morning: 9+. need backup

I breathe out, turn, and run from an overly-hasty revenge.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

I always know where the crew are, my domain lingering in them throughout the day as we all move around, but it stays in the back of my mind unless I need it — dangling threads I choose to leave unpulled.

I need it now as I focus on the Mel-shaped and the Elle-shaped portions of my domain in the distance, half a mile away and a few stories in the air. They'd been driving around earlier; the constant movement is a salve to the girl on her bad days. But there comes a point when Elle gets too bad, where there's a danger her power will spread fast enough to affect the car as you drive and risk an accident. Mel would have stopped at one of her safehouses and gone to ground, hoping to calm the disturbed state in other ways.

I confirm by moving my scan to their location, an empty condo set in a building six floors high, nearly empty now in the middle morning of a sunny Monday. The only fancy Brockton apartments I've seen are Mel's, but I'm confident hard white tiles on the floor, walls, and ceiling are not part of the original design brief. Even the doors have been converted to the same smooth enamel, fixed in their sockets. I feel the tiles push in from elsewhere in my scan, ramming and grinding together like impacted molars in an overfull mouth. They're slick with a transparent slime, clear and flowing but thicker than it should be.

Mel is in a room at the far end; from the severed water piping below I expect it is the bathroom or maybe the kitchen. She's hammering the tiles of the walls with her power, straight finger jabbing to create a doorway, but for every piece of the integument she breaks, another crowds out of layered and folded space. Elle is two rooms away, crouched on the floor and clutching her hands, eyes still and staring. Ridges are forming in the floor around her, threatening to encyst her in another wall of tiles. A tiny room. A cell.

I'm at the building now, taking the stairs two at a time to get up to the fifth floor. The walls of the stairwell sweat clear fluid around me and I can smell what the liquid is — the alkaline bite of unscented bleach. Mel isn't stopping; she shatters and pulls and slices at the tiles so much that she's almost swimming through the endlessly reforming material. Under her breath she mutters a constant tirade of expletives directed at herself. Her destruction is helping I think, the draw of matter entering here diverting to anneal the wounds she's making.

I pass their floor, my focus intent on the solution I've been working on all the run over. Up to the sixth floor, snatch the key I'd traced underneath the bottom of their welcome mat, and dash through the apartment grabbing the polished concrete lump of some weird sculpture in their living room. Out through the big bay windows onto the neighbor's balcony, above and slightly offset from the one below. I almost unconsciously slip into a hidden fullness of my power, invisible from the street. I toss the sculpture down and to my relief it doesn't shatter. I remember Mel's lessons and breathe and dry my hands before scrambling over the side of the balcony and jumping down to follow it. I grab the sculpture and heft it up and turn to face the Bay windows of the apartment—

I hadn't traced this in my scan. I stop and consider.

The glass of the doors is changed as well; cloudy and stained with ten thousand greasy ridges on the inside, drops of blood and spittle and tiny bits of grime. I blink and realize the ridges are enormous finger prints, the square of glass stained as if some giant is trying to plead with the outside.

The glass shatters as I throw the heavy sculpture through it, and I feel Mel stop her assault on the walls as she hears the noise. After cocking an ear to listen further, she redoubles the ferocity of her efforts. I step into the room, the broken and jagged shards already fading out as they go elsewhere, and see Elle huddled on the floor with my real eyes. The compressed blood rush of adrenaline leaves me, time uncoiling into long cold moments.

"Hey Elle, you there?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level as the acrid fumes from the pooling bleach assaults them. Thankfully she is breathing normally, her power protecting her from the physical dangers of her evocations.

"Elle?"

I trawl her brain as much as I am able without preparation; none of the channels move when I speak. The flecks and blades of her mind whirr like a cyclonic storm, its eye focused elsewhere, memories and thoughts subordinated to the scream of her power.

I walk over and kneel beside her, the basic fluid biting at my knees through the fabric of my jeans. Anyone other than Newter would be better here; Mel, Gregor, and Skeeter all have their ways of getting through, but reaching out and connecting to people has never been my strong point. I used words, and those not very well.

I try anyway, and put my hand on her shoulder.

At the touch, I trace a tiny twist at the outer edges of her mental storm. Not every channel is blocking the outside it seems.

"There, there." I gently pat her, emphasizing the signal as it passes through her nerves and into her mind. The storm spins faster, but the eye's fixation on that strange other direction tilts and bends.

"Ememe… no," comes the tiniest mumble. For a brief instant I can smell smoke, then it recedes.

"Hey Elle, are you going to let Mel out? I think it would be good if she came and talked to you too!" I don't try for a false happy tone, but aim for the sincerity of all our previous discussions on books and colors. "It would be great if you were here for a time, we can sort stuff out?"

Mel falls through the suddenly unresisting wall, and topples into the corridor. She avoids a faceplant by plunging her hands into the pooling bleach, and bites back a yelp of pain.

"Thank you, Elle," I whisper, and feel the storm of thoughts calm slightly. I'm startled to trace and track the information of the words arriving by her power rather than her ears— does she have some inherent awareness of her changed landscape? Had I never noticed before because her normal senses had never been closed off to this extent? Or is it because I am useless and not paying attention to my teammates—

"Good work, Swallowtail" Mel's voice breaks me out of my own maze, and I tilt my head up to look at her while still slowly patting Elle on the shoulder. The older woman has already pulled a scarf out of a pocket to mask her face. She's trying to look at me and I only belatedly realize I'm still hidden. "How'd you get in?"

"Down from the balcony above," I reply.

Her pleased nod gives me a tiny note of pride in the midst of this chaos.

"She's been so good as of late, I let my guard down to get her some water," she says in a rare admission of failure. It's true that Elle had been riding high off the long drive north, and I would have made the same mistake. All of this is worse than anything I had seen in my three months with the crew.

Mel hums under her breath, then comes to a decision: "Okay, I'm going to carry her out, we'll just have to walk on the street until Gregor and Matthews get here with the big van. If her constructs don't let you pass, go out the way you came in. Meet up in the foyer if so. Block us out from recordings."

"Right." This building doesn't have cameras as far as I can sense, probably one of the reasons Mel set up a safehouse here. No one to watch the comings and goings.

"Okay, Labyrinth, time for a piggyback," Mel says flatly, her hands gentle as she slowly lifts up Elle's delicate form. She needs my help to get her secure, and to adjust the girls hoodie to cover her face, but is more than strong enough to lift a girl who weighs less than I do, crystal bones and all. I see the pain in her alkaline burned hands as she grips Elle's legs, but if she won't mention it, I won't either.

Despite all the agony and fear, it's almost an afterthought as Mel and her passenger step through the tiles encrusting and transforming the front door and into the corridor. The hard white squares are similarly unresisting when I follow them, their tight enamel a rictus grin that extends unendingly in every direction.

"Thank you, Elle," I whisper, seeing the corresponding tiny movement of her thoughts.

The walls of the corridor wax and swell with more of the liquid and Mel sets off at a brisk pace down the stairs. It has been either a stroke of luck or Mel's forethought that everyone is at work, but surely someone will be back to see the mess before the creations go back elsewhere. At the very least all the damage from caustic chemicals will stain the walls.

I lean down and say as much to Mel's ear: "Are we doing anything about the residue?"

Mel adjusts her carrying position before answering, taking her care on the stairs. Elle's eyes are closed now and she's leaning her face against the back of our leader's head.

"No," she finally replies, the weight of the pause giving it certainty.

"No?"

"Reputation is a tricky thing. You need to show you have power, but also show you have the restraint to not be someone other capes cannot suffer. There's a third leg though — you need a touch of uncertainty too. That they don't know all of what you can do or why you do it will loom large in their minds, have them make overly-conservative plays. This will give them a mystery that will worry them."

"Opportunity from crisis?"

"Yes," she says with the subtle twitch of a smile in the corner of her mouth. "Labyrinth has always been our strategic deterrent. It's easier for us to have the Palanquin be our known place of business if there is the fear of attacking a Shaker twelve on their home ground. I couldn't operate like this at all without her."

I nod; I wouldn't go after Elle on her home turf either. "You think the heroes need a reminder?"

"No, institutional memory is one of things the PRT have an advantage in. We get credit for keeping her stable, moving here around. However, there's a lot of new villains in the city who could do with an object lesson, grist for the rumor mill."

As we exit onto the street I pull out my braid and let my hair burst out around my head, relaxing the concealment on everything but my face. The few midday pedestrians in this nicer part of town cross the road to avoid a duo of obvious capes abducting a teenager. I'm glad of their distance in a way.

"Yeah," I venture, "I saw the results of a stupid fight between New Wave and some brutes on the way over. Everyone is being careful because they don't know what the other can do."

"Indeed. I expect our rep will get a Florida boost, but if not, when we have an appropriate job we should consider making it showy. Make an example of something as a local reminder. I've got something for you and Newter next week that wouldn't fit, but the next job after that might suit."

We walk in silence for a little bit more, and I text Gregor our direction of travel for pick up.

"Oh, how was your father's house?" Mel asks. I hadn't told her that was where I was going, but I suppose it is an easy enough guess.

It's a considerable while before I reply, and when I do the words are tinged with a bitter realization.

"We're not the only ones who wanted an example."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• I have to limit myself to one big labyrinth scene per arc, because coming up with these things is so much fun. She and Taylor can get into the haunted house game together.
• Thanks to Juff, Red Wolf, and Abyss for giving this a beta read.
• Away next week, so the next update is on the 5th May.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"You sold my fucking bike?" Seb yelled, voice cracking as he slammed his palm against the rickety dining table. Milk sloshed in his bowl of cereal as his leather gloves made the slap reverberate round the small kitchen.

"I sold a waste of your grandpa's money to cover the mortgage, you ungrateful brat. Where were you going to get the money for gas now anyway?" his mom answered, not bothering to look up from stirring the white sauce. Her tone was tired, almost bored.

"Fuck— you could have told me!"

"If I had, you would have hidden the damn thing with one of your shitty stoner friends, then lied to my face about it."

He didn't want to hit her in his anger — he wasn't his dad — but he couldn't stay here. Words weren't going to solve this problem, they couldn't be put together in a way that would help.

"I'm fucking walking to school then."

"I'll leave the pasta bake in the fridge for you, my shift won't finish till nine."

He slammed the front door behind him as he left, the cheap plastic shuddering in its frame. The single-story houses of the Rye suburb always seemed like they were slouching amidst the scraggly trees, too lazy to stand even in the pleasantness of the summer heat. Most of the owners couldn't afford to fix roofs and repaint scuffed outer walls. The only break in the monotony of the horizon were the far distant skyscrapers of Brockton Bay's Downtown, and beyond that Captain Hill's to the north and west.

He started walking, it'd be over thirty minutes to get to Rye high school given the need to circumnavigate the long chain link fences if you were coming on foot from the south. He'd heard that there are worse schools up in the Bay proper, but he didn't believe it.

His cell buzzed, the tiny monochrome screen showing an incoming text.

Rick >> You running late man?
You << Mom-bitch sold my bike!
Rick >> Shit@! You coming along Sagamore? We'll pick you up.
You << Y!

It was a few minutes before Doug's ancient junker rolled into sight, belching smoke like a fifty-a-day retiree as it turned the corner. It wheezed to a stop on the broken tarmac at the edge of the road, just next to Seb. He could see Rick, Doug, and Tim inside, all looking a little worse for wear for this early on a weekday morning. As Tim popped the door, the dank oily smell of the interior spilled out and stuck to the back of his throat.

"Thanks Doug," Seb said, hopping his small and wiry frame into the rear seat, "ain't you all going to be late now though?"

Rick spun in the passenger seat and grinned back at him, the electrical tape holding his round glasses together already unpeeling, his greasy bleached hair adhering to the exposed sticky part.

"We got more important things than school, man. I'm out, Tim's out, even Tyrone's out."

"No shit?" Seb said glumly. It wasn't like he had the cash to buy anyway, but if his friends' stashes were dry he wouldn't be able to even get pity. He didn't roll as hard as they did, keeping his bike repaired enough for the dirt track took too much of his weekend, but a smoke sure sounded good right now. It beat trying and failing to speak to his mom that's for sure.

"Yes shit," Rick replied excitedly, as Doug did a U-turn in the road and made for the I95 onramp at the end of the suburb. "But, buuuut. Get this, there's a 'party' happening down in the Bay today. Big Skids is raining some half priced stock, you know the thing. Uh, the thing—"

"Loss leading," Doug added, eyes still on the road. The car groaned as it took the gentle slope up to the raised highway. Doug and Seb had done their best with the ancient vehicle, but parts were expensive.

"—yeah. So we go down, we pool our cash, we resell back here in Rye. Hey, maybe we even get Skids to throw in a discount for repeat business."

"Capes aren't going to give us any charity," Tim added, his deep voice bored with an argument they'd obviously been having for a while.

"Yeah, Primo's pushing Skids so hard he needs to make it rain a little I figure. So anyway, you in, Seb?"

Seb didn't bother pointing out they were already on the highway. "No cash, Rick. Nothing, zip."

It was Doug that answered: "Doesn't matter man, we need another set of hands, another set of eyes. And I'm sure as shit not trusting either of these two to help Old Bessy get home." He patted the dashboard as he said the car's name. Rick nodded enthusiastically, while Tim stared out the window.

His mom was going to be pissed if she found out, but he'd skipped days already this year. He could sell it as being upset over the bike, upset over the last link with Grandpa being gone. It wouldn't even be a lie.

"Fuck it," he said, and went with the flow. He'd never done a buy in the city with them before, but it couldn't be that much worse than meeting a dealer in a parking lot in the suburbs.

The highway started to curve west before it met the low hill the university was on, and it'd go on to wrap round the perimeter of Brockton in an encircling hug. Doug took an offramp that would see them heading up Lafayette and through Downtown. The city's smaller skyscrapers leaned forebodingly over the edge of the wide street; judging parents looking for delinquent youths.

"Why are we heading in so early anyway?" he asked with a sudden realization.

"We'll grab a burger on the way, Fugly's maybe or that fried chicken place near the Docks, gotta get our meat on," Rick answered with gusto.

"We don't know where the party is," Doug answered matter of factly, "our guy told us but didn't drop the deets, isn't answering his phone. We're going to talk to some folks to suss it out, don't want to rush it."

They parked the car in a safe street, and then started walking towards the part of town where you couldn't leave a car unattended. Yili's Fried Chicken proved cheap enough that Doug spotted him a deliciously spicy burger, and the four of them chatted about inane shit as they ate. The buildings got more disheveled and the eyes of passersby in the street hardened as they walked, and soon they were nearly at Archer's Bridge. It was a different sort of poverty to Rye, hungry rather than listless, on edge rather than apathetic.

Finally they reached their destination: an aged white guy in a sweatsuit holding court on the steps of an old brick townhouse with shattered windows. Seb made three guys as muscle in the small crowd and a single lookout, a ratio inverted from what you'd find for a dealer in the suburbs; it seemed they were more worried about other gangs than the cops.

"Hey Rancid, how are you doing man!" Rick shouted in greeting.

"Four-eyes, not seen you around lately," the man said with a note of suspicion despite the nod of recognition. The muscle limbered up slightly, setting their shoulders, like when Seb's dad used to hear something wasn't to his liking. The dealer waved them back down though. "You were a good customer then. What can I do you for? Got rasheed, body bag, blue top, a whole bunch of seed…"

"Nah man — oh some blue top would hit the spot — was wondering if you've heard from Ginty lately? He's meant to be hooking us up with some premium shit, was going to hand it over at Skid's party you know?"

"Ginty ain't answering anyone's calls nowadays." The man held up his hand, and mimed something falling over, flopping loose. He was almost bald under his baseball cap, and his weathered skinniness made Seb think of a lizard, blood utterly cold.

"Shit," Rick said with a second of genuine sadness before switching to important matters. "You know who's running his crew? If you send us up to Skids' party we can sort it out with them."

"Strictly speaking, kid, I ain't with Skids any more," Rancid said grimly. "He's on the down on everything south of Archer's Bridge, and me and my boys got a better offer for supply and protection. Quality shit too even if the price is high."

Rick's expression collapsed at Rancid's last expression. "So you don't know where the party is?"

"Now kid I didn't say that. Old friends are hard to come by in this town, everyone still keeps talking. The question is how much blue top you're wanting to buy now."

Doug was the one who answered, and opened his palm to show some tightly folded green. "Seventy bucks worth, half of it seed."

Rancid nodded to one of the muscle, and the bigger man ambled over to swap the cash for two tightly wrapped plastic bags.

"It's in warehouse 14 on Henry Street, the one with hole in the wall—"

"Cape!" came a yell from down the street, as the lookout frantically pointed at the roof above the crowd. Everyone scattered as a flash of white light blasted out from above, like the sun itself had come to judge them. No one was foolish enough to look up; Brockton Bay had a way of weeding out gawkers.

Seb and Doug were light on their feet, and Rick had more jittery energy than a rat on a pan, and they outpaced the rest of the crowd as they charged down the street. There was another flash of light behind them, and then suddenly their footsteps were the only ones making sound on the pavement. After a few dozen yards Seb risked a quick look over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of the scene in his vision.

A gorgeous blonde in a white and yellow uniform stood on the steps, crushing one of the muscle's guns in her hand as an aura of white light played around her arm. Her grin was as dazzling as her power. All of the dealer's people seemed frozen in place mid-run, their eyes staring dead ahead. Above them all floated a smaller, slimmer girl with black hair, her uniform matching the first girl but with black highlights instead of yellow. Her arms were outstretched, and her eyes were wedged shut in concentration, her face contorted in a sour look. Tim was still in the crowd, frozen and motionless like the rest of them, his eyes looking at his friends retreating backs.

Seb guiltily turned his head away, and ran hard.

It was four blocks of lung-bursting scramble before Doug pointed to an alley. The three of them dived in, and collapsed behind a dumpster. They wheezed for minutes catching their breath, Seb and Doug not wanting to meet each other's eyes.

"Hey," coughed Rick with a lecherous grin, "you think Tim is going to get frisked by Glory? Hubba hubba that girl is blinding."

Seb winced at the idea of his friend being arrested, and said nothing.

"He does have her poster," Doug replied, his tone unreadable. The older teenager thought for a while before continuing. "He's got nothing on him, and wasn't making the exchange, he'll be fine right?"

"Right? Right! We'll make it up to him when we get the stuff from Skids," Rick said with rising enthusiasm.

Seb had his doubts. "We're not going to do that, are we? Dude was skeevy as fuck. Can we just go back to Rye with what we got?"

Rick shook his head. "You can trust what Rancid sells you. Guy dealt for the Empire back in the day, people thought he was with Riot for a week too. Then Mush before he got trashed and joined Skidmark. You don't get away with changing bosses like that unless you build a rep for dealing straight with people.

Doug slowly nodded. "Alright, I say we stick at it. Seb?"

Seb didn't think this was a good idea, but he didn't have the money for the bus or the desire to call his mother. Doug's car was the only way home.

"Fine."

Doug opened his tense palm, to reveal the two plastic packets. One was stuffed with ground up green leaves, the other had twenty or so small brown seeds with ridged skin. He held the second out to Seb. "Here, keep this hidden, better we don't show up to Skids' party rocking his competition's drug."

"Ah man, I hear that stuff's great," Rick whines.

Seb's curiosity overcomes his reticence. "Yeah?"

"Like molly but smooth as silk. Not quite the high, but you feel great the next day."

That did sound good, Seb thought. No wonder Skidmark was losing all his territory.

After their hearts stopped thumping they continued their wandering as the sun crept down and the afternoon shadows lengthened like reaching fingers. Eventually they found a culvert leading into the river to sit and smoke a bit of the blue top. They threw stones at the water, to see the splashes washed away. The curse of being out on the outskirts; a kid from the Bay proper would know a dozen better and drier places to get high. Doug and Seb just had a little to take the edge off, get their confidence back, but Rick went deep and was soon worse for wear. His font of inane conversation didn't stop even when the sun set, and they started making their way to Henry Street.

"So which of New Wave babes does it for you then, Seb?" Rick giggled, "Wonder push your buttons if Glory and Laserdream don't? I saw you eyeing that goth sophomore back at Rye High."

"Fuck off, Rick, thinking like that about capes is going to get you in trouble," Seb said nervously.

"What? You think they're constantly watching? I'm a red-blooded American male and I can say what I want!"

Seb met Doug's eyes, and the other teenager nodded. An unspoken agreement was made to get in, get out, and not let Rick do the talking.

The warehouses on Henry Street were nearly all empty. With the decline in the city's manufacturing, the storage units on the outskirts of the Docks were abandoned in favor of depots near the I95 like the one his mother worked in. The skeletal frames of the buildings hadn't been cared for in years, like malnourished old men choking their last gasps in a cheap nursing home. One of the crumbling constructions had an exotic tumor in its chest though, a pulsing beat of light and sound, steam rising gently into the night air.

There was just one enormous fat man guarding the door, a green sling of cloth round his arm like some of Skidmark's gang liked to do. Seeing three unarmed teenagers, one of them stumbling and smiling already, he just waved them into the belly of the beast. It was different from any clubs inside, all the lighting on the floor and pointing up at the tin roof, an eclectic mix of actual stage equipment and what looked like loot from a home goods store. A crowd was already dancing by a DJ dropping tunes, and knots of people clustered on the edges using old wooden pallets as furniture. It was early on still, deals were being made and business was being conducted. They couldn't see Skidmark or any of his lieutenants anywhere; maybe there was a secret room or they were going to show up later.

Seb couldn't help himself, and started bobbing his head to the bass of the DJ's beat.

"So who are we looking for if Ginty's out?" he shouted over the music. Doug and Rick shared looks, sudden realization on their faces.

"Fucking—"

The music cut off as the speakers exploded into a cloud of splinters, as if torn apart by some invisible beast. For a moment everything was silent, the heads in the crowd twisting to see what had happened.

From above a cape drifted down, blond hair in dreadlocks, crude tiger mask on his face. His chest was bare, but his loose fitting pants were held up with a thick leather belt ringed with what look like human jawbones. The dust and grime of the warehouse was blown away by the ponderous descent. At the same time, at the far end of the warehouse figures started pouring in through the holes in the wall; scores of identical men in long leather jackets and hard, all encompassing helmets and thick neck guards. They held knives and gibbered and shook.

The encirclement was completed when the corpulent door guard was thrown into the crowd, long bloody gashes tearing at his chest. Coming in the entrance behind him strode a stocky woman in spined armor, hundreds of old yellowing bones decorating the shins and forearms, mouth exposed in a wicked grin beneath a leather eye-mask. She held a blood-red trident in one hand that was as tall as she was, and the tines glinted moistly in the disparate lights. In her other hand she held the head of a small pink-skinned man by its hair, the head's large eyes staring blankly. Droplets of dark fluid dripped from its neck and splattered on the floor.

Seb recognised Skidmark's garbage cape from Rick's stories, and he swiveled his head, looking for exits.

With a burst of air, the cape he now realized was Stormtiger rocketed a heavy crate over to the woman. She blew him a kiss in reply and leapt atop the box, raising both weapon and trophy head as she addressed the crowd with a raucous cackle.

"Heeeeeeeello, new recruits!"

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"It looks ridiculous. Swallowtail, back me up on this," Skeeter mumbles, his attention fixed on the massive glass windows as his blood slowly etches away at the interior of the lock.

"Hmm?" I murmur. I'd be distracted looking out across the city. The view from these fancy condos halfway up University hill were amazing; just high enough so you could see over the taller buildings of Downtown to the dark orange smudge of the Docks beyond, the dark bulk of Captain's Hill at one end and the emptiness of the unlit Bay on the other. At this distance the PHQ looked like a tiny ethereal toy, not a vault of bad memories. Someone had paid a lot for this vista, someone indulging themselves while the city suffers beneath them.

"Newter's new look," Skeeter replies, pointing up. The two of us hang on long slings descending from Newter's harness; his adhesive grip is strong enough to keep all three of us on the wide glass of the third story apartment. It's too dim for me to see well, but I trace his lean form, smooth muscles tensing and flexing in his back and arms, wide smile grinning in the night. I can't tell what Skeeter is talking about.

"Man, I'm sorry I 'stole your thing', but it's not my fault I rock it better than you. I've got a lime t-shirt that's going to pair amazingly," Newter says, his grin somehow widening further.

Oh, Skeeter means Newter's hair, now dyed a bright lurid red. He apparently changed it every time the Crew came back to the bay, and I empathize with the dissatisfaction over a constant look. It's only with it being pointed out that I realize how closely it matches the red tangle of Skeeter's own hair, and I wonder at the intent - coincidence? Flattery? Teasing?

It's probably teasing.

I try to steer them back to the job, and whisper, "He did that yesterday, Skeeter, why are you bringing it up now?"

My caution is paranoia rather than active concern; we had had sufficient preparation time on the roof for me to spread my domain through the whole building. A family sleeps on the ground floor, but the upper two apartments are sitting empty; their spacious interiors a contrast to the packed shantytowns of refugees down in the Docks I've been methodically investigating all last week. There are cameras all over the building, but mere passive recorders rather than feeding to any live guard, and I'd been able to find them all before snuffing out their sight with a single thought.

Skeeter doesn't reply, but I can guess why. He tends to brood on things until he gets to an explosion point, and having to look up at Newter as we scaled the side of the building must have set him off. If he doesn't want to talk, I wasn't going to risk the job by forcing him.

I can trace that the tiny animalcules of his blood have nearly finished eroding the restraining bolt of the window lock. Gregor's acid or Mel's power would have done it much faster, but it would have been far more obvious and destructive. Not to mention either of their weight might have been too much for Newter to support. Instead the adults are waiting with Elle in a van round the corner, ready to charge to our rescue if I fail and miss a trap.

"Ready," Skeeter whispers.

Suddenly all business, Newter drops his tail down to stick to the flat glass of the window and pulls to lever it up and out. With Skeeter's help I squeeze in through the opening, and soundlessly touch my feet down on the thick carpeting. I feel my plumes extend out my back at the excitement of crossing the threshold, and they dangle silently past my cat-burglar-esque long sleeved black top and black leggings. I unclip the rope from my harness, and gently step across the darkness of the room. There is almost no decoration or personalization, the room looks like something out of a catalog in its blandness. All of the occupants' effects are stored in two large plastic boxes in the bottom of a cupboard bigger than my old room at my dad's house. I recognise the preparations to move in a moment's notice well enough myself.

The target of the job is there just as Mel and the client had described; a woman's briefcase, slim construction and made of white leather. I've had my scan on it all the time we'd been working our way in, and can trace the sealed plastic bag of flash drives in a hidden compartment accompanied by a nearly featureless ivory pale mask with a narrow slit of dark material for the eyes. Stealing something from a cape explains the client's desire to hire the crew over a more conventional thief, and we are certainly earning our danger money. I've actually seen the target in person myself months ago , a woman in a white dress accompanying the girl in lavender at the New Wave summit where the plot to capture my dad had been created. One of the Ambassadors, Mel said; a blaster with an ability too cumbersome to use freely indoors, by her analysis. No one knew why the Boston-based gang had been maintaining a small presence in the Bay these last few months, though Mel had enough conspiracies and guesses to fill a folder. Just another vulture, coming to feast on the dying animal that is Brockton Bay. I suspect half the reason we took this job was to probe their intentions.

I pick up the briefcase from the cupboard and conceal it beneath my power. Turning, I saunter back to the window, and pass it to Skeeter before clipping in and slipping out myself. A steadying pair of red hands clasp around my waist to reorientate me the right way up on the smooth glass. I don't tense at the touch, Skeeter's professionalism is unmatched; I've never seen so much as a twinge of physiological reaction to any girl or boy from him, not that he ever really looks at any, and my trace can find even the smallest of those details.

Once I'm secure, he uses a little bottle of disinfectant to break up organic traces on the window, and then pushes it shut. A hand signal later, Newter starts lowering the three of us towards the ground, the two without gecko grip bracing of the exterior glass as we descend.

We're out and around, lightly jogging towards the van. The whole operation took less than ten minutes.

"You can see why it's weird though, right?" Skeeter continues the conversation from earlier.

"Man, I don't know what you're thinking." Newter laughs back.

I decide to take Skeeter's side. "You do have a history of mocking people, Newter."

"Yeah but I wouldn't mess up my own hair for a joke."

We're both silent in reply as we run.

"I wouldn't mess up my own hair long term for a joke."

"That's more likely," I concede, while Skeeter scoffs.

"Tails, check the hair, tell him it's something permanent."

"It's all just chemicals to me—" I stop, as I realize I can check his room and cast my scan back to the Palanquin. Filtering through the music and games in his room takes mere moments, and I find an empty plastic bottle under towels stained with orange sweat. "The small round bottle, under your blue towel?"

"Yeah that's it."

Reading through my scan always feels more difficult than it should, patches of similar but differently colored material forming shapes that take mental focus to snap into meaning. My scan is like drinking the ocean, a torrent of information that sidesteps the prosaic human structures of my brain to focus on threat and space and concealment. A pity in a way, reading a thousand books at once would have been cool. I piece it together in a few seconds.

"It says permanent dye on the bottle, Skeeter. Because he's worth it."

Skeeter sighs. "Ugh, sorry. It's just— you know?"

"I know," Newter says, not apologetic at all. He immediately tries to move the conversation on by teasing me. "Hey was that this week's joke, Tails? Save stuff for Eric and Jess tomorrow!"

Neither of us reply to him.

I feel the warmth of someone's sight flickering over us, and Mel pulls the big side door of the van open as we approach, her welder's mask glinting in the orange streetlights. She raises a finger questioningly, and nods at our three thumbs up. In seconds we're in the back and the van is driving off, the new minion Matthews at the wheel. He looks more nervous than Spencer or Rodriguez ever did, and I worry a cop might pull him over for suspicious sweating alone.

Mel shushes us with a finger, and I realize Elle is asleep, head leaning on Gregor's steadiness. After the crisis of the week before, she'd slowly been returning to — well not normal, but stable. It won't help that recovery to disturb her sleep now.

As Mel texts the client for the final payment and the location of the dead drop site, the three of us sit in silence on the floor of the van and remove our climbing gear. From the path of her eye I can tell Mel knows something's up, but she's choosing not to intervene while we are on the clock. Something about this job feels slightly off; the client being an obfusticated contact over the internet doesn't sit well with me no matter who vouches for them or how much they will pay.

It's only a few minutes before we get the destination for the briefcase: a dumpster behind a gas station out past Captain's Hill. As we drive I think about ditching Newter on his playdate tomorrow, but quickly cool on the idea; I feel that might be a step too far, a disproportionate escalation. I'll see if he apologizes first.

Surprisingly Skeeter is the one to break the silence first as the van rolls through the dark streets, talking in a low voice so as to not wake the sleeping girl: "Taylor, if you've got time could we do another memory dive tomorrow."

"Umm." I'd had scores of sessions with him and Gregor in the past months, and it is proving harder and harder to find novel memories, as I scrape on the inner edges of their mental absences.

"Not to find something new, I just want to revisit a good place," he says with longing.

I tilt my hand so only Mel can see it. The muscles of her neck move in the tiniest of nods.

"Okay. Sure."

Newter feels like he's about to say something, but doesn't.

The quiet returns for the remaining minutes of the journey, before we pull into the empty parking lot. Matthews leaves the engine running, his hands sweaty as they grip the steering wheel.

"Watchers?" Mel asks, as she wraps the briefcase in a black garbage bag and binds it with brown tape.

"One person across the street watching the van. Feels intent, not an idle glance— professional, I mean." I spend a minute straining to quickly spread my domain out from the van while Mel waits patiently, then finish giving my answer, "Camera above the pumps, angle doesn't cover the dumpster."

"The watcher a cape?"

"Nothing special about their vision."

"Good." Mel completes the finishing touches to the package, and passes it and an empty disposable coffee cup forward to Matthews. I'm not impressed with the guy's subterfuge as he gets out and steps towards the dumpster. His head is moving too much, trying to cover too many angles for a normal person doing a normal task. If the only watcher wasn't our client, the game is being given away. I hope Mel has a talk to him about the sloppiness when we get back.

He deposits the package and decoy waste cleanly enough, and we drive back out into the night. I of course still have my domain deeply curdling around the briefcase and the items within, and ignore the interior of the van on the journey home to position my scan back with the dumpster. I've been caught off guard too many times in the past; if there is yet another gang in town, I am going to at least get one of their minions' faces, rules or no rules.

My vigilance is rewarded when an enormous woman lumbers into my scan. Built like a barrel, layers of fat hide muscles worthy of a powerlifter, and she's taller than I am. Pasty white skin and close cut black hair define a squat face that holds a serene calmness, and in her skull lurks the subtle flicker of an inactive parahuman power. She's dressed in a well-worn dark blue sweatsuit with white stripes on the arms and legs, not quite the outfit I expect for someone doing espionage by proxy.

With a grunt she reaches into the dumpster and grabs the plastic wrapped briefcase, her fingers tearing at the covering. The briefcase similarly gets roughly opened and its contents tipped out onto the garbage. She ignores the flash drives and paperwork, and reaches for the mask, holding it up to the light and angling it as if to inspect it. She takes a smartphone out of her pocket and holds it up to the mask to take a photo. Seconds later she receives a message that seems to satisfy her, and slips the phone and mask into her pocket before calmly walking away.

Villains contesting villains seems a fact of life now, and I'd rather it be that way than them going after good people.

I wonder what we'd just helped accomplish.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• Here the author attempts to solve the problem of how to have an inside view on the Teeth that both keeps them appropriately scary/crazy and has the point of view being vaguely sympathetic?
• Seb and his friends are canon characters (except Tim!), and Seb's PoV is one of the two we'll follow the rest of this arc.
• Yes Taylor, nothing bad can come of the Crew stealing from other villains.
• Thanks to Juff and Abyss for the beta read.
• Next update next Friday.

 

[Rihtan]

Okay the list. The first item — how do you remove a cannula safely? The IV drip had been long empty when I'd woken, so whatever they were giving me was probably finished. Or I was sick and this was all a fever dream as I froze to death. No. Focus on the list, do the tasks on the list. Right, the internet yields a how-too; hygiene, gauze, slowly pull the cannula out, pressure, dressing, check the needle. I could do that.

Click to shrink...

First: how-too => how-to

Can't say I would expect Taylor to know what a cannula is, its a generic term that's way outside of the standard American's vocabulary. For most of us it would be called an IV or IV tube. Its fine in the how-to section but the first usage would work better with some version of "...how do you remove a IV safely? The IV bag...".

 

[NotDis]

Can't say I would expect Taylor to know what a cannula is

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the comment - sometimes you have to use a little bit more technical precision than the character would likely know to avoid confusion in the scene. For example using IV would have conjured the image that she's still hooked up to a drip, when she wasn't at that point. I have Taylor in this fic knowing quite a lot of words (she's well read after all) as part of her characterisation.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Seb knelt on the dirty concrete, as the cape held her blooddrenched hand to his cheek. The zigzag blade was almost gentle as it cut in, sharper than cruelty as it left a jagged line from his right eye to the bottom of his jaw.

The bite of the Teeth.

Hemorrhagia stepped back, and flicked her hand to dispel the blood construct. It softened as soon as it left her grip, and she ignored the splatter of gore it made on the luridly lit floor of the warehouse. Seb blinked, and couldn't distinguish the fresh blood from the older stains and spurts. He'd been the last in his 'group' to be branded, and out of the corner of his eye he watched the rest of them. The pretty ones had been the first group to go with Spree, then the tough guys with Stormtiger, then those battered and broken by a life on drugs were shepherded by a squad of hard faced henchmen. The fifteen or so left were on the younger side, fit enough to look like they could run a block or throw a punch, but not so much they could be gang muscle. Everyone had matching damage to their face, and at the far end of the line he could see Doug, who looked almost blinded by the amount of blood on his cheek.

She wiggled her gauntleted fingers, and rich crimson liquid spurted from the joints to form two long curved scimitars, their edges as barbed and knotted as the stocky woman's armor.

"Listen up you fucking pukes," she began, harsh as any movie drill sergeant. "You see that lover's kiss on your cheeks? That means you're ours now. If any cowards run away, that mark will stay with you. Anywhere in the city — We see that mark and it's not with us? We kill you, we kill your family, we kill anyone around you."

She stopped to cackle, a long mirthful sound. "I bet you're thinking, oh no the heroes will save me. Or the smarter ones will think you can run to another gang for protection. But it doesn't matter. Every damn one of us could be cut down by some cunt in spandex, and that mark will still haunt you. Butcher will come back, and the Teeth never die!"

"TEETH NEVER DIE!" echoed the handful of minions in the warehouse with them. Clothed in leather and bone they had followed the capes' initial assault, and stripped the party goers of their weapons and valuables. Seb could see the gleam of fanaticism in many of their eyes, and some of those who didn't cover their faces had zigzag scars of their own, aged white and twisting their flesh. A few had both the brand and the belief.

Seb puked at this vision of the future, half digested chicken gristle hitting the floor in front of him. Hemorrhagia's boot impacted his stomach a second later, and he toppled to the side at the pain.

"Now if you all can keep your guts in, this isn't all bad. Thrills? Drugs? Sex? Pull your weight, do exactly what we fucking tell you, and you can live the god damned high life," the madwoman cackled, her boot pressing down on Seb's chest. "Now on your feet, groups of five, we need to be back at the Pit in an hour."

She spun, taking one last chance to drive her heel down, and strode over to speak with one of the minions. The rest of the branded jumped up to their feet and tried to organize themselves despite many still being on the bad side of an evening's indulgence. Seb scrambled to lift himself off the ground, but floundered at the pain in his abdomen before he felt a steadying hand pull at his shoulder.

"Thanks, Doug," he whispered, as the other teenager pulled him to his feet.

Doug grunted, apparently unwilling to speak as he pulled Seb into a group with three other people: a plain looking white girl with a broken nose, and a pair of wiry looking black guys who could have been related. No one wasted the time to meet his eyes or speak, preferring to keep watch on the supervillains that had captured them all. Seb tore the bottom of his t-shirt, and passed the strip of cloth to Doug to wipe the blood from around his eyes.

In under a minute a Teeth strode up to them, a wolfish smile on his exposed lower face, eyes hidden behind concealing goggles. He didn't have the air of a cape, that swaggering absolute confidence, but seemed more focused than the other henchmen.

"Name's Ripper, you all are 'fresh meat' until you do something worth remembering." Ripper paused as he eyed Seb. "Actually, you can be Barf. So fresh meats and Barf, we're heading back to base and you'll be keeping close as I show you the route. Now I won't be sheepdogging you; feel free to make a break for it, but know that Hemo will be bringing up the rear."

He paused again, leering theatrically. "And she always needs fresh meat for her cooking."

The march through the city felt almost dreamlike, Ripper having them follow narrow alleyways and roads made darker by shattered street lights. Seb almost expected the heroes to jump out at any moment, stopping the nightmare and rescuing them. If a minor drug deal merited a New Wave response, the fucking cavalry should show up for forty people being taken prisoner. But none came, and every other person they encountered took one look at the minion's getup and ran.

Ripper even started whistling at some point.

The Trainyard crept up on them in an ambush; the brick buildings of the outer Docks suddenly stopped, a block's worth of empty ground separating them from a chain link fence festooned with white zigzags and punctured with hundreds of torn holes. The air seemed oppressive, muddled background sounds warbling with imagined malice. Beyond the fence the ground was flat and graveled, the low buildings Seb could see dark and motionless like drunks in an alley. Ripper pushed through one of the holes, and didn't look back.

Seb's eyes met Doug's, and they reached an instant understanding. Both of them spun and made to run; they'd been fast enough to escape New Wave after all. They could make it, and it wasn't like the Teeth ever made it out to Rye. Seb stopped after three paces, stumbling on the rubble-strewn ground as he stared upwards, while Doug made it a few more steps before he too ceased.

The Butcher stood on the roof of the nearest warehouse, the glow of the living city behind her outlining a thousand metal spines in warm orange against gunmetal gray. Her steel caged face was in dark shadow, any expression unreadable, but her silhouette wasn't still; tense, release, clench, release, shake, release. As his heartbeat hammered in his head he could hear the creaking of metal on metal, screeching so high as to be inaudible. A keening weight filled the air, oppressive and heavy. Was she looking at them? Seb felt bile rising in his throat again.

Stormtiger drifted up into view over the edge of the warehouse, his eyes on the Butcher as he approached, hands open and relaxed. He was much taller than her, bulging with muscle, but seemed almost insubstantial in the weight of that presence; a pale gas giant orbiting the heavy metal of a dead sun.

He spoke a few words, and the Butcher nodded once, then disappeared. It was as if a giant hand had been lifted from where it pressed into the world as her body vanished, everything bouncing back into place without moving. In the distance they could hear a muffled explosion. A pain Seb hadn't even been aware of in his ears faded into a slight headache.

"Fucking trip isn't it right?" Ripper said with a laugh, somehow having come up behind them without their notice. "Now come along or stay here while she's hunting."

They didn't protest as they followed him through the fence, and out across the tracks of the yard, the light dimming even further as they went deeper. One of their fellow captives, the girl with the broken nose, scowled at them like they were stupid. The destination was soon obvious: the outside of one of the abandoned roundhouses was lit by drums of burning trash, and there was a flicker of electric lights from within.

The handful of people warming themselves by the fires were dressed similarly to Ripper, but had far fewer bones sewn into their leathers and stolen police and military jackets. They nodded to him as he led the group past them and into the building. The long sheds that had once housed train carriages were now full of makeshift and grimy tents, and Seb could smell the shit leaking out of an overfull latrine. At the back of the building a wide passageway sloped down, illuminated by a string of cobbled together lights.

The sign above the entrance said 'Gas Storage Tanks' but someone had painted an untidy 'THE PIT' over it in the same white paint used for the Teeth's gang markings. The incline was gentle, the floor of old concrete covered in faded stains, grooves left in the floor where the tracks for storage carts would have gone, and untidily stacked boxes lined one of the walls. It was to this heap that Ripper pointed and gave them their first instructions.

"Get brushes, bags, and buckets from there."

The five of them rushed to comply, none of them stupid enough to question. Frowning at the strain of lifting one of the large boxes, the fresh scabs on Seb's cheeks cracked and leaked red droplets on the floor. Seb realized what the older stains were from the similarity of their shape, and anxiously gritted his jaw only to tear at the scabs again. He grabbed a roll of black garbage bags from a box full of what looked like loot from a restaurant, and joined the others who'd gained an assortment of brooms and large buckets.

"Quick are you? That's good! You all might last the day eh?" Ripper said jovially, "Word of advice as a reward then — unless you want to fight, fresh meats shouldn't make eye contact, shouldn't talk back. When we get down there, wait along the wall till the fights are over, then I'll show you how to get down into the Pit."

He turned to look at Seb before continuing, "Smell's getting potent now summer's here, Pit needs a good clear out, but there's worse jobs I could have you doing. If you barf, Barf, you're making more mess than you're cleaning, and that doesn't sound like someone we'd want to keep around. Right?"

His friendly tone made Seb blink twice before he caught the threat, and he swallowed and nodded. Dad had taught him that words did nothing but catch you out, people twisted them to find the excuse they were looking for. Silent agreement and compliance kept you safer.

Ripper sauntered off, once again expecting them to fall in line. As they descended they could hear cheers and yells echoing off the walls in the distance, which grew louder as they approached. The passageway opened up onto the wooden mezzanine of a cylindrical room several floors deep, bright lights set in its ceiling blasting down through the circular hole to the space below. The room was filthy and stank of sweat and rotten waste, dozens of mismatched pieces of furniture strewn around with a few Teeth sitting and drinking as they lazed. On the far side of the room a massive concrete throne sat empty, presiding over the chaos and carnage like a judge in a courthouse of madness.

A score more Teeth stood around the railingless edge of the Pit, shouting and laughing at the fight below. The crowd was sparse enough that Seb could see a tan man in nothing but jeans swing enormous metal covered fists at a much smaller fighter with an axe. The small man danced around the giant arms, and his laugh as his axe bit into the large man's flesh was echoed by the drunken spectators above.

Ripper pointed at an unused couch and made a shooing gesture to them, before running up to the crowd and slapping a huge and hairy man on the shoulder.

Seb could just about hear Ripper's flurry of greetings: "Yo Bro, job go well? How many rounds has Bitey-boy managed today?" But the rumble of the other man's replies were too distant to make out over the crowd and the sound of metal clanging off concrete below.

He clutched his bags tightly, and waited for the fight to finish.

They'd escape, he told himself. They had to.

He eyed the grisly decorations every member of the Teeth seemed to sew into their outfits, and tried not to count them.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

In a garden of severed limbs, dark liquid fruit blooms on a finger tree, I grasp my scalpel and peel—

Castle walls of biting porcelain flutter like pages in the wind, up and down, back and forth, a thousand more nameless directions—

A rusty lenticular boat floats in a carmine sea, bodies drowned in the depths below, a hollow vessel that grows fingers and tongues and will—

I groan as I wake, my neck stiff from an awkward position in my room's comfy chair. The book I'd been reading tumbles and hits the floor with a loud bang, and I startle at the trace of the noise, suppressing it before it spreads to other rooms.

After the long night of breaking and entering I'd been sluggish in the morning, and that was before Skeeter had reminded me of my promise. Two hours of trying and failing to recapture a previous memory of him and his mother on a beach had sapped even more energy, and I'd snuck off to my room rather than face his misery, and must have fallen asleep in my chair; my plumes elongating and wrapping around me like a comforting shawl.

I reach for my phone and start composing a text message to Mel. When I'd finally confessed my odd dreams to her on one of the long driving shifts to Florida and back, I hadn't expected her reaction to be almost an interrogation. Apparently it isn't unheard of for capes to receive 'insights' about other powers; Myrddin is the one she'd studied most intently due to the Crew's clashes with the wizard in Philadelphia; he could tell details of how someone's power worked just from laying eyes on another cape. The leader of the Chicago Protectorate had this facility on top of a bewildering suite of potent abilities, and could adjust his response as needed to fit the situation. He could even fly.

Compared with that, a drip feed of metaphor in dreams sounds pathetic and useless, which I guess makes sense for me. Mel insists on reviewing everything though, hunting for nuggets of advantage or insight. Maybe I should have followed the Myrddin's' example and gone for a magical theming for my costume, a dark sorceress out of Arthurian legend with flowing sleeves and imperious mien—

I must never tell Newter that idea.

The details of the dream were soft and fleeting, thoughts escaping even as I try to grasp them and commit them to text. Like Mel says, try to fit the facts with what you already know.

Mel (The Boss) << Had another dream. The motif about Labyrinth and movement again. Saw changing blood cells too, probably from Skeeter. Odd as I know he doesn't have normal ones in the first place.

The recurring dream of the woman in the forest, or the woman as the forest, I keep to myself. I've seen it in so many forms, preceding so many other dreams, that I think it must be something to do with me, a private madness that is not to be shared.

Mel's reply is quick.

Mel (The Boss) >> Memory of his trigger maybe? Or he can change other peoples blood? Something to try as long as we keep it discreet.​

I feel a tiny note of amusement, maybe she's still doing it on purpose, testing my focus. As if after months of corrections on her texts I would let up.

Mel (The Boss) << *people's

Mel (The Boss) >> Of course. Newter's looking for you, were you hiding?​

I trace the hands of the big clock in the kitchen — nearly three — we'll need to leave soon for our social engagement with 'Eric' and 'Jess'. I consider if I want to get out of this, stay in for the rest of the afternoon or maybe get some training done, but in the end I put it to one side. Newter is on my team, and he needs backup, so I will go.

Mel (The Boss) << I was asleep. So maybe.
Newter << Sorry, feel asleep. Ready to go?

I cast my scan to trace him in his and Skeeter's room, so I'm already tracking movement as he turns his head to glance at the phone on the bed when it buzzes with my message. He sticks his hand out and gives a thumbs up to the empty air, the lazy jerk is assuming I'm already watching him. I huff as I grab the hat from the stand with the rest of my costume, and slip the hair comb on the inner lining through my thick curls to hold it in place. The way the hat pushes my hair makes it easier to conceal my face without unsettling people, and if I am hanging out with Newter, using a bit of my costume wouldn't give anything extra away. I shake my head and trace the small switchblade in the pocket above the comb to make sure it's secure, and then head out into the corridor and along to the boy's room.

I hide the opening of the door and slink into the room while Newter is still focused on the mirror, his face clenched in consideration as he examines his reflection. His side of the room is in some disarray; clothes strewn on the bed in haste, his games console unpacked with cables trailing everywhere. I choose to sit on Skeeter's neatly made bed, and mull over my entrance.

I finally decide, dropping my concealment as I speak, "If you pick green or blue they'll sue you for infringement."

"Breaking copyright will just cement my image as a smolderingly cool villain," he says, grinning as I shake my head at the oxymoron. "As a girl, what's your opinion on this shirt?"

I tilt my head; it is vivid blue and short sleeved, and he is wearing it open in a way that somehow frames his well defined abdominals, drawing the eye to them more than his standard shirtless look does. It certainly holds my attention for a few moments.

"The colors will make them think you have a secret power to inflict mental damage," I say, "but the styles are good."

"Hmmm."

I dredge around in my thoughts, and vaguely remember someone I can't name talking about colors that go with oranges and reds.

"Similar but a darker blue might go better? Maybe?"

He stops and nods, and starts rooting around the clothes on the bed. I realize most of these shirts are new, and wonder when he'd had time for a shopping spree since we got back to the Bay. The other members of the crew must be flush with their Florida pay right now considering none of them needed to pay off debts. Even Gregor and Skeeter must have a lot left after pouring their money into Mel's anti-conspiracy search.

Eventually Newter selects a shirt that's less of a visual assault and quickly changes. He turns back to me and spreads his arms like a magician.

"Tada! Good advice Bergerac— you going wearing that?"

I'm in my long sleeved shirt and loose cargo pants, comfortable, gangly limbs contained in billows of fabric.

"Yes. We're just hanging out on a rooftop, right?" I say questioningly.

"Of course!" he says. His quickening heartbeat undercuts the sincerity in his voice.

"Right."

"Yeah you'll be fine. It's good. Glad you're coming." That last statement feels much more sincere.

"So where?"

"Sunny afternoon, so the south ferry station. We can people-watch the Boardwalk, send Eric to buy snacks."

I hum in agreement; the stepped art-deco trim on the building's roof would give plenty of places to sit unseen, and an empty building would mean no one would disturb or check on us. There is one problem though. "It's more than fifty yards from the next building, how are you getting over in broad daylight?"

"Don't tell anyone I said this, but one of my teammates is the best fucking stranger in the city." He winks in emphasis.

"Mel doesn't want the heroes finding that out, remember? Today I'm just a thinker with bird bones," I say half-heartedly.

"Yes, buuuuuut: it'll be cool as shit. Your power means no one will know if we do it right." He has a pleading note in his voice as he casts around for arguments. "You think every infiltration of those hospitals is something you can do at night? You need practice."

He's not wrong, Mel will understand.

"Sure. We'll think of something when we get there."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"This wasn't what I had in mind," Newter says from between my legs.

I don't speak back to him, but send pulses of silence down his ears to get him to behave, and adjust my grip on the wooden pole. There had been another small protest on the Boardwalk; angry people demanding the PRT do the impossible and 'solve' the Teeth problem. Borrowing one of their large signs had been simplicity itself, I hadn't even needed to conceal myself from the wiry old man with a sad expression who was loading them on a pick-up truck. Now as we walked I emphasized the photos of the teenagers on the sign, and hid the orange teenager as he crouch-crawled on four legs by my knees. It is a weekday and well before businesses close, so the sparse crowd seemed mainly oblivious to my realignment of their perceptions.

There is one middle aged woman in a business suit whose hot gaze fixates on my hair, and I feel my plumes prodding the back of my shirt as they nervously start to extend. I redouble my efforts, turning the sign towards the woman to catch her eye. She stops looking at me as she considers those black and gray photos, and I feel a little better as my tension eases. Beyond the subterfuge, I am happy to be helping spread the protesters' message. The Butcher is unbeatable, but the Teeth aren't and I too felt the heroes should do more against the gang, leaving their master just a roving psychopath—

We reach the granite walls of the Ferry station, their undamaged lines and lack of graffiti a stark contrast to the northern station near where my house is— was. Newter shoots up the five-yard height of the wall in seconds, the muscles in his back stretching sinuously, and crouches out of sight behind the first set of eaves over the wide entrance. I lean the sign against the wall, and wait until no one is looking at me before holding out my hand. He gets the quad-length sling from his satchel and dangles it down to my waiting grip. He pulls as I brace my feet against the wall and dash up to reach the same hiding space.

The hard part is done, and we circle around the building to the bay facing side, and climb up to the round belltower at the top of the roof. There are enough holds and detailing that I don't need Newter's help, and we duck through the wide arches into the covered space. The bell is long gone — I remember Dad saying it's in a museum Downtown — but the view of the Boardwalk and the beach is excellent. A dense layering of graffiti tags on the interior shows that we're hardly the first teens to sneak up here, but it's somehow comforting to see none of the new gang signs; all the stuff is old and faded, almost innocent in its lack of threat.

I find no hidden listeners or traps hidden in the structure. "It's safe."

"Cool." The normally confident Newter sounds slightly nervous as he gets out his phone and texts a message to the others.

I consider asking if he's okay, but can't find the words and leave it.

Newter guesses something from my silence. "Just different vibes you know; hanging with the crew, groupies in the club, it's not putting yourself out there."

"Bad?"

"It's something new, capes who aren't coworkers. Someone who doesn't need you, and isn't impressed by you."

"Is it more real?" I venture.

"Yeah, they could be friends because they like spending time with me. A, ah, connection."

"They've put up with your chat message 'jokes' for months," I observe.

"So what?"

"If they show up after that they are your friends already."

Newter laughs, to my confusion as I didn't think I'd made a joke.

"Thanks 'Tails."

I conceal a wince as I realize that's what this group would be calling me if Newter has had the time to work on them. Another layer of muddled identity to struggle with. As if on cue I feel someone with enhanced vision look at the Ferry tower from above, seeing more of the shadows and ultraviolet light than a human really should — either Guile, Laserdream, or their mother. I give a ready gesture to Newter and he wipes the nervousness from his face, bounding to sprawl along the lip of one of the open arches like it is a chaise lounge. He wiggles a red dyed eyebrow at me.

Sigh. He's right that appearing relaxed would give us what Mel insists on calling 'conversational advantage'. I adjust my dark glasses, then slouch against the inside wall and examine my fingertips like I haven't a care in the world, trying to hide my anxiety by treating this as another job.

It becomes more difficult when I feel the stinging heat of another wave of perception pass over me; this time it is a familiar fluttering extraction of emotional states, information bands constantly shifting, the origin half a mile up in the air. Valor keeping an eye on things when two teammates met 'villains' made sense, but the intrusion is still unwelcome.

From above, they enter the radius of my scan, and quickly drop down to one of the belltower's arches. Unlike our last meeting so long ago, Genesis isn't flying under their own power, but instead is being bridal-carried by Guile. I wonder if I should call them Jess and Eric or wait till Newter does? Guile is in civilian clothes — jeans and blue letterman jacket to match his hair — while Genesis is in the most humanlike form I have yet seen from her. A tallish girl, very late teens or early twenties, body slim but toned, fair skin and pale blonde hair having a faint greenish tinge. She's wearing items of clothing rather than modifying her skin: jeans and a long sleeved sweater. I trace deeper and find real organs within her flesh; only the brain and the complicated bits of the lymph system resemble the sketch-like nature of her earlier form's internals. There is a strange thick layer under the skin of her hands, perhaps she's preparing for a fight. I'm a little impressed Guile holds her so easily, enhanced strength wasn't meant to be part of his powers, and his biceps bulge with strain, but none of it makes it to his face.

Being photogenic while hero-ing has probably been drilled into him. I have a momentary mental image of Faultline and Lady Photon comparing notes on the best way to keep teenagers in line.

Newter starts smiling broadly as soon as they come into view, and launches his first quip before Guile even sets down.

"Jess! Is being blonde part of the New Wave entrance exam?"

She laughs, short and sharp like the snap of fingers, and jumps from the other hero's arms to land deftly on the stone floor. "You, Newter, making fun of other people's hair color? Glad you picked a shade that shows your inner lack of soul."

"You have no way to prove I'm not a natural redhead! The O'Newters are a distinguished clan in olde Ireland!"

I feel Eric's eyes on my face. This would be where the sensible members of each duo would meet each other's eyes and communicate resignation over the wackiness being unleashed. I don't feel like giving him the satisfaction, and cough gently instead.

"Oh yeah—" Newter shifts gears "—I told 'Tails your name, sorry if that wasn't cool of me."

She waves him away. "It's fine. Going to go public in a few weeks anyway."

"If you survive the paperwork," Eric jokes.

"Right," I reply.

He continues evenly, "at least you get a choice in how the announcement gets styled."

"Are you happy with having your name out there?" I ask, curiosity overcoming my reticence.

The woman looks a little guilty. "It's not like it's the only face I have. Not even my real name."

"Jess isn't your real name?" Newter asks with some surprise.

"No it is, but the surname we're going to use is new. I'm not a Case 53"—she nods at Newter and me and smiles apologetically—"but my, uh, circumstances left me with no way to link back to my old identity. When I got powers, it was a bad time."

Hmmm. I guess if Mel could conjure a new identity for me out of thin air, there is no reason a hero group can't do the same. Maybe they even went to the same people. I stand up and stretch, a note of guilt I'd been feeling releasing its hold on me.

"No one's going to recognise the face?" Newter continues. "I'd remember it! It's a pretty great face!"

There's a millisecond of hesitation, her gaze flicks over Eric, but he's not paying attention. Huh.

"This is based on a good friend. It's easier"—her voice catches a little—"easier to picture what someone else looked like, hard to honestly see how you were before you got powers. I liked looking at other people's faces more than my own."

I find myself sympathizing with the powerful hero more than I'd intended too.

"Yes. Hard to see yourself," I agree, as my scan picked out every aspect and micrometer of my body in excruciating detail.

A moment of silence draws out. Newter would normally be the one to fill it, but he is intent on inspecting Jess's borrowed face.

"So," Eric opens, "not seen you without the costume and veil before Swallowtail—"

"Tails is fine," I lie.

"—yeah. Didn't think that you, uh."

"I what?" I ask flatly. As I stare down at his face I realize I'm a few inches taller than him. The urge to widen the concealment of the parts of my face not covered by my hair and sunglasses from the heat of his gaze is intense. I bare my teeth in a stiff smile and emphasize it to pull his attention away. He wilts like a bluebell in summer.

"Had a face rather than being a scary monster," Newter answered. "Tip for you, bro, girls hate the implication they're faceless subhumans."

"Strange but true, the feminine mind is truly alien," Jess solemnly agrees, and the intensity of Eric's embarrassed blush defuses the tension.

"It's okay." I wave him away. "I'm lucky. Dark glasses and a baggy top are all I need to pass for human. Costumes and clothes hide a lot."

"Case 53s are human. They're not aliens or monsters." Jess's vehemence is a surprise to me, but Newter is nodding vigorously in agreement, as if he already knew that would be her reaction. I suppose a shapeshifting cape would have experience with people's responses to an uncanny visage, especially if they can't change all that fast.

Eric holds his hands up. "I'm not saying they are!"

"No one thought you were, man," Newter says calmingly. "Enough with the past, what you guys been up too?"

"New Wave stuff. We've got a big thing planned for after Jess joins, if Amy stops being a pain in the neck. But I don't think we can talk about it with, uh, mercenaries," Eric says apologetically.

"Sure man, we can't tell you about our jobs either," Newter replies. "Not that we'd do anything against innocent civilians."

"Yeah, other villains tend to have a lot more money," Jess jokes.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Vigilantes have to eat too."

They continue their back and forth for a bit, somehow getting from Jess's cape career in New York to some sort of video game about a pair of portal using tinkers that was released recently. It's enough to draw Eric into the conversation as well, and I zone out their energetic discussion of tactics and tricks and look out on the sun dappled waters of the Bay. The angle of the arches blocks out seeing the PHQ platform, something I'm thankful for, or I'd be at risk of playing that night over and over again in my mind—

"What was that, Newter?" I ask, in response to missing a question directed my way.

"We should get hotdogs from the cart, I don't know about you all but I'm hungry."

"We?" I ask, tilting my head questioningly.

"By we I mean you and Eric, as the non-brightly colored people here. You'll need four hands to carry them."

To answer I get a handkerchief from my pocket and hold out my hand with the cloth covering it. Newter retrieves his wallet from his satchel and drops it onto my hand before I use the absorbent material to clean off the tiny stains of his psychedelic sweat.

"Right."

I immediately beeline for the opening, hop out, and start making my way down the roof. I follow the route we came up by, keeping the bulk of the building between us and the Boardwalk. After a few moments I trace Eric coming up behind me, flying slowly but close enough to the roof his sneakers scrape on the titles.

"I could carry you down if you want?" he ventures hesitantly.

"I'm good."

"Will you be able to carry the food up?"

A valid point, I have to admit. "You can do two trips from the base of the building while I wait."

"That makes sense."

I hit the ground on the bay-facing side of the building, and Eric drifts down next to me. I eye his shock of blue hair with uncertainty; it stands out— it is meant to stand out as a bright public hero. I trace the baseball cap in his pocket, but don't know how to broach the subject to him. The thought of walking next to someone with every eye on them begins to make me uneasy, and I feel my plumes itching where they join my spine. I stand stiffly for a few odd moments, looming next to him. Out of the corner of his vision he eyes me up and down, and in a sudden brainwave I reach up and touch the brim of my own hat. I'm just about to emphasize it when he startles and pulls the cap from his pocket.

"Oh sorry."

"I'd rather not be caught in a paparazzi photograph," I say, a touch of venom in my voice.

"I get that, it's tough. I had a friend who— never mind." He adjusts the cap till not a strand of blue hair slips out. He has to tilt his head back to look up at me with the cap's visor in the way.

"If you'd rather embrace your celebrity, we can go to the stand separately."

"Celebrity wasn't my choice," he says tiredly. "The city knowing your name isn't all smiles and autographs."

"Yeah you're right. Sorry," I say curtly, before relaxing my shoulders. "Let's go."

The shadows are getting longer as the sun drifts down, the railings by the beach casting long stippled shadows across the Boardwalk. He doesn't try to make conversation. The end of work crowd is bustling now, people finishing deals and conversations before heading home, parents bringing children for some after school quality time. We can smell the savory gristle of the food cart well before we see the long queue waiting to be served.

"I dunno if Newter said, but thanks for what you did in Miami. We all appreciate it."

"I didn't do anything for Glory, that was Newter and Faultline."

"Yeah, but you're like third in command right? Newter says he wouldn't have dived into the water if he didn't know you were 'looking out' for him."

"I—" I boggle at what the hero just said. "What?"

"Trust is crucial, Mom always says; you can have all the power in the world but if you don't have trust in your team you'll hesitate, and people will die."

"Sounds like something Faultline would say," I say absent mindedly.

"Yeah?"

I need to change the subject: "What were you all doing in Miami anyway?"

"PRT has a standing request to the independents every Endbringer fight, the adults would never let us go obviously, but they'll also put in requests for the aftermath, while the truce is still on. If you've got a power that fits the problem that is — and there were tens of thousands of people still there in the flooded parts, especially Miami Springs and the islands. All clinging to their rooftops as the water surged." He shudders at the memory. "They mobilized every flier on the East Coast to help, and we've got eight."

"Good?"

"Best thing I've ever done, saving those people, but it wasn't a good time."

I don't ask for more details, I'd seen enough horror and cruelty in the wrecked city myself. We walk up and join the queue, no one throws us more than a passing look as they hurry past with their busy lives. The isolation of the crowd is calming in a way. Eric seems more nervous though, turning his head from side to side, even glancing back over his shoulder.

Eventually it gets too much for me, my spine itching with shared anxiety. "You okay?"

He stops and restrains himself, neck muscles tightening. "Habit you know, Dean's been worrying us all with how far the Butcher has been ranging each night."

"That should worry anyone," I say drily.

"You seem like a pretty cool customer."

"Hmmm." I think local omniscience helps, but I'm not going to tell him that.

"I see what Newter means about laconic. In a good way I mean."

The corners of my mouth edge upwards in a small smile.

"I did wonder why he asked what that word meant."

Eric laughs. "We can tell when he uses someone else's line. I tell the adults there's a chance to get you younger members to reform, but the way he talks about Faultline? It's just not happening."

"I thought Valor is the New Wave empath?" Inwardly I wince as I fumble the start of the delivery, but Eric still quietly laughs.

He continues more morosely. "Maybe I should try out, it's gotta be better than being a mobile wall."

I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses; flight, shields, and electrical blasts sound pretty great to me, what on earth could he feel down about? I don't try and keep the conversation going and it fizzles as we move forward in the queue. Talking about powers while someone might overhear is probably a bad idea as well.

After a few minutes we're ordering, and I spend Newter's money on four long rolls with bacon and barbeque sauce. From how the seller's gaze fixes on Eric I can tell he recognises the hero, but in a way it's a relief as he doesn't send even the slightest glance my way.

As we walk, hands full of greasy meat, Eric speaks again.

"It was good of you to come, don't think Mom would have okayed it if it was anyone else, but she thinks positively of you after the whole Riot operation. I know plenty of what it's like to be the fourth wheel in a group." He looks up as he speaks, an almost subconscious hiding of the loneliness in his eyes. "With some of the things we do I think my sisters and cousin forget I'm even there."

His reminder sends my mood plummeting, and I send my scan away to distract myself. I check up on the rest of the crew back at the Palanquin, then move to trace Newter.

He and Jess are sitting on the ledge of the belltower, his tail hanging down the inner wall, looking out over the Bay as the setting sun starts to turn the waters golden and sparkling. Both are talking animatedly and Newter is leaning back, bracing his hand on the wall. Jess has her hand laid on top of his, the touch feather-light to prevent his secretion pushing past the impermeable layer in her skin.

Ah.

I turn to Eric. "Let's hurry back, don't want the hotdogs getting cold."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• I'll inform you I didn't make Cricket the Butcher just so the Butcher would have an in universe horror movie rising background tone when they appear, and you can't prove otherwise!
• I'm sure Taylor is going to talk through her feelings rather than dive into something reckless.
• Thanks to Juff, Red Wolf, and Abyss for the beta read.
• Next update next Friday.

 

[Hecatonchires]

feet.

Doug grunted, apparently unwilling to speak as he pulled Seb into a group with three other people: a plain looking white girl with a broken nose, and

Click to shrink...

Can plain girl be Rachel?! Please?

 

[NotDis]

Can plain girl be Rachel?! Please?

Click to shrink...

Alas we've already heard about Rachel in this fic: the PRT mention Hellhound as having 'sold her soul to the Little Doctor' but thats just their opinion, in actuallity she's doing great! Lots of side benefits to being the chief bodyguard/pal of a wet-tinker wunderkin, and the vetinary care for her dogs is world-class.

(One of the side jokes/flourishes to the AU is having all the Undersiders be a lot better off in their circumstances)

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Victoria felt the light flow through her, starting from deep within and then streaming out through every vein and nerve. It was comforting, like the gentle warmth of a summer's day, or the hug of a dear friend. The light was pure potential; she directed it, concentrated it, released it, letting the explosion of energy propel her through the muggy Brockton skies.

Two hundred minutes, she translated from the little feeling in the back of her head. She'd been going too fast, expending too much of her light.

She let the resistance of the air take over, and slowed herself to a stop. A tiny amount of power, the drain barely noticeable, kept her afloat as she paused just under the clouds, looking down between her feet at the toy-like pattern of streets hundreds of feet below. Her energy built, light flowing in and pooling in the echo of her slight movements.

Two hundred and seven minutes, her reading of the instinctive feeling informed when she checked again. Nearly full.

It had been weeks of training to get her head to grasp that number, to quantify the instinct it had been before Miami. Stopwatches sacrificed in her frustrated hands, broken pieces hidden in a drawer her mother wouldn't find. But now that she knew her limits, she wouldn't endanger anyone again.

Turning the wait to charge into something productive, she examined the streets she had a good angle on; checking for activity systematically, quadrant by quadrant. Her eyes, normal aside from dazzle immunity, weren't as useful as the enhanced vision Aunt Sarah and her kids had, or the city-spanning utility Dean's emotional sight could bring to bear, but flight brought new perspectives — new thoughts — all on its own.

The multi-story brick blocks of the inner Docks slowly shrunk into closely packed homes as she looked from east to west, the two mile band of the city the PRT had quietly designated as a cordon, separating the Trainyard and its immediate environs from the rest of the city. Within the cordon patrols were doubled, tripled when New Wave could assist, driving the Teeth back, driving them away.

But not pursuing them.

Everything on the streets looked clear, little specks of people moving about their day, not knowing their neighborhoods were being sacrificed to keep the rest of the city safer. Victoria pushed her baton and sheathed gladius around on her uniform's equipment belt to fish her phone out of the side pouch. She flipped it open and wound the menu to a familiar number, only remembering to turn her helmet camera to privacy mode just as she dialed. The phone rang loud in her helmet as the short-link connected to its speakers.

It was only two rings till Dean picked up.

"Hey Vic, what's up?" She could hear the smile in his voice over the line.

"Out and about, stretching my legs. You wanna come hang?"

"Love to Sunny-V, but I've got a ton of homework to do. Two hours? We could get some food Downtown?"

"I'll grab something alright," she said with a grin of her own, "but can't you put it off? Your tutors work for you, you know." Her voice slipped towards exasperation, despite her best efforts.

"Not everyone is an academic bulldozer like you, Vic. It takes me longer to make up for the work I missed," he replied patiently. He didn't bring up that the missed work was from all the observation shifts he'd pulled helping her and others patrol safely; that just wasn't how he worked. Dork, she thought, fondly.

"Don't slack off. Two hours. On the dot."

"Sure, where will you be?"

"I'm above Wharf and Dame, right now, going to stick within a half mile of it."

There was silence on the line, then the scrape of a window opening.

"Are you patrolling in the Teeth Cordon on your own?"

Victoria slowly turned in the air. Yes, there was a clear line of sight across the Bay and Downtown to the big houses on University Hill.

"It'll be fine, Dean. You should have seen the drug bust me and Amy did yesterday, crooks didn't know what hit them."

"Right. You know I remember what tomorrow is, Vic, but you, ah, you weren't like this last year." He sounded apprehensive.

"Like what?" She knew what he meant, but didn't want to address it.

"Ah—" He sighed. "I'll see you in two hours, better to talk in person. I'll call in an hour to confirm your plans."

"Have fun with your books," she replied, projecting chirpiness.

"Stay safe. Love you."

"Love you too."

She closed the line, reset her helmet, and breathed out slowly. Time with Dean later would be good, spending the evening together would give her the excuse of not seeing her mother, keep her mind off things till they went to Dad's grave tomorrow morning. But she needed to do something productive now.

As if in answer, she heard a distant shriek, the sound carrying clearly upwards through the air, unmarred by the buildings that would confuse someone groundbound. She could see two small figures in an alley, being accosted by two larger ones, and didn't hesitate.

A flash of energy propelled her downwards like a stone from a sling, and as she fell she could see the scene illuminated in stark contrasts. A short woman stood by a heavy bag of groceries, clutching the hand of a sobbing young girl as she stumbled back from two men in leathers grasping long and dirty knives, one of them already looking up at her initial flare of light.

Step one, protect the victims. She landed in front of the mother and child in a three point landing, right hand free to hold the baton protectively out to the side, the force of the impact enough to trigger her forcefield of light to flare protectively. She grasped the wave of energy in her mind as the nova spread out, shaping it around the five presences in the alley and connecting it to the two civilians. Ten seconds each would be enough to stop a stabbing knife, but wouldn't let them do anything foolish like try to fly. She could feel the white light wrapping around them, holding them as closely and gently as Dad used to hug her when she was little.

Step two, subdue the criminals. Victoria drew herself to her full height, argent echo rippling with every movement, and fixed her gaze on… the retreating backs of the two assailants. One of the knives rocked back and forth on the grimy pavement of the alleyway, abandoned. Victoria tensed, a heartbeat away from launching herself after them, when the girl sobbed again.

She breathed out. Back to step one.

"Are either of you injured?" she asked as she turned, putting what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. The brick buildings on either side of the alley were tall and their windows were painted over, casting long shadows on the two of them despite the time of day.

"No—"

"—Mama got cut."

They spoke over each other; the mother had some sort of European accent, the girl must have been six or seven and had much darker skin than her parent.

Not typical for the Bay, Victoria thought. Refugees living in the bad part of town? The cut of the mother's top was this year's style, and the reddish material was good quality, so they didn't look poor, though they didn't look rich either as the girl's clothes had the faded look of hand-me-downs. It wasn't relevant, and she focused on the long red line on the mother's forearm. It wasn't bleeding profusely but it looked deep.

She picked her words carefully. "That… that sort of wound can be worse than it looks. Is there going to be someone at home to look after you?" She gave a significant look at the child.

The woman shook her head.

"Would you like me to call emergency services?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Okay, hold the arm above your head in the meantime." Victoria pressed the communicator button on her helmet, opening up the channel to the New Wave dispatcher. "Hey Marvin, stopped an assault up by the Docks, alley off Wharf street. Got a serious but not life threatening cut on the victim."

"Right-o Glory," the voice of the elderly ex-fireman came back followed by the sound of rapid typing. "Got perps for pickup?"

"No," she said, doing what felt like a good job at keeping the frustration out of her voice.

"Shame." There was half a minute of silence before Marvin came back on the line. "Okay looks like BBPD are all tied up, no one will be able to take a statement, good side of no perp means the ambulance can come on their own, it'll be half an hour. You good to stay with them?"

She thought about the other things she could do in that time, the other crimes she could halt, but kept it out of her voice, "Of course."

"Righti-o. Got a description of the attackers?"

"Two white males, twenties or thirties, leather coats, Teeth or wannabees. Hold on a sec." She turned back to the mother and daughter. "Can you describe the attackers?"

The mother shook her head, but the daughter nervously piped up, "One had a big old scar on their cheek! Oh oh, and the other had no front teeth!"

"Thanks, that'll be really helpful." She smiled at the girl, but didn't waste Marvin's time by relaying the details when half the Teeth's fanatics had their faces cut, and closed the connection. "I'll put it in the report. It'll be half an hour till the ambulance is here, are you going to be a good girl for your mother and me?"

"Yes Miss Glory," the girl said, her eyes gleaming. Victoria drew back her light from the two of them before they moved and noticed it. The woman righted her bag of groceries and gave a nervous laugh.

"What's so funny? Oh! I'm so sorry, what are your names?"

"Inese, and this is Rita," the mother answered. "They were after the food. At first. Silly, I gave it up too easily, made them think I had money. They pushed us off the street—"

"This isn't your fault," Victoria said as kindly as she could manage, and frowned at Inese's answering wince. Dean was better at this sort of thing, more believable. She needed to distract them, not let the fear of the moment sink in.

"Hey Rita, have you ever wanted to fly?"

"Will you carry me?" The girl shrieked in delight.

"If it's okay with your mom, something even better!" Victoria couldn't restrain her own enthusiasm as she spoke.

"Please please please please mama?" the girl babbled. Inese gave Victoria a long look, her eyes difficult to read, then nodded.

"Not too high, ja?"

"Yes, we'll stay in the alley, and not go above the building okay?" she said, as Rita hopped from one leg to another in excitement. She put her hand on the girl's head. "One magical girl transformation, coming up!"

Victoria showboated a little; with physical contact she didn't need the light show, but the kids always loved it. The glow that pooled within her spilt out to suffuse the air around the two of them, and she brought the intensity up over the course of a few seconds to release a streaming explosion of white light from where her hand touched the girl's shoulder. The wave of energy passed out and over and around the two people in the alley that were potential targets, and Victoria pushed five minutes worth into the young girl, the small gift refreshing her own reserves to full. The nimbus of glowing whiteness clung to the arms poking out of her denim dungarees, sparkling off her grin as she smiled.

"Okay," Victoria instructed, as she smiled herself, "in your mind you should feel something like a pool of light. Reach into it and take a little bit, then push it in the direction you want to go. Gently."

Rita scrunched her small face in concentration. Nearly everyone found this part of her power instinctive; it was the quantifying and consideration of the energy spent that had taken so much practice, so she didn't stupidly run out in tight moments.

So she didn't give someone less than what they needed to be safe.

Sure enough, it took only a few moments before the girl flared with twinkling light and rocketed three meters in the air, laughing with the unguarded enthusiasm of a child as she floated and spun. Victoria clapped and laughed to cheer her on as she skipped from one side of the alley to another, and Inese joined in the encouragement after Rita bounced off the walls safely in additional flashes of light.

Victoria counted down the five minutes in her head, skipping the clock forward whenever the girl bounced or flared. When it had nearly run out she launched herself up and channeled more time into the budding aeronaut, caught up in the girl's delight. As she felt the two targets in range for her power, she considered giving Inese the same gift—

Victoria stopped, blood running ice cold in her veins. There had been five potential targets before, she just hadn't thought about it. Two civilians plus two assailants left— what?

She landed hard, clutching Rita in her left arm. She reached to cover the girl's mother with her right and faced the part of the alley the anomalous presence had been in. She couldn't see anything but a dead end with a crude wooden wall with barbed wire at the top, closing off the continuation of the alley on the other side.

"Whoever is out there, show yourself." She let the light build around her again. This time it wasn't an empowering pulse, but a stunning shock. Any unprotected human she didn't deliberately exclude would be on the floor, and she was famous enough that any cape in Brockton Bay would know she could back up the threat.

"Five."

She hoped she wasn't making a huge mistake as the girl whimpered in her arms, and Inese gripped her elbow in sudden fear.

"Four."

"You're making a mistake." A young woman's voice, speaking softly, but with a tightly strung intensity. From the way the two civilians didn't turn their heads, they couldn't hear it.

She put every ounce of authority she could muster into her own voice as she continued, echoing every remembered countdown her mother had employed, "Three."

"I'll wait here. Talk once they go," the voice said quickly.

Victoria waited another moment, then nodded. "Sorry Inese, Rita, I thought I felt something. We should wait on the main street. Maybe flying lessons wasn't such a good idea."

"Yes," said Inese with a slight reproach in her voice, as the young girl started crying. Victoria tried to look confident as she ushered them to wait the remaining minutes for the ambulance. While the minutes ticked by, she made a mess of answering Rita's questions on her heroism, as she tried to wrack her memory for any mention of invisible capes in the recent past, hero or villain. If it was a new trigger should she try and give them the 'align with New Wave' pitch?

It seemed like an age before they were packed up in the ambulance, and she was able to return to the alley. Two hundred and nine minutes, the pool of light whispered comfortingly. Full charge, as good as she was going to get. She stretched up to her full height, and took a step to stand a few inches in the air for good measure. Hands on her hips, authoritative but not aggressive, and she addressed the empty alley.

"Well?"

Silence answered her. A minute passed, then another. Victoria frowned, then felt a grin spread over her face as an idea struck her.

"Must have spooked them. Oh well. I'll just have to call into the PRT about an unknown invisible stalker. They'll put their thinkers on the task, analyze my helmet's camera footage…"

Still only silence. Huh.

She pressed her communicator.

"Hi again Glory," Marvin answered.

"Hey, need to—"

"Wait," the voice from before interrupted, sounding out of breath. Creepily, it was behind her again, between her and the entrance to the alley.

"—I'll call you back, Marv."

Victoria slowly rotated in the air, the movement slow enough to not need to draw from her well of light, preventing any flares that might be seen as aggressive. She was surprised to be almost eye-to-eye with the woman, who must be an inch or two over her own 5'9''.

Eye-to-shades was more accurate, as the other cape wore a clunky pair of enormous discount-bin sunglasses. A pulled up neck gaiter and the hood of her thin blue running top completed the concealment of her face; obviously she was experienced with makeshift masks but not expecting to be confronted. The top didn't fit her very well, much too loose on the body and short on the arms, exposing bony wrists. The men's shorts she was wearing weren't any better of a fit, tied tightly at the waist and hanging down to the knees, exposing pasty-white shins. Perhaps a family with a lot of boys and reused clothes, Victoria wondered. The shoes look expensive though; sneakers with the extra grip free runners used.

Overall the young woman was very thin and gaunt, but normal words like willowy or waifish didn't fit, as the intensity of her pose made Victoria recall the hard narrow lines of a fencer's epee.

"Well?" the girl whispered as Victoria looked up, her voice seeming much angrier than before Victoria's quick inspection, her face still unreadable behind those dark glasses. She was holding her hands flat and open by her side, empty of weapons, as little as that counted for with capes.

"What were you doing here?" Victoria said soothingly, and gently lowered herself to stand on the ground.

"Same as you," she hissed. "I was going to save those people before you lit things up like the fourth of July."

"Okay, if we allow that, thank you for being one of the good guys," Victoria said, smiling to try and calm the girl down. Maybe this was going to be a good day after all, she thought, as her enthusiasm rekindled. "New in town? Invisibility is such a cool power! You have to be careful with it if you don't want to be caught in collateral effects. Oh oh, are you here to spy on the Teeth? We and the PRT are giving bounties on information, not sure if it's made its way round the indie hero grapevine yet—"

She cut off the stream of words as the girl tilted her head slowly. She could see her own white costume and transparent helmet reflected in that unreadable black plastic. Nascent ideas of scouting the Teeth's base were put to one side, and she tried to start again.

"Oh. Rude of me, sorry. I'm Glory." She gestured at the golden yellow sword emblem on her chest, framed in Dad's stylised flashbang blast. "New Wave, you know?"

The girl's shoulders slumped as she looked at Victoria's outthrust hand, and rolled her head from side to side in a seeming internal argument. She said something too quietly for Victoria to hear, but it sounded bitter.

"What was that?"

"I said, 'we've met'."

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

"What?" Glory's gleamingly white teeth shine in her confused half smile as she speaks.

What indeed? I think to myself as I try to pick words from the jumble in my head. It had been stupid to be so close to those muggers; forcing my concealment just before the hero's camera had passed overhead. It had been stupid to forget her power could pick and choose between people in its blasts, so of course it must have a sensory component that would take me precious seconds to acclimatise to the first time.

It was stupid to do any recon without a full toolkit. If I'd had my crowbar I could have squeezed through the fence at the end of the alley and been away before the radiant bitch even landed, rather than kneeing in a dirty corner too wary to squeeze past them. Being pathetic just like always, letting someone strong deal with the problems I find—

Refocus. It was especially stupid to indulge a whim and hunting for Quarrel's stash houses in the Docks without telling any one just because I was mad at Newter sharing secrets with Jess—

Refocus, a long forgotten mantra repeats in my head. It sounds a little like Mel nowadays. There is a hero that needs to be dealt with, I should consider my options. I can't hurt Glory, but now that she's settled on the ground my domain has the opportunity to worm its way up her leg and into her helmet camera. Her incredibly judgemental gaze looking me up and down earlier had slid my plumes a foot out my back, and my power is quick to respond and flow, though the risk of her spotting the things moving on my back is increasing by the second.

"You okay there?"

It had been an instinctual reply earlier, but I realized now the sense of revealing my name. As a known quantity New Wave wouldn't spend the effort to analyze the tapes, and no one would sync up Glory's footage with the attack on PHQ. New Wave were all about transparency, they wouldn't share videos of the public with the PRT on whim. Now all I had to do is take a page from Mel's book, and offer the girl something distracting to stop her from investigating further.

"Hello?" Glory claps her hands to draw my attention. Someone who looks like that must not be used to people ignoring her.

"We met at the end of March, New Wave hired me during the"—I choke back a snarl— "Riot operation."

After a second, the girl's demeanor shifts to a serious mien, and she lifts back into the air a fraction. Must be nice to have that option to leave situations.

"...Swallowtail. You have an invisibility power," she states tensely.

"Guilty." I had to turn this around somehow, and the bitterness as I speak is sincere, "Another reason for people to loathe the monster."

I let my plumes free to push at the sides of my running top, and I feel Glory's burning hot gaze glance down to see the twitching shapes under the fabric as they push round from my back. Her eyes snap back to look in my sunglasses with a guilty recoil.

She closes her eyes for a moment before she speaks again.

"I apologize for the tone. Really, I do get why you'd not say anything about that. Though—"

I panic over her next words, preparing to plummet her into absence. If they connected me to the Hospital? The Rig?

"—this would explain why the PRT thinks you can teleport. Oh oh, there was that rumor of an invisible cape by the Docks in March? Was that you? Was that where Faultline recruited you?" The tension bleeds out of her as she excitedly recounts her facts.

"Yeah," I allow, better they think that than anything else. "The PRT think I can teleport?"

"Something Raindrop said, as if you can trust her. Invisibility can look like teleporting though! It makes sense!" She sits back in the air, crossing her toned legs as if perching on a high stool, and taps a finger against her transparent faceplate in a thinking pose. If I was less tense I might have found the theatrics amusing in comparison to the threats villains exhibit.

"Are you going to tell anyone?" I ask.

"Uh, obviously? It's kind of a thing we have to plan for you know. Your crew may be a two out of ten on the villain hardness scale but you still do crimes. If something dangerous happens it would be awkward if we had the deets and didn't share it with the PRT. Yikes, would be bad for all of New Wave. And if I don't brief Eric on the potential dangers with meeting your crew can you imagine what Aunt Sarah would say? I'd be in so much trouble."

"I'm no danger," I say, clenching my hands and looking down. God forbid I make the radiant cheerleader look bad.

"I didn't say you were. I know the instinct is to underreport so the law doesn't get concerned, but it's not always the best idea." She straightens up, continuing, "Look, Dean said you were a good person when he met you, Eric thinks you're cool, and I trust them both." She briefly drops to a stage whisper, "Eric less so when there's a girl involved." To my mortification, she actually winks at me. "But this is about keeping my team safe, we don't lie to each other."

I hold my hand up in a gesture inherited from Mel, still looking down, and devote my full attention to her heartbeat as I say the next words. "What can I do for you that will keep this between us?"

"I don't need your money, or any crimes done for me," she replies with a laugh, but her heart rate ticks up, and muscles around her eyes twitch.

I consider everything she's said so far, and focus on her earlier excitement. "Who said anything about crimes? Don't you need hero work done?"

She's silent, but her heart betrays her and I press on, "You do stick out." I wave my raised hand in a shape that suggests her envy-inspiring figure. "Could someone with subtlety help?"

Her jaw clenches in anger, and the light of her echo starts to shine more intensely. "People are being kidnapped off the streets and you're using it to bargain and help yourself out? Heroes are dying to hold back the Teeth."

"You think it's so easy, getting to a place where you can help people?" I say angrily, the urge to blind her intensifying, despite how pathetically useless it would be against an omni-directional attack. "I have to do what I have to do, but I don't want the city to suffer any more than you. If I can help with Quarrel, with the Teeth, I will."

I'm surprised at my own sincerity, and something must have come across in my voice as her voice sounds conciliatory as she replies.

"Alright alright, I don't know what Faultline's done for you all, why you all have this loyalty to a mercenary." She pauses, eyes moving back and forth as she considers. "Ugh fine, I'll think about it. I need to talk to Dean. What's your number?"

After I give one of the burner numbers, I have a question. "Who died?"

She looks at me, and I feel her gaze trying to pick apart the covering on my face to find emotion underneath. "Tally is at fourteen dead and sixty more missing—"

"You said a hero had died, we were down in Florida all last month." She winces at the mention of the state, does she regret what she did in Bal Harbor? Something to use later maybe.

"Yeah, Roland. He was on loan from Boston so it didn't make much news."

I don't know the name, and stayed silent in the hope she continued.

"They were trying to take Vex out of the city when she was captured, but Butcher showed up to attack the prison transport. Roland was tough, and they had a battle on top of the vehicle — real epic stuff, but she got him with a pain blast or something to disrupt his kinetic deflection thing and threw him off."

Is it bad I didn't feel anything about a cape I'd never met? The tides of bodies in Miami had a way of changing your sense of scale.

"Did—Did you know him?" I ask, trying to find something to say.

"We met once at the monthly orientation, his costume was pretty cool. He made a joke about me beating him in an arm wrestle, seemed like a guy who had a lot of jokes ready for women, you know?"

I'm not sure I do. I see his point about arm wrestling though, Glory is probably thrice my muscle mass despite being shorter. She put her cousin Eric to shame in the shoulders and arms department, taking more after his dad than he did. Her athleticism seems definitely unfair on top of everything else; beauty, book-smarts, even disgustingly photogenic superpowers.

"No, I don't have men flirting with me," I say, and can hear the bitchiness in my own voice. I try to correct, "But. I'm sorry he's dead, the city needs its heroes."

"Heroes die saving people," she says matter of factly, with weariness the only emotion in her voice. "It's how it is."

I feel the heat of her gaze slipping away, as she focuses on an internal thought or memory, and a tiny bit of guilt builds within me. Despite everything, despite some shadowy conspiracy, my dad was still alive, seeing him again was not an impossibility.

I guess Glory didn't have everything.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Authors Notes:

• When Faultline said take up a sport I'm not sure she meant fighting muggers Taylor!
• Victoria gives us some details on the hero's dental Teeth plans, and we'll see more as we follow her forward as our other PoV this arc.
• Funny story - but I adjusted Victoria's power a touch from the original plan to allow the plot to work better (can split boosts more freely between people, but the refund aspect is much less and capped), and then last month the Lancer writer's put the same nerf into the Mech the power is based on .
• Thanks to Juff, Red Wolf, and Abyss for the beta read.
• I'm away next week so no chapter till the 4th of June. However there will be a small interlude on Monday!

 

[Gnarker]

"Yeah, Roland. He was on loan from Boston so it didn't make much news."

I don't know the name, and stayed silent in the hope she continued.

"They were trying to take Vex out of the city when she was captured, but Butcher showed up to attack the prison transport. Roland was tough, and they had a battle on top of the vehicle — real epic stuff, but she got him with a pain blast or something to disrupt his kinetic deflection thing and threw him off."

Is it bad I didn't feel anything about a cape I'd never met? The tides of bodies in Miami had a way of changing your sense of scale.

"Did—Did you know him?" I ask, trying to find something to say.

"We met once at the monthly orientation, his costume was pretty cool. He made a joke about me beating him in an arm wrestle, seemed like a guy who had a lot of jokes ready for women, you know?"

Click to shrink...

Assault? Is that you?
I hope not, he's cool.

 

[NotDis]

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Restart Complete…
Hello [Dean Stansfield]! Would you like to hear about the improvements we've made to your user experience?
[Dean] you have 87 unread messages…
Opening Folder Coursework...
Opening Folder Transport Equality Essay…
Opening White Paper: Expanding Public Transport In Brockton Bay 2007.pdf…

Page 3/19

Brockton Bay has long grappled with movement along the city's North-West to South-East axis, the problem going back to the initial settlement of the area. The city's very founding missives concern the construction of the first Squamscott Bridge and Archers Bridge to connect the good harborage of Brock's Town (now generally referred to as 'The Docks') with the farms and more pleasant surroundings of the villages in the Rockingham valley (now generally referred to as 'Downtown').

As the city expanded this interstitial zone was constrained by Captain's Hill to the west and the Bay to the east. The popular idiom of Brockton Bay being a bipartite city has considerable basis in reality, the two halves of the city being squeezed like an hourglass.

Congestion in the middle of the city was a constant concern over a near one hundred and fifty year stretch; driving a succession of public's works measures such as the additional bridges, the buses, and of particular note the passenger ferry routes between the center of the docks and the east end of the [Boardwalk].

Comment by Dean Stansfield

The other white paper says the ferry was only important for the villages in Maine, who is right?

The civic spirit to connect was due to the economic interrelation between the two parts of the city; Downtown and the rest of Rockingham county needed the goods arriving at the Docks and the local manufacturing positioned near the Docks, and the Docks needed the foodstuffs and services coming north.

However towards the end of the twentieth century this interrelation began to adjust. The decline of the Bay's manufacturing due to high land and energy costs, the minimum hull sizes of container ships that could navigate the main channel of the bay, and uncooperative worker organizations all combined to severely strike economic activity in the Docks area of the city. A two way street became one way — the Docks needed access to jobs and services in Downtown, but Downtown no longer needed easy access to the Docks.

The presence in the Docks of many immigrant, refugee, and visible minority populations drawn by the cheaper house and need for unskilled labor is argued to have also been a factor in city, county, and state organizations' hesitancy to maintain the active transport measures, with some campaigners comparing it to 'planned shrinkage' in Rust Belt cities. [Several councillors counter by]

Comment by Dean Stansfield

Find out who these were, are they still on the city council. E88 Links?

pointing out that the North-East half of the city as a whole is 60% white based on the 2000 census, and deny a racial component to this economic problem—

Pagge 6/19

In 2007 workers in the Docks attempting to secure employment in new knowledge-economy of Downtown or the new industrial processes along the I95 south face either; a lengthy crawl through the middle of the cities traffic in a private vehicle or bus, or a costly drive through the I95 tunnel that necessitates private vehicle ownership. From a deprivation index of the city's neighborhoods, the stark correlation between average transit time to Lafayette Boulevard and poverty is [clear to see].

Comment by Dean Stansfield

Good map, use for trying to convince Carol Dallon and Dad?

Highest Deprivation - Red <> Blue - Least Deprivation


In the following sections we examine six options for reducing transportation inequity in Brockton Bay, and cost/benefit analysis over a decade 2010-2020…

-=≡SƧ≡=-

​

Brockton Bay, as of Arc 4
Detailing the Teeth Cordon with a red highlight in case people were having trouble picturing it.

-=≡SƧ≡=-​

Author's notes:

• Mini update here to tide over the two week absence.
• Showing Dean's homework as an excuse to show some maps, more on the thoughts behind having a map like this in the informational post below.
• Never going to stop experimenting with formating, its just so fun.