A collection of Boston-themed short stories and snippets by various authors that go along with the setting of the Comprehensive Guide to Boston. I hope you like them. 
Tales from Boston: Worm Short Story Collection
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Introduction
"Ah, Boston! You see, things are different here. It's the Protectorate who controls the streets at day, sure enough, but make no mistake. Crime is subtle here, but it's there, around every corner, and there's only one man who truly holds the strings in this beautiful city. Doesn't mean you should forget about the white hats. They wiped the entire city of villains once, after all. Didn't work, of course, but it sends a hard message, doesn't it?"
-Unnamed Boston Resident-
Boston, the preeminent harbor city in New England and the capital of Massachusetts is one of the most important cities in the United States of America. Located in close proximity to New York and one of the more prominent cape cities on the East Coast. With a population of roughly 3 million in the wider metropolitan area, it is a booming city, riddled with prestigious universities, institutions, corporations, and a historic significance nearly unrivaled by the rest of the United States. The city's economic landscape is characterized by the presence of numerous tech and medical companies, contributing to a robust economy. Boston is notably acknowledged for its focus on parahuman research and stands as a city with a noteworthy concentration of Tinkers, further enhancing its technological profile.
In 2011, the cape scene in Boston has long calcified after the chaos of the Boston Games years prior, making it one of the most stable cape cities on the East Coast, which can be attributed to both the Protectorate and the local villain scene.
PRT Department 24, under the leadership of Director Kamil Armstrong, and the Boston Protectorate, led by Bastion, are spearheading some of the more competent, well-staffed and funded government institutions compared to cities like Brockton Bay. They collaborate tightly with their counterparts in New York City, which are a measly 4 hours drive away if anything proves too much for the locals to handle…
On the villain side, it is an open secret that most criminal factions and organizations adhere to the Boston Accords, a loose alliance proposed by the local mastermind Accord to prevent needless infighting and guarantee a united front against outside forces like the encroaching Elite.
The cape scene in Boston reflects a diverse composition, shaped by the transformative events of the Boston Games in 2007. The displacement of established entities during that period created a substantial power vacuum, attracting various gangs and heroes to the city.
Current Boston stories are:
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-Unnamed Boston Resident-
Boston, the preeminent harbor city in New England and the capital of Massachusetts is one of the most important cities in the United States of America. Located in close proximity to New York and one of the more prominent cape cities on the East Coast. With a population of roughly 3 million in the wider metropolitan area, it is a booming city, riddled with prestigious universities, institutions, corporations, and a historic significance nearly unrivaled by the rest of the United States. The city's economic landscape is characterized by the presence of numerous tech and medical companies, contributing to a robust economy. Boston is notably acknowledged for its focus on parahuman research and stands as a city with a noteworthy concentration of Tinkers, further enhancing its technological profile.
In 2011, the cape scene in Boston has long calcified after the chaos of the Boston Games years prior, making it one of the most stable cape cities on the East Coast, which can be attributed to both the Protectorate and the local villain scene.
PRT Department 24, under the leadership of Director Kamil Armstrong, and the Boston Protectorate, led by Bastion, are spearheading some of the more competent, well-staffed and funded government institutions compared to cities like Brockton Bay. They collaborate tightly with their counterparts in New York City, which are a measly 4 hours drive away if anything proves too much for the locals to handle…
On the villain side, it is an open secret that most criminal factions and organizations adhere to the Boston Accords, a loose alliance proposed by the local mastermind Accord to prevent needless infighting and guarantee a united front against outside forces like the encroaching Elite.
The cape scene in Boston reflects a diverse composition, shaped by the transformative events of the Boston Games in 2007. The displacement of established entities during that period created a substantial power vacuum, attracting various gangs and heroes to the city.
Current Boston stories are:
Crimson Shards on a Vacant Throne
When the flames devour Winslow, a lone girl is left behind, trapped in a dark smoke-filled basement. She crawls from the ashes on shattered wings, all but broken in body and spirit. However, she quickly finds that she has more problems than managing her destructive powers and the strange...
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Glass Parabolas (Worm AU) Sci-Fi - Fantasy
A blooming hero's struggle as new Ward, a delightful villain cape living up to her ante, and a menacing bounty hunter whose game flocked into the streets of Boston... A sequel to Madison SI and a Worm AU set in Boston)
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
Still Gallant [Worm AU, Sequel to Ever Gallant]
Fifteen years until the world ends. Dean moves to Boston for a fresh start, but Gallant has to stay in Brockton Bay. Who will Dean become now he can no longer be Gallant?
forums.spacebattles.com
Cauliflower (Worm/40K)
Worm/40K crossover set in my Boston AU: Athena wants to be a hero. Can't be hard, even when you are sweet, morally ambiguous and your power consists of vomiting rot and maggots at people...right?
forums.spacebattles.com
I'm a Barby Grill (Worm AU)
In a world somehow worse than what should have been we follow the story of Taylor Hebert the walking barbed wire furnace!
forums.spacebattles.com
Rules as Written (Worm/Pathfinder WoTR)
In which Taylor Hebert has the dubious honour of playing host to my creative interpretation of the powers of an Aeon from Pathfinder, Wrath of the Righteous. (The video game in this instance is my source of inspiration, not the tabletop book.) There have been some adjustments made to the world...
forums.spacebattles.com
Tales from Boston: Worm Short Story Collection
A collection of Boston-themed short stories and snippets by various authors that go along with the setting of the Comprehensive Guide to Boston. I hope you like them. :)
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
Breach - Chapter 1 - DrWhoFan13 - Parahumans Series - Wildbow [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
archiveofourown.org
Splicer - Chapter 1 - Draconic - Parahumans Series - Wildbow [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
archiveofourown.org
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On the Prowl (Starlit Ronin)
On The Prowl
Written by Starlit Ronin
The boards under her feet cracked as she made her way down the stairs, her feet taking care to step over the more troublesome ones on habit. She made it to the bottom without causing much noise, and what little noise she did make was masked by the still-running TV in the common room. She slowly made her way into the room, immediately noticing two sleeping forms on the couch. On instinct, she reached for her weapons, only to grab nothing but air. She mentally slapped herself. The aftereffects of the high were getting to her. She was at the shelter, at home. There were no enemies of hers here.
After her eyes adjusted to the dark, she realized that the figures on the couch were the kids they'd taken in earlier that day. Had they come back down here after they'd all fallen asleep?
She could carry them upstairs and lay them both in their assigned beds, but that would be the wrong thing to do. They'd slept here on purpose since it was much closer to the door. It was an instinct most of them cultivated on the streets, things that they took time to leave behind. She slowly crept behind the TV and pulled the plug before leaving both kids behind.
She slowly made her way to the dining room and finally found who she was looking for.
"Olivia? What are you doing up at this hour?" Mr. Jennings asked, the electric lamp on the table making him look worn. He was frowning at her, and she mirrored him.
"I thought I heard rustling downstairs and came to check if it was you. It seems I was right." She replied, taking in the collection of papers strewn across the dining table. They were a mixture of things, from bills to graphs.
"I found myself unable to sleep. The same as you, I imagine." He sighed. "Well, it can't be helped. Take a seat, Olivia. I'll make us both some tea."
Mr. Jennings got up and began taking things out of the cabinets, and she carefully pulled up a seat for herself before sitting down.
"Any particular reason for your insomnia?" He asked while filling the kettle with water.
For the briefest of moments, she was tempted to reveal that she'd shot up an hour before and that the shame was keeping her up, but the words died on her tongue before she could say them. He couldn't find out that she was a junkie. Not now, not ever.
"No, not really. You?"
He gave her a faint smile at that, eyes twinkling like he was going to tell her something very funny. "It's what's always been at the root of my insomnia. Money."
Immediately, thousands of bad scenarios ran through her head. Were they going to be shut down? Evicted? Before she could start spiraling, Mr. Jennings seemed to pick up the direction her thoughts were going in and immediately put her concerns to rest.
"It's nothing like what you're thinking about. It's just… the news said that there's going to be another influx of people on the streets soon. And with an influx of new people, there's a new crop of kids those monsters will try to take advantage of. I can't stop thinking about that."
"You're doing all you can."
He chuckled at that while putting the kettle on. "And yet, it's never enough. My experience tells me that we're at maximum capacity and that trying to take in more kids will lead to more problems, but my conscience wants me to try."
A pang of guilt hit her full force at his words. Here he was, worrying about people other than himself despite already being in dire straits, and all she was doing was moping because she was going through a hard stretch. She needed to be better. She needed to do more.
"Well, we'll do what we can, and when that isn't enough, we'll do a little bit more," she replied, and he smiled as he realized she was parroting the words he'd told her when she'd first started here.
"Right on."
They lapsed into silence after that, and he finished brewing with the tea, adding sugar and milk to it before pouring her a cup. She took small sips of it and found that it helped immensely. After she was done, he took her cup from her and turned towards the sink.
"Didn't you make a cup for yourself?"
"I don't feel like it right now. I'll drink one later. I thought it would be best to make you a cup as fast as I could so you could get to bed sooner."
She sighed. "Will you promise to go to sleep if I do?"
"Ever the negotiator."
"I'm not joking."
"Fine, fine. You have my word."
She got up and began to walk back to the stairs. "Good night, Mr. Jennings."
He began clearing up the papers on the table. "Good night, Olivia."
She headed back up the stairs, but even after she crashed onto her bed in the old storage cabinet, she found that sleep eluded her. Only this time, it wasn't because of the withdrawal. It was the fact that she could be doing so much more, right now, instead of sleeping.
She waited until she was sure Mr. Jennings was asleep before getting up off her bed and peeling the mattress off the cot to reveal the bag that held her costume.
Time to go out there and do her part.
She ran her hands through her costume and checked that everything was in place. Her song suffused the surrounding space in the form of a dull hum, getting ready to unleash itself into the wider area.
The foam deer-skull mask around her head was as snug as it could be, the straps for her elbow and knee pads were tight, and none of the sections of PVC pipe she'd taped onto her red hoodie seemed to be coming loose. All good on the costume front, then. She turned her attention to her weapons and found her hatchets were a bit dirty. She wiped them off on her jeans. She'd need to sand out the dried bloodstains later.
She gave her equipment one last check, and once she was sure she was ready, she took off, beginning to stalk the streets.
Mass and Cass was a congested strip of urban decay, with the streets lined with tents, mattresses, and piles of refuse all fighting for space on the sidewalk while graffiti-ridden buildings played host to what little business remained. The rest of the space was taken up by parking lots, emergency shelters, and health clinics.
Before she'd taken to the streets, they'd sold poison openly on them, going so far as to shout names and offer samples. After she'd brutalized the first couple of dealers, that had stopped, but they weren't gone yet. They simply lurked in the shadows now, unwilling to stop milking the place that earned them so much money.
She let the hum latch onto the people lining the streets, and it crept into their minds, allowing her to walk through the streets unnoticed.
She surveyed the tents, and all those who laid eyes on her seemed to see her without realizing she was there, their eyes sliding off her form before they could latch onto it. The hum was working.
In this form, her power was more like white noise than anything else—some of the more sensitive ones might notice something was off, but for the most part, it went undetected as it wormed into their heads, a background noise lost in the cacophony of their subconsciousness. To people lost in highs or the throes of withdrawal like most of these people were, it might as well not exist. And once they were under the effect of it, she might as well not exist too.
She could feel the hum squirming into their brains and then using them to propagate itself, turning them into little radio towers that increased her range while sending pings back to her to let her know who'd joined her web, adding them and their locations to the map in her head.
The vision her power granted her wasn't actual vision, but it was helpful all the same. Once her power added someone to her web, she knew their general location, but more importantly, she knew what they were feeling, which was the most helpful tool she had in her arsenal to identify her prey.
Most of those who came to Mass and Cass to sell drugs were outsiders, and unlike those trapped inside of it, they had a different feel to their minds that let her separate them from the rest.
Most addicts were powerless and desperate; their minds stuck trying to hold themselves together while they suffered in the endless cycle of long withdrawals and short-lived euphoria they found themselves in. So many of them yearned for release, for freedom, for escape, and a mixture of self-loathing and anguish tainted their minds.
The dealers, however, always felt different. They held the most power out of anyone here and acted as such. They were wolves among sheep, placing themselves above the rest because they were the only ones with the poison that so many of the unfortunate bastards here needed to stay alive. There was desperation in their minds, yes, but it was the more calculated kind, the one that people trying to meet quotas by any means possible felt.
She cycled through the people who'd been caught in the web of her hum and found what she was looking for. A cluster of four people in a nearby parking lot, their minds tinged with that calculated desperation. She picked up the pace, making her way to them.
She walked through a gap in the rusted chain-link fence and found her targets hidden in the shadow of an old pickup truck. One was counting money, while another was messaging someone on his phone. The other two were leaning up against the fence, smoking cigarettes while they had a whispered conversation.
While her hum was effective on most other people, these men were on edge, most likely having heard the stories and seen the carnage she'd left behind. If she tried to move on them directly, she'd get spotted once she got close enough.
She circled around their position and approached them from the side, using the car they were near to hide her approach. Before she made her move, she cut everyone else in her network off, focusing solely on the four men in front of her as she shifted the polarity of her song. The hum turned into a shriek, and all four men reacted differently.
The two near the wall froze like deer caught in headlights, while the one with the phone dropped it and began shaking uncontrollably. The last one reached into the band of his jeans and pulled out a gun, hand shaking so much he could barely aim it at her.
She slid into their view, and before they could react, she tossed one of her hatchets at the man with the gun and grinned with satisfaction as it took two of his fingers off. She hadn't gotten his trigger finger thorough, and it tightened on reflex. The gun went off with a deafening roar, the bullet whizzing past her and hitting a random car.
As the man dropped the gun and curled up around his injured hand, the others began to draw weapons as well, cornered as they were. She rushed forward, closing the gap between them.
The man closest to her tried to pull his gun out, but just as he'd taken it out of his pants, she was already on him, ducking down and burying her hatchet into his thigh. He opened his mouth to scream, but she stood up to her full height and slammed his elbow into his throat, cutting him off. He stumbled backward, helping her pull her hatchet out of his leg with a small splatter of blood.
The other two had knives, and she slammed the flat of one of her hatchets into the closest one's head. His skull let out a resounding crack as her hacket made contact with it, and he collapsed.
The last remaining one opened his mouth, either to beg for mercy or to try and buy time—whatever it was, she didn't get to hear it as she kicked his leg out from under him and dug a hatchet into his hip. He screamed, and her leg lashed out and kicked him in the mouth before he could complete it.
She took stock of the men, letting her eyes roam over their whimpering, shaking forms, expecting herself to feel something.
She didn't feel anything except for simmering rage. Good. She still had the ember she needed, hadn't lost her edge.
"Next time, I'll kill you," she whispered, the shriek parroting her words over and over again to the men.
All of them stopped moving like they'd die if they did. One stopped breathing, and another muttered prayers.
She toned her power down, letting the shriek turn into a hum so she could canvas the area for more dealers.
She had to do more.
Her hatchets whizzed through the air before striking two different legs, embedding themselves into them and causing both men who'd been fleeing to drop to the ground in pain. The man who'd been falling behind whipped his gun back up at her and fired, and given the dark and his shaking hands, he managed to hit nothing.
She slowly walked up to him while his finger still aimlessly pulled the trigger, producing nothing more than a clicking noise with every pull. He kept pulling it, almost as if the noise alone would be enough to keep her at bay.
She stepped forward and disarmed him before using the butt of the pistol to smack him in the head. He collapsed, and she threw the gun into a nearby dumpster.
"Fucking bitch," the man croaked out. "We're fucking small fry. No matter how many of us you maim, there'll be more to replace us. You're doing jack shit here."
"Maybe," she whispered, her power carrying her words to all three men."But what I do makes sure you won't return."
Her piece said, she slammed her foot into the man's face, knocking him unconscious at the price of a few teeth.
Then, she moved onto the two men she'd hit in the legs at the start, pulling one of her hatchets out of the one and breaking his leg to maim him properly. He screamed, but she gave him no mind.
The hatchets were too small, meaning the cuts they left were shallow enough that the ones she hunted bled but didn't die out, which was good. She wanted them to suffer the same pain they inflicted on others, after all.
If they bled out and died, that might cement her as a villain, but who cared? She didn't.
The other man flipped onto his back and held his hands over his face. "Please, I promise I won't come back; I promise I'll go clean and leave this whole thing behind. Just don't hurt me, please. Please!"
She lifted the blunt end of the hatchet she'd retrieved to break his leg, but something stilled her hand. No, it wasn't the man's pathetic pleas. It was the thing the first man had said to her.
We're fucking small fry. No matter how many of us you maim, there'll be more to replace us. You're doing jack shit here.
She didn't know why it was affecting her so much. It was the desperate attempt of a cornered man to take back some power from his hunter by trying to unbalance her with his words.
Strangely enough, the man reminded her of one of the punks she'd had to babysit during a public work event the shelter had hosted and what she'd yelled at her.
Every time we come to this park and clean it up, there are more needles than last time! Why the fuck are we even cleaning this place if it's not going to stay clean? No wonder the government has us doing this for our community service stuff—everyone else doesn't do it because they know it's pointless!
Pointless. In a way, both of them were right. For every dealer she maimed, two more replaced them. For every needle they cleaned up from the surrounding playgrounds, five more were thrown right back in. If she was to stop that, she needed to do more, had to do more. She needed to strike at the source.
"You," she whispered, and the man flinched. "Where do you get your drugs from?"
The directions the man had given her led her to a grimy red warehouse, outer walls thick with graffiti. Her hum revealed around twenty people on the first floor, filled with desperation of a newer flavor, mixed with anxiety. These people were overseen by men similar to the dealers, around four in total.
The second floor had seven men, one in a room, while the others just milled around. All those on the second floor were dealers, with the one in the room extremely confident, meaning they had to be the leader.
She walked up to the guards standing in front of the door to the side of a larger loading dock, and she could get much closer to them because these men weren't expecting to be attacked by anyone, much less her.
By the time they noticed her, she was right in their faces; twin blows from the backs of her hatchets taking care of both of them.
She felt the man in the room tense, anxiety spiking for some reason. She gave her surroundings a once over and found a security camera screwed onto the corner above the door. Just her luck. Guess she was doing this loud then.
She felt anxiety and dread spread among the men on the second floor, and before they could organize themselves and start coming after her, she threw the door open and began making her way to her first set of victims.
She tore through the barely lit hallways, ignoring the stairway that led to the second floor and instead following the hallway to a large room that seemed to be where they were packing the drugs.
Shabbily dressed men and women were working under searingly bright halogen lights, mixing the brown powder on the table with what seemed to be another brown powder they were getting out of a large plastic bag in the center of their tables, all under the watchful gaze of their overseers.
The hum was still working, meaning they didn't notice her as she stepped into the room. They didn't have the edge of knowing she was here like their compatriots on the second floor, meaning that she could get as close to them as she dared.
She knocked the two on her side of the tables out with the back of her hatchets, and as the other two became aware of her presence, she threw her hatchets at them, hitting one in the thigh and the other in the hand.
The people packing the drugs scrambled to get out of the room as her spell on them broke, nearly falling over each other in their haste to flee. She vaulted over the table and retrieved her hatchets, breaking their legs with swift stomps of her feet to keep them out of the fight. They both screamed, then transitioned into whimpering and shaking.
The men on the second floor were now trickling downstairs in groups of three, and the first group was quickly making their way to her position.
She found the power strip all the lights in the room were connected to, and pulled all the plugs, leaving the room significantly darker. She found the light switches and turned them off too, plunging the room into complete darkness. The stage was set. Now, for the bait.
She then dragged one of the whimpering men onto one of the tables, slammed him headfirst into the powder on the table, and watched as he slowly overdosed. Now, all she had to do was wait.
Fear was a strange thing. Over the course of her cape career, she'd seen just how differently each of her victims reacted to it. Some were petrified. Some fled as fast as they could. Others became more incompetent, the fear clouding their judgment and rendering them nearly useless.
The most fascinating reaction to fear, however, was foolhardy bravery. The presence of fear seemed almost to bring out the courage buried in the depths of people's minds, and the men who'd gotten this strange courage moved like it was going to run out any second, meaning they made more mistakes than most.
A trio of men arrived at the doorway of the room she'd found herself in, and as soon as they saw their comrade writhing on the table and trying to keep the powder out of his lungs, they rushed into the room, uncaring of the consequences and the dangers lurking in the shadows.
She realized that only one of them had a gun, and he was using one much smaller than most. Maybe he didn't want to use a more lethal gun in close quarters since he knew her power messed with his ability to aim, and he didn't want to end up hitting someone. Or maybe they simply wanted to capture her alive?
Well, It didn't matter in the end. Guns or not, she'd still get all of them.
Her eyes had already adjusted to the dark, unlike theirs, which were fresh from the hallway. She slammed the door shut, trapping them in the room with her. They turned to face her, but she was already moving, changing the polarity of her song.
She went for the man with the gun first, who was behind the two other men. She darted past them and hooked his arm with one of her hatchets, pointing it toward one of the other men. The spooked man pressed the trigger, and it hit one of the men in his shoulder.
She was right. There wasn't much light or sound from the gun, and even her ears were barely ringing. It wasn't a large caliber.
She slammed the gunman into the table behind him with the butt of her hatchet, and the gun dropped to the ground as his head met the lip of the table.
One of them was in the middle of swinging his baseball bat at her, and she ducked under the blow and buried her hatchet into his chest, feeling it stop once it hit his sternum. She pushed him away and finished the last one with a blow from the back of a hatchet blade.
Who else was left in the building? Three more men were heading for her, more confident than the three she'd just dealt with. Then there was the one upstairs, now a lot more anxious than the rest of the men.
The three men crowded in front of the door, and she quickly cast her eyes about for something to help her.
The gun on the floor beckoned to her. She left one of her hatchets on the ground and scooped it up off the floor. One of the men moved in front of the door to open it as she moved towards it.
She kicked open the door, gun in one hand and hatchet in the other, and the man in front of the door went flying back. Before they could react, she threw her hatchet at the lone man she could see and shot the other one through the door, making sure to shoot multiple times through the same spot so the bullets went through.
When the dust settled, she could see why these men had been more confident. The one who'd moved to open the door had a sawn-off shotgun, while the other two had guns that were much larger than the one she held.
She moved quickly, carving them up and disabling them before moving on, intent on taking care of the last man in the building. She picked up the hatchet she'd thrown, and changed her song back to a hum. She didn't need her shriek and both blades against a lone man.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor and was greeted by an office devoid of any furniture but a chewed-up desk and chair. She marched towards a nondescript door in the side of the room, throwing it open to find a cramped room filled with monitors and a lone woman wearing a biker's helmet looking up at her.
She barely had any time to dodge as the woman barreled into her, throwing her back a good couple of feet. She barely managed to stay on her feet as the woman casually walked up to her, clicking her tongue in disdain.
"Just my luck. The boss man decides I'm finally ready for some more responsibility, and two days after he gives me this dump, it gets hit by you. Great. Just great."
The woman rushed at her again, and this time, she used her shriek against her. The woman paused for the smallest fraction of a second as she was hit with a massive wave of fear, and her body had her decide between fight or flight.
The woman chose to fight and let loose a wild haymaker to compensate for her moment of weakness. She read her like a book, ducking under the haymaker and burying her hatchet in the side of her stomach, cutting through the woman's jacket and her shirt.
She pulled it free, expecting the woman to double over or at least slow down. She didn't. She began to laugh, the pain somehow making the fear less effective on her.
She wove through a barrage of punches, all while the woman's shirt became soaked with blood and started dripping on the floor. If she kept fighting like this with that wound, she'd die.
The woman sent another wild haymaker her way, and she ducked and buried her hatchet through a gap in the woman's ribs. More blood was added to the collage on the ground, and there was so much of it now that it was impossible not to step in. Had the dealer just decided to die here?
Just as she thought that, the woman grinned, and the blood on the ground began to evaporate.
"I've got you now."
She immediately put some distance between them, but it didn't help. The air around filled with the scent of something sweet, and she could feel the familiar feeling of something foreign entering her blood.
The woman's voice felt distant as she talked now, as the thing in the air affected her. "My power's pretty, rad, isn't it? My blood turns into a hallucinogenic vapor. It doesn't last long, but it's potent as fuck."
Shit. She needed to fight through this. If she killed this woman, then the effect would break. She darted forward, and then the world broke into a million fractal pieces, each showing her the same thing.
No, no, no. She needed to pull herself together and get through this. She pulled her vision together, and the lens of her eyes snapped back together again, coloring the world white with more cracks than she could count.
The woman turned into a towering monstrosity made of needles, and the monster took a swing at her. She tried to dart under it, but she put too much force into the dodge, slamming into a wall that turned out to be a tent.
Calm down. It's just a drug. It isn't real. It isn't real.
Something in the distance laughed, and it sounded like a mixture of tinkling bells and distant gunshots. She tried to get on her feet and found that both her legs had been fused to the floor because of the grime covering them.
Work through it. Get a grip of yourself. You're stronger than it is, even if it doesn't feel like it. Get up!
The monstrosity turned to face her, and it was wearing a familiar face.
"Pretty good, isn't it? You'll probably never feel anything like it ever again," the man who'd hooked her on heroin when she was a teenager said, his smile just as wide and rotten as she remembered it.
It began to rain, and every drop that hit her skin chilled her to the bone. The monster kicked at her head, and she dodged, only to find that the tent she'd slammed into had dug hooks into her flesh to keep her from moving.
Her body was on fire now, strips of flesh missing and blood leaking from the holes. The monster aimed a kick at her midsection, and she tore her feet free of the muck on the floor to dodge, tearing more flesh free in the process.
"You're really a pain in the neck. Most people would have just dropped by now."
She tried to swing her hatchet at the monster, aiming for the head. Her hatchet turned liquid midswing, and the monster just turned the liquid into mist. It darted forward and kicked her legs from under her, and she slammed into the floor and turned into a thousand drops of water, mixing with the rain that was falling from the ceiling and traveling to the gutters in the sides of the room.
"You know what's funny?"
The words vibrated through every part of her, impossible to ignore, despite her wanting to turn them out.
"The only people who've lasted this long are those who've had experience with highs before. You've been hurting all of us, and it turns out you're a fucking junkie? It's a twist for the ages…"
She began to swirl into a gutter, the water she was made of taking the shapes of the people she knew, all of them judging her. It wasn't her fault. She'd been poisoned by a man with golden promises. She wasn't a junkie. She wasn't. She'd made up for being one.
There was a sharp pain somewhere in her body, and it was like a star in the dark, pulling her together with its gravity.
There were more flashes of pain, each accompanied by words.
"We're just-" A burst of pain.
"Trying to-" Another burst.
"Make a living. We're providing an essential service, whether you like it or not."
Was poisoning children to line your pockets an essential service? Was getting children to pay through other means an essential service? Was killing people an essential service?
There was a spark there, and she fanned it into a flame, giving her enough anger to fight through this. These people ruined lives. These people had ruined her life. She wasn't going to lose here. She had a duty, and she wasn't going to stop because of a two-bit thug.
She felt ever-so distant as she painstakingly pulled herself together, the water she was made of coalescing into a human shape curled up on the floor. The woman aimed another kick at her, and she grabbed the foot and yanked, her hand leaving behind neon afterimages as it moved.
The woman seemed surprised that she was even moving and yelled out as she pulled her legs out from under her. The woman fell to the floor, making an awful ringing noise that was giving her a headache. Her vision gave out again, filling up with random colors and lines.
The woman was fading in and out of her vision, bleeding her colors into the rest of the world as she tried to get back up. She climbed on top of her and drove her elbow into the visor of the woman's biker helmet, shattering it. The shards flew into the air, twinkling like stars. The woman squirmed, and she kneaded her in the ribs to stop her from moving.
The woman hit her in the liver in retaliation, and everything went numb, if only for a moment. The woman tried to push her off, but the state she was in meant she didn't feel much pain. She responded by trying to gouge the woman's now exposed eyes out.
A wave of pain slammed into her as the delusions suddenly came to an end. She slammed back into reality, soaked in sweat and hurting all over. She froze as her mind adjusted to reality and dealt with the pain, and the woman used this to escape from under her, trying and failing to scurry away from her. She held a hand on her ribs, and she looked extremely pale.
"Crazy bitch. How the fuck are you still able to function?"
Her hatchet wasn't far from where she was, she reached for it with shaking hands, then rose to her feet after picking it up.
"I have a duty," she croaked out.
The woman tried to use her power again, but she'd lost too much blood, and there wasn't enough of it left on the floor either. Before she could affect her again, she slammed a boot into her exposed face and finally knocked her out.
She took a moment to bask in her victory and then moved to pick up the cape's body. She had a scene to make.
"I don't think I'll be able to make it to the shelter for a couple of weeks, Mr. Jennings."
"What happened?" He said, his concern evident even through the phone in her hands. "Are you sick? Do you need me or Lilian to come check up on you?"
"Nothing like that. After our talk last night, I realized there was more I could be doing to help. There were a couple of people who needed my help I'd been ignoring, and I want to take some time off to help them."
He sighed, but she could tell he was slightly proud of her. "Well, I can't say no to that, can I? However, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I'm just a phone call away."
"I'll remember that, Mr. Jennings. Take care."
"Bye, Olivia."
She ended the call after that and put her phone back in her pocket. The news came back on the TV in the diner, and she turned to face it.
"Hey, can you turn that up?"
The man behind the counter nodded, pulling a remote from under the counter and turning the volume up, allowing her to hear what was being said.
"...eleven of the men were found in various states of injury, all missing fingers or having been maimed in some other way, while one other man had been forced to overdose on heroin. Local PRT authorities believe that this was the handiwork of the local vigilante Huntress, who frequents the section of Boston known as Mass and Cass. They believe that this is the start of a larger campaign against all organizations that are pushing drugs into the area, and urge citizens to contact them if they spot the vigilante."
The anchor moved on to other things after that, and she noted that the news hadn't made any mention of the cape she'd fought. She'd gotten away then.
She got up from her chair, slung the bag with her mask and tools on her shoulder, and headed to the door.
She had the benefit of having more time now and needed that time for her injuries to heal. However, nothing was stopping her from canvassing places with her power and finding that cape. One way or another, she would make sure that that cape wasn't a problem anymore.
After all, she wasn't one to let prey who'd bested her escape.
Heroic Aspirations (Partisanenpasta)
Heroic Aspirations
I will rewrite this since I feel like it could be improved and expanded, and I'm not really happy with the current result as it was a rather rushed project. Still, here's the current (old version):
Bob liked to think that he lived a simple life. He had enough food for the most part, even though it came primarily from a dumpster, a loving girlfriend, even though she was a few teeth down, and a roof over his head, even though it was made from cardboard and an old tarp. Of course, it wasn't ideal, nor where he wanted to be in life, but he knew that he had it better than most people in his situation.
The old and dignified Boston wasn't kind to people like him after all.
He loved the city like nothing else; the warm brownstones, the history, and the people. It was his home, a good and safe place to live compared to what he heard from other places, but there weren't many places he could go anymore. Downtown was a lucrative gold mine to earn some scraps, but the city council and their stupid policy of "hostile architecture" made it harder and harder to find a good place to sleep. If he ran too far west, he'd get grabbed up by the Angels or the Teeth, and the less was said about Mass and Cass, the better.
He'd set foot in there once after dark, and if it hadn't been for the creepy bone lass he'd now have a syringe halfway up his arm, and sit in his own feces while giving someone a blowjob just so he could put the next dose of dirt into his vein.
Bob couldn't suppress a shudder at the thought. There were worse things lurking behind the corner than Supervillains.
A metallic clang tore him from his thoughts, and he shot the girl who'd just dropped some coins into his bowl a wide smile. "God's blessing for your kindness, lass. S'appreciated. You know a fancy girl like you don't have to stop by every day just to visit an old man like me, right?"
"I-uhm, no," the teenage girl stuttered, blushing. "It's o-okay, really. Just on my way from work, you know."
"S'alright," Bob grinned. "There ain't many people like you, bringing me flowers every day. My girlfriend is already getting jealous, ya know. She ain't complaining about them though."
"S'the least I can do," the girl murmured, before straightening up. "I have to go. Have a good day, sir, and stay safe.
"You too, lass. S'getting dark, and a pretty thing like you shouldn't wander around then, especially dressed like this…" Bob shot a telling gaze at the girl's crop top, revealing enough toned skin that he wouldn't have let his own daughter wear it if he had one.
The girl in question had a pretty face, with a stunning figure, sculpted stomach, and shoulder-long dark hair flowing down her head like silk. She came here every day, ever since he'd set up shop in the alley, leaving little things or money. Sometimes, she even traded a few kind words with him before she hurried off, hands clutched around her designer briefcase that went for several hundred bucks a piece last he'd checked.
"I-uhm, I'll be careful, thanks."
"Yeah, I know that this area is mostly safe, but I heard the Angels are pushing into Dorchester again," Bob replied, shooting her another wide smile. "Really, god bless your kindness, young lady."
Bob watched her go. He wasn't sure why a clearly loaded teenage girl who'd never even bothered to tell her name cared so much about him and others, and it concerned him. Yet, it was heartwarming, and in a way you could only experience when you were used to the world treating you like dirt. Like a subhuman, when people looked at you with pity and disgust in your eyes, and friends you'd grown up with for more than 40 years suddenly shunned you.
Bob still took pride in his appearance and made sure to stay as clean and groomed as he could, unlike many of his colleagues who'd simply given up. But he had no illusion that he was anything but another vagrant devoured and spewed out by this beautiful city. Yet, he'd never touched a bottle, and he never would.
Not that the angels would care. Mystic Mass, the blight that festered within Roxbury and the surrounding districts. They were one of the more problematic gangs in Boston. Petty criminals and human scum in fancy getups, a bunch of pseudo-religious nutjobs disguising themselves as… whatever it was that they did. Bob didn't know, and if he had his way, he'd stay far away enough from them to never find out. They were vile, even more creepy than the self-mutilating freaks in this part of the city.
But, he told himself as he started to pack up his things, collecting the meager amount of money he'd earned today and stuffing the blanket he'd been sitting on into his backpack, they weren't his problem. The Protectorate and Police dealt with them, and he… he was just a normal person. There was nothing he could hope to do about it, especially not with his blasted leg…
The three gunshots reverberated loudly in the darkness, tearing Bob from his sleep. He twitched, instinctively pressing his back further against the warm brick wall, clutching his blanket to his chest as he tried to hide even more in the dark corner he'd retreated into for the night.
He glanced around, gulping nervously as he tried to shake the sleep from his eyes. A glance at the cracked wristwatch on his hand told him that it was close to three AM. The gunshots had been close, too close, and it didn't take long for hurried steps and voices to drift closer, approaching his position.
Bob clutched the blanket harder, closed his eyes, and prayed. His only superpower was being homeless. People ignored him, avoided him, and overlooked him, and it meant that he saw things no one else did. But it was a flimsy shield, and he prayed that the shadows shielded him enough to avoid discovery.
The steps came closer, and Bob dared to crack open an eye. Angels. There were three of them, dark shades identified by the glowing cross tattoo on their forehead, huddled together as they hurried through the alley. Sure, they were essentially just glorified thugs, not capes, but they were armed and dangerous, and Bob only dared to stop praying and holding his breath when they went past him and finally disappeared.
He still waited for what seemed like an eternity before he allowed himself to relax again. That had been close. If they'd discovered him, he'd be dead. He didn't hold any illusions in that regard. He wouldn't be able to do anything against them, let alone even put up a fight. He was old and crippled. He couldn't do anything about it.
Yet, even as he sank back onto his mattress to continue sleeping, his mind refused to stop rumbling. Shootouts weren't that uncommon, sure, this was America after all and the city crawled with thugs, villains, and crime like all large cities did. But the Angels had been nervous. Something had happened, but what?
A silent battle raged in Bob's mind before he finally pushed the blanket away, and rolled to his feet. He didn't know why his curiosity won over the voice in his head urging him to just ignore it and go back to sleep… but a little peek didn't hurt, right?
Following the direction of the sounds wasn't hard, he'd always been good at orienting himself, and all the years on the street had only served to hone that skill further. The alley was dark, with only a few sparse lights, and he didn't have to hobble long before he turned around a corner and found himself in a backyard surrounded by towering houses.
There was only a single flickering lightbulb on top of an entrance, but the summer moon was bright enough for him to see.
"What the fuck," Bob whispered to himself, staring at the corpses of at least a dozen birds on the ground. Crows, sparrows, and even an eagle, all of them looking like someone had beaten them to death. Where did they come from, and why–
Something blinked in the darkness, and Bob threw himself back at the wall, scrambling into the darkness between two large industrial-sized dumpsters. Shit, shit, shit, did – no, wait. Slowly, he edged forward again, uncaring about the dirt and sharp things pressing into his shins, and peeked around the dumpster.
A dark backyard greeted him. No angels, or anyone. Just dark windows, emptiness, and some dark heaps of trash.
Something blinked in the darkness. It didn't look like a gun, more like a…shoe?
Grunting, Bob pushed himself up to his feet again and hobbled closer. It was indeed a shoe, peeking out halfway from the closed lid of a dumpster. A small and pretty thing, decorated with glitter and these little fake sparkling stones little girls liked so much. He was just about to let out a relieved huff when he noticed the leg.
The leg attached to the pretty shoe.
He only froze for a moment before he lurched into action, digging his fingers under the heavy metal lid and pushing it upward. The Angels had shot a girl. A little girl. Tears welled up in his eyes as he grabbed the small body, lifting her out of the filth. The corpse twitched in his arms, then again, and again.
She is still alive, Bob realized. Oh my god, she is still alive.
He hobbled as fast as he could, almost falling over several times as he hurried back into the light, and gently lowered the girl to the ground. She was young, barely a teenager, dressed in a colorful gown he only now realized to be a cape costume.
There had clearly been a lot of work put into it. The mask was decorated with more of these sparkly stones, and the pink costume was studded with feathers and sparkly little trinkets. It looked exactly like the wet dream of a prepubescent girl obsessed with princesses, barbies, and the color pink…
…if it weren't for the blood and bruises, the dirt, broken and cracked plastic parts, and the gushing red hole in the girl's stomach.
They must have kicked her over and over again, Bob realized with dawning horror. And then these animals put a bullet into her. Jesus girl, what did you do out here, and why? Why did you have to play hero…
"Hey, hey girl. Girlie, princess! Can you hear me?" Bob asked, gently shaking the girl before he clasped his hand over her bleeding stomach wound to apply pressure, something he vaguely remembered to have learned almost half a century ago. He dug his other hand into his coat, fishing for the old cell phone. "Hey, hey. It's alright. You are going to be fine. Can you hear me, princess? Everything is going to be fine, okay?"
His only reply was muted sobbing, and something wet kept trickling down his own cheeks as well as he punched in the number for the emergency services. Lord, save this little girl, he prayed silently as he desperately tried to quench the blood flow beneath his fingers. Send thy light down to burn these monsters. I can't do anything against them myself…
Details on the Setting
Free resource everyone can use for their campaigns or writing, and contribute to, but please do credit me and the project if you want to use it
Given that I finally put it up on Reddit, I figured I could show it here more openly as well.
Send Them In (Moproblems Moharmoney)
SEND THEM IN
Written by Moproblems Moharmoney
Just as I turned left on Dorchester Street, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I should have gotten my car serviced when the offer was there two weeks ago.
Things had already been bad when the ride started, sputters and shakes as you get in any clunker, but when the gear stick crunched in my hand with a sound like walnuts being trampled by cows…well, I knew the thing was done for. Maybe permanently.
I tried not to focus on it, keeping my eyes on the road. Gloved fingers tightened on a steering wheel that once held two hands. I impulsively snapped the radio on. Silence was my preferred state of being, but I just…needed something right now.
Someone called 'Lady Gaga' blared out. The song passed over me. It was all noise and fierce statements. I didn't like it. Where were the soft guitars, the gentle rhythms?
The spectre of my father was channelled through me, both of us frowning in the driver's seat, both mystified and irritated at the state of 'modern music'. He was a jazz guy, even though I never understood the appeal myself. One of the many bones of contention between us.
Despite the shuddering death rattles coming from beneath my hand at every movement in the gearbox, the ride itself was comfortable. Not smooth, but comfortable, like a wound you'd long grown familiar with. Tinted black windows helped ease my surface tension, as did a lack of visible cameras on the creatively titled 'Middle Street'.
As it turned out, my destination was a pretty normal place. In all honesty, I'd expected more of a run-down shithole, something like Detroit maybe, but there was nothing to it. Just row after row of cookie-cutter warehouses, and as ridiculous as it sounded, the utter banality of the place irritated me. Five hours in the car, one of which was in full costume, for this? I could have watched the Nets, gotten an utter thrashing, and still have time to get drunk on cheap beer instead.
There was an urge to turn around, ghost these idiots, and just…coast home. Slide back into the routine. It would be safe and easy.
It wouldn't solve Mary, though. Of course not.
I did my best to ignore the duelling pangs of anger and misery ping-ponging through my chest. It was something I was…not good at, per se, but I was getting better. The therapy helped. What I had to do to be able to afford it though? Not so much.
It's why, at one in the morning, I found myself sliding a failing car near an address some shady god-knows-who had vomited online after a terse conversation through private messaging. It felt unprofessional, but then again, I didn't really consider myself one. A professional, that is.
A point of contention to some, but I'd often thought that you'd have to be a real psycho to want 'Professional Supervillain' on your resume.
Still, it made me squirrely. Tense. My tongue had ran over a tooth I'd chipped last month so often that a dentist was probably an expensive afterthought now.
There was a slight reluctance as I reached for my cheap flip phone, another tug for home, for the familiarity of what is and not what could be. Mary had called me a ditherer, and despite my frustration at the time, she wasn't exactly wrong. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the phone, rattling out a quick message to the number I'd been given last week.
Am here. Outside.
The little dot flared up like a starburst next to my message. It was done. They had seen it. I shakily exhaled, before wiping at my face, thin white gloves picking up the grease of a long drive and Grillin' Greg's takeout. The extra-large milkshake would be hell later, but lactose intolerance or not, I'd needed some fortitude. Treat now, pain later.
I was so lost in my thoughts, idle memories of the before – bittersweet self-harm that it was – that I almost missed my phone beeping. A message.
Come around back. Warehouse open.
I stashed the phone in my costume's wide pockets, the baggy black pants having more than enough room for it. The sewing had been a pain. Altering it by hand wasn't easy for someone not naturally crafty, but losing half a score to 'insufficient carrying capacity' would have been just embarrassing, so I had forced myself through this challenge. The end result was pretty nice even, all things considered, not that I cared of course. This was transitory. It was merely practicality that mattered for these things.
Less cash, more lawyers screaming at me, more time in costume.
I idled my car around between the clone warehouses, slipping through a tight alley of steel mesh fences and brick walls. It was a little close, and I winced when a brief scraping sound resonated through the frame of my car, but then it cleared all the same into a wide, empty loading bay. Secrecy demanded I avoid the obvious route through the gates, locked tightly as you'd expect from any sensible warehouse, but the no doubt scuffed paint job on my doors would disagree.
That aside, I just sat there for a moment to gather myself, staring into the building's cavernous maw. Sweat trickled down my back, somehow cold and warm at the same time, pooling uncomfortably in my ass crack. This was it. Go time.
Opening the glove box, I rummaged for a few seconds, fingers struggling in my gloves until they finally dragged against what I needed. Contrast writ real, my smooth mask slipped out along with the jagged hardness of a thirty-eight special. It was a crude thing, another remnant of my father, but a distasteful necessity. The mask though… that was all me. Special.
I had tried face paint at first. It seemed reckless, but some capes swore by it. The added ability to emote better while breaking up your facial silhouette seemed to beat out the assuredness of a mask. People, surprisingly, remembered very few details in fast-paced violent confrontations. A few colours on your face could draw attention away from moles, marks, or scars. It helped that I had that kind of face, though; Nondescript, and utterly average.
Upkeep had been what killed it in the end. You needed a clean shave every day, as smooth as possible, for the best benefits, and removing the paint irritated my skin into an itchy red mess.
So I'd swapped it out for a pricey mask I commissioned on PHO, where roving tinkers not good enough for the big time but looking for a quick score floated through on occasion. It helped when you knew what you were looking for.
In the end, it took two-thirds of a haul to pay for, but the result was beautiful. A real work of art I'd designed myself, that graphics design degree finally coming to use. Plus it had a kevlar mesh, which could be useful if this went south.
Donning the face mask, I tightened its straps to the back of my head, durable plastic cinching it all together through the messy black strands of my hair. I'd need a cut soon, real short back and sides. Something less distinctive.
Pocketing the gun currently sitting on my lap, I rolled the car forward. It was a slow crawl as I entered the warehouse, more than enough time to survey the area. Even with the minimal lighting, it was obvious that the place was cluttered. Lots of cars, car parts, and tools. Some kind of chop-shop maybe?
Metallic rattling echoed as the building's shutter descended behind me, a dragon's jaw closing all from the comfort of my rearview mirror.
My chest tightened.
Fuck.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I muttered words Mrs Warry told me in our sessions; Affirmation. Self-praise. Self worth. All true. All valid.
Five people stepped out of the fading shadows, halogen lights flickering into life now that privacy was assured. Two women, three men. Two of the guys were big, bruisers almost, with the third being a small skeleton of a man. The girls were a lesson in opposites. Tall, blonde, and muscular with the other being short and lean. I focused on the second for a moment. She had short, spiky hair, dark as night, and it made the thing in me flex. She wasn't Mary though, despite the ice in my chest, so it was…fine. I was fine.
Snatching my hat from the back seat, I fixed it at a jaunty angle. More thematic than anything – I had a crate of them at home from a bulk buy – but it was part of the image. Anxiety still rent at my guts, not helped by that milkshake finally deciding to kick in, but I steeled myself. This was bigger than my bullshit.
I could do this.
Stepping out of the car with as much swagger as I could muster, sweaty ass and all, a smile broke out beneath my black-on-white mask. It was hard to project, but they needed to see it – had to.
"Ladies, Gentlemen," I nodded my head to the group, now intermingled, friendly almost. Did they have more heavies in the back? Or was this it? Then again, if you were desperate for capes you either had a size problem or enough money to burn, like that weird snake guy down in Brockton Bay. Looking at the state of the place I guessed it was the former.
I was met with silence, enough that it was awkward and I had to throttle an urge to ram my hands into my pockets. Instead, they stayed neatly at my sides, nothing threatening, just business.
The old man eventually stepped forward from the group, moving with too much confidence despite weighing probably one hundred pounds and getting further from his goons with each step. He looked like a strong breeze could knock him over, with a wispy grey beard and delicate glasses adding an air of intellectual to him. Their leader, maybe?
"You are cape, no?" He said in halting, heavily Russian-accented English after stopping within a few feet of me, eyes roving critically over my costume.
"Yes," I reply, gritting my teeth at the inevitable response. The one I knew was coming. 'Third time's the charm, but how about thirty-three' was today's maxim at the moment.
"Ah, apologies. Thought you were lost birthday clown."
Better luck next time, apparently.
"It's my theme," I said, voice tight and clipped as the four remaining goons giggled. "Fire guys, they wear red, lots of flames or combustible stuff. It's their thing. This is mine."
Technically it wasn't, but I doubted Leoncavallo would sue, being nearly one hundred years dead and all. Still, I'd been creative with my costume. I wasn't a complete hack like some would say. Colours inverted, white boots, mask, a real stand-out job.
When the snare drum rolled, it wasn't Pagliacci who stepped out from the curtains, no. It was me: Rex Sable, King Laugh.
"What do you do then, clown boy?" The blonde hollered in much better English, a wry grin on her face. "Show us your tricks!"
The old man didn't like that though, neck practically spinning three-sixty before he gabbled at her, his words harsh and blocky. I couldn't understand it but took some mild satisfaction in how cowed she looked. The dark-haired girl stood next to her, nonplussed and silent. I appreciated that.
"Cannot get staff these days," he sighed at me, shrugging, "Do you want food, drink? Long journey, no?"
I waved a hand at him, airy and above such concerns despite the rising need for a shit, "Business before pleasure."
He nodded, gesturing to a small office nestled in the warehouse corner. It looked tidy, and probably even had a half-decent coffee machine in it. Still, and with an internal sigh, I coughed loudly, wagging a finger.
"No can do, friend," Momma Sable always said it never hurts to be polite, and it held up disturbingly well in criminal circles. "We do business here, now, and in the open. Others included."
It was a ballsy move, but I'd heard about what happened to Blood Machine. Poor communication killed, especially when you were a high school dropout around firearms and a penchant for dipping into tinker-drugs.
The group seemed perplexed, an air of cautious curiosity amongst them. They didn't move, though it wasn't hard to see the nervous energy boiling up. Maybe their boss kept them at arm's length? It wasn't something I needed to care about, not yet at least.
Jaw rolling like a dog with some particularly chewy fat, the old man ran his fingers through the thin crown of hair circling his scalp before dragging them across a beak that could charitably be called a nose.
"Fine, we talk. I am old though, let me have…ah…what is wor- concession! Yes, concession." He barked in Russian again and one of the big guys quick-marched to his office, returning with a cheap-looking swivel chair piled high with pillows.
It was ridiculous, honestly. Either this feeble old guy really was a gang leader or I was being suckered in with some masterclass acting. A mild note of respect formed in me though. Despite either being stupid, both took serious effort.
"Ok," I said, once the guy had gotten comfortable, another trip by quick-march-man bringing him a steaming polystyrene cup of tea. "When I spoke to your organisation on PHO you specified you needed to long-term hire a cape, not for what, though. That kind of thing is…important in this line of business."
His goons had shuffled closer now, the blonde just as taciturn as her pretty friend. They were easily in hearing range but held some respectful distance. Whether for him or me I couldn't tell.
"We deal in cars," the old man said calmly, sipping his tea like a respectable elder statesman and not a gang boss. "Locate. Steal. Sell to highest bidder. Sometimes to order. Depends what client wants. Big money in Africa for Porsche's now, why monkeys want shit like that, don't know."
He gave me a cheeky smile and my shoulders dropped a fraction. These bastards always had to be weird like this. Couldn't just focus on the money, no, they had to make it personal, throw in biases, and crazy shit. I was sure that's how that hellhole an hour from here ended up like it did.
"Car thieves then. Alright. Anything else, like say…sideline in drugs?"
It was impatient, but I needed a quick answer. There were lines and things a man refused to do, no matter how lucrative the payoff was. Drugs were mine. Things could be insured and money reprinted, but ruining a human life? Christ, I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror.
"No. No drugs," the old man replied coolly, a steely edge appearing in his sea-green eyes. "Cars work. Cars simple."
"...but not so simple anymore, right?"
He nodded, face morose.
"In old days, no problems. In, out, quick work." He raised his loose hand with reverence as if marveling at the wrinkles adorning it. "Once stole twenty in single day. Record in Moscow for five years."
I whistled, my appreciation one hundred percent real. Even now, that was impressive. Skilled work from an unpowered human, not like these days, where a wave of a hand or finger click could do the same thing. Or stop you from doing it.
"Well, I can help with that. You need distractions, right?" Before he could answer I continued, feeling the momentum rolling my way, "I usually focus on smash-and-grabs. Jewellery stores, fancy grocers, that sort of thing. I go in loud-" my heel stamped on the concrete to emphasise my point, "-throw people off balance, then make out with the goods. Same principle here, just you're doing the getting."
He tapped a finger against his cheek while I spoke, absorbing everything said with a stony, resolute look.
"Possible. Possible. We do have girl on maybe list though."
A spike of indignation ran through me. This was a fucking interview!? No way would this old prick stiff me after a five-hour drive!
"What girl?" I said, doing my level best to keep a level of serenity in each word.
"Ah, Galatia. Local girl. Strong, pulls things to her."
Whatever fires that burned in me fizzled out into nothingness. I'd been smart enough to do a bit of research after the address had been forwarded my way. There'd been the chance this was a mid-point of course, that I'd be shuffled further along. Yet the time had been well spent, and now I had an ace up my sleeve.
"Galatia?" I snorted, "She's just about the worst choice you could make for an operation this size."
His lips pursed, and the crowd began whispering amongst themselves conspiratorially. It was, unfortunately, in Russian. I'd have loved to hear it.
"Why you say this?"
"Simple," my body language shifted, at ease in comparison to his tightness, hands bundled close to his chest. "First, unlike me, she has little or no experience. She's new, and I'm not. Also, most importantly, strong capes or 'Brutes' are like guns, loud, ugly, and they scare people. You start walking around with one and people escalate. There's a Wards team near here right? Plus those weirdos with the nails in their eyes?"
The old man nodded, seemingly taking me at my word. He knew cars, but I knew Capes…or so he thought.
"Bring on Galatia and I promise you this, one month later they'll both have Brutes. Bigger ones too," I added, twisting the knife. He knew he was small time, and the PRT… wasn't, far, far, from it. Not to mention the other assorted gangs. It was a guess on my part, admittedly, but I'd yet to see anyone else lurking in the warehouse, so I went with my gut.
The whispering intensified, as did the old man's forehead wrinkles. If his eyebrows dipped any further he'd gain a moustache.
"Plus," I said casually, knowing this was the verbal equivalent of a nuclear bomb, "They say she has a body count."
There was no more whispering, only arguments now. It was frenzied, what little order they had falling apart as the group approached their leader, more like a father being harried by their wayward progeny than a disciplined gang.
A smirk crossed my face. I had this in the bag. No group this small wanted a killer on their team, cape or not. It added extra complications, not to mention the possibility of more bodies arriving. For thieves? It was disastrous.
After a few more minutes of back and forth, not to mention painful stomach cramps on my end, the old guy settled his team down. At this point, I couldn't tell if they were a team in all honesty. They could be family or that kind of tight-knit grouping that immigrants formed around each other. Either way, it was clear they weren't a 'serious' gang. No grand ambitions to take territory or seize the levers of power. Just make cash and move on.
"No Galatia then. No. No killers," the old man declared in English with finality, the group settling back to its former distance, though one of the big guys looked rather upset.
I clapped my hands together, getting their attention back on me. "Excellent, excellent, you'll be happy to know then that I have zero deaths to my name." He rolled his eyes at my presentation but I continued nonetheless, "My power is also entirely non-lethal, so we don't have to worry about the PRT and Protectorate."
The blonde from earlier stared at me, as did the dark-haired one. Though she had an eyebrow quirked at the very least.
"Explain," the old man said, failing to hide his curiosity. I doubted outside of Galatia they'd ever been this close to a cape before, and as much as I disliked this job, I was something of a crowd-pleaser.
"I'm what we call a Shaker," I said, waving a hand above us in a circle. "My power affects the area surrounding me. Starts at five feet, then expands and keeps going. It also doesn't stop and only gets stronger with time."
I intentionally left out that technically I was a Master as well. It was a bureaucratic quibble in my opinion, one that I'd frequently registered and edited from my wiki page, but the thing always ended up reverting one way or the other. Still, if Brutes spooked the Capes, Masters unsettled the public. Even crappy little masters like…I don't know, someone who could control bugs, they'd be treated like S Class threats. It was ridiculous, but that's people for you.
"What does…'shaking' do, eh?" He asked, clearly interested, his cup of tea half drunk and cold now.
"Would you allow a demonstration?"
As he nodded, the group a bit more uncertain behind him, I realised I was either a master orator or they really did have barely any experience with capes. An offer like that would be the prime moment for a more bloody-minded villain to scythe through them. Probably for the cash their equipment could bring, but the disrespect shown this evening was more than enough.
Flexing my shoulders theatrically, I snapped my fingers to a steady beat, foot tapping along.
"Three, two, one..."
I turned on the 'switch' inside me, and felt the pulse release itself, a sensation akin to sinking into a hot bath running its way through me. There was little nuance to my power, really, just on and off, though sometimes it fought in my chest for a bit. Despite the pulse being invisible, I could 'feel' it moving, picking up steam as each moment passed, a juggernaut that just couldn't be stopped.
"What's-" the old man began a few seconds later before starting to giggle, an ugly sound that had more snort than a pig in it. Like a slow-motion train wreck or an ensuing tidal wave, the effect began to spread, each member breaking out into fits of laughter.
Smugness practically steamed off me as time ticked by, the old man dropping his cup from sheer difficulty in keeping himself well-oxygenated. They might not not realise it now, already clutching at their sides, red in the face and shrieking with laughter, but if you couldn't hold a cup you damn well couldn't hold a gun.
Experience taught me that. Also, the look a man gave when he'd made up his mind. I'd not even turned my power off yet and knew the three thousand dollar retainer was already mine. Still, better safe than sorry.
I flicked the switch to 'off' and my relaxing sensation was replaced with the reality of damp ass and a stomach tied in knots.
Some powers were instantaneous, start/stop. Not so with me. Sure, the force making you laugh ended, but you still needed to catch your breath, maybe even stop vomiting from time to time. That hadn't been a pleasant day.
"Well, wasn't that fun?" I said cheerily, trying to distract the group from thinking too hard about me wrenching control of their diaphragms away from them.
"Was… was interesting," the old man wheezed, thin hands resting on thinner knees. "You do work like that? We hire you, no more questions. Well, one question. You live close?"
I waggled my hand. The New Jersey accent should have clued him in but then again, we probably all sounded weird to the old guy. Moving here would make life easier though, especially since all I had back home was Mary's Lawyers and an unsatisfying office job, but it'd be damn expensive.
He hiccuped some more Russian before blowing his nose on a dirty rag hidden within his jeans, coughing profusely. The dark-haired girl strode forward in response to his words. I looked her over again, a strangled feeling working its way to the fore.
"This is Sofia. Granddaughter," he said, waving at the woman, the family resemblance more prominent this close. "Has spare apartment, will give you, free of charge. You look after Sokolov's, we look after you, eh?"
Shocked, I almost let the feeling bleed into my body language, instead smoothing it out for curiosity. Capes didn't get shocked, they were invincible, aloof.
Sofia seemed to have different opinions on the idea, both giving a stranger access to her territory and my laissez-faire attitude, yet kept them quiet. Though the twitching under her reddened cheeks was a story unto themselves. I still nodded, shaking Sokolov's hand.
Maybe things were changing for the better?
The Ladle and the Orchard (Sharpedge)
The Ladle and the Orchard
The day was hot and clammy, with air so thick you could drink it. Conversation inside the Freedom's Ladle was sparse, the few patrons who were present content to simply weather it out in each other's presence. Then the drizzle started, casting a pall over the world outside. Inside the Ladle, Jules continued wiping down mugs and glasses, not that it was necessary. Nobody was purchasing his product, despite how cheap it was. Nobody could afford it.
The Ladle sat just a short jog west of Massachusetts Avenue, nestled in a small side road connected to the Malnea Cass Boulevard. A single-story pub stuck in the looming shadows of much larger buildings, their shiny exteriors hiding it like an ugly wart. The place perpetually clung to the cliffs of sustainability, one short fall off the edge would send it plummeting into poverty.
Jules's counter stood on the left as one walked in, hiding in the shadows, almost as if to ambush them. There was a grungy fireplace on the opposite end of the room, currently dead in the summer heat. Between the chimney and the counter, there was a smattering of worn-down tables strewn across the floor, their surfaces marred with doodles, and paired rickety chairs that tilted to one side caught in their orbit. To top it all off, a dozen or so support pillars were unevenly spread throughout the room, acting as additional obstacles. The roof was high, too tall to reach, with grunge clinging to the ceiling. The wooden floor was a mess, with any spillage flowing towards the door.
It had been a bad month, worse than the last. But then again, it was always worse than the last. Each day, it felt like fewer and fewer customers could afford his prices. He couldn't afford to change them. Gripping the chipped, worn-down handle of a door behind the counter with his greasy fingers, Jules let himself into the kitchen. It was a small, narrow room, with counters on either side of the door, a passage cut out between them, with enough room for only one person to operate. At the far end, was a door leading to a secluded back alley. Beelining towards the only sink not filled with dirty dishes stacked precariously, he started to rinse the grime off of his hands.
"How's it looking up front?" A soft voice called out from next to him. He looked up, the small, fragile frame of his younger sister looking at him expectantly. Wearing a dirty apron that would normally be white, she had piercing brown eyes and a soft face. Her body, a wiry, petite frame with the top of her head only coming up to his shoulders, and her blonde hair cut short, making her look more like a young boy than an older woman.
Her skin was pale, sickly, as it always had been. She had an incurable chronic disease. Jules had never paid attention to the specifics, always too busy with work to support her. They didn't have health insurance, they couldn't afford it. She stood firm, her posture assertive, it looked like it was time for that argument again, the one they always had.
"Not looking good," he replied, his voice hoarse. "Hopefully, it will be better tomorrow."
"You always say that! When will you just accept we can't afford to keep this place going?" She challenged him, poking his chest accusingly with a wrinkly finger.
"And then what would I do? Running a place like this is what our family has always done," he argued.
"We could move somewhere else, try again in a better neighbourhood."
"We can't afford to move to a better neighbourhood," he shot the suggestion down.
Her shoulders slumped, the argument going out of her. "It's just, we're not making ends meet. Every month, Jules, every month we cut down more on expenses, offer less because we can't afford to offer more, and fewer people show up at our doorstep."
"I know," he simply replied. After towelling down his hands, he reached to her, enfolding her in a hug. Jess quivered, the tension bleeding out of her.
"What are we going to do?" she asked.
"I'll think of something, take out another loan-" she cut him off, placing a finger on his lips, silencing him.
"We can't afford to take out another loan, Jules," she hissed. "And ever since those villains showed up here, fewer and fewer of the people who could afford to pay are daring to visit anymore. It's just not safe here, we should leave."
"I know you feel that way, Jess. It's just…" His broad shoulders sagged, allowing the despair he felt to seep through.
"Just that leaving feels like admitting defeat, and you don't want to give up," she acknowledged bitterly.
"Maybe after the heroes chase those villains away, maybe then it will get better?" He pleaded.
"Maybe," she agreed haltingly. "But there have been disappearances, people talk about it."
"Yeah, surely the heroes will act soon, move to drive them away."
"Even if they do, though, I don't think it will get better here, Jules," she admitted.
"Why's that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"There's always another villain, Jules. Remember the Boston games? It wasn't that long ago, after all. Drive them out and another will take their place."
"That's defeatist talk, Jess, don't go on like that. Surely the world will get better, we just have to hope," he pleaded.
"I started losing hope a long time ago," she muttered.
It hadn't improved. It was months later, and the situation had continued to spiral down the drain. Fewer and fewer of the regular patrons had shown up. Jules had started to allow some of the homeless in the area to shelter inside during bad weather, sharing the heat of the hearth. Better than the place remaining empty, after all. There were more of those, these days. More people had become destitute, living on the streets. Businesses in the area had shut down, and people refused to work in the area because the place was not safe. Large buildings were left abandoned and then taken up by gangs. The signs of societal decay, once subtle, were now seen everywhere, writ large.
The government wasn't doing anything proper to fix the problem, too busy dealing with criminals and villains in the more lucrative areas. Instead, it was left to the little people, people like him, to do the best that he could. It wasn't enough, it was never enough.
Jules had thought it was bad before, but then one of the gangs started demanding tribute. The Ladle had already been struggling, even with him burning the candle at both ends. He and his sister were working themselves ragged, she became more and more withdrawn. She looked more like a walking corpse these days than a living, breathing person. They should have left earlier, but they didn't. Now, between the gangs, the loans he had taken out, and his inability to sell unwanted property, they were chained down and imprisoned in a jail with invisible walls and fetters stained in ink.
Hunched down over the grimy countertop, he half-heartedly continued to wipe down the mess. The door opened, letting in the chill winter air. In stepped a skinny man whose head would come up to Jules's nose, if Jules were standing at his full height, with styled brown hair and a frizzy beard. Immediately, Jules was set on edge, the man did not belong. His clothing didn't look out of place, just as ragged as everyone else, but his posture was all wrong. He didn't have the same defeated air about him that everyone else did. The clothing looked more like something put on in an effort to fit in instead of something the man truly wore.
People paused, taking him in. Despite the obvious danger in someone like him entering a place so run down, he seemed not to be bothered, striding confidently towards Jules as he walked in. Danger, Jules's brain screamed, something about this person was wrong.
Confidently, the man set his elbows on the counter and then leaned in. "I would like to make a transaction," he whispered furtively so that only Jules could hear.
Ants crawled down his spine. Cautiously, not wanting to set the man off, Jules replied. "What kind of transaction?"
"A little birdie told me this place is teetering over the precipice, just one small shove, and it will go sliding off," the man said.
Jules crossed his arms and looked at the man, "Look, if you're here to demand protection money, there is no money left to give."
The man held up his hands to placate Jules. "No, that isn't what I intend at all. You see, we could come to an agreement of sorts. A trade. You meet the demands for a certain kind of commodity, and I'll arrange for someone to pay off your debts."
Jules's eyes narrowed, this sounded bad, but they were getting desperate, they needed money or else they too would end up on the streets. Reluctantly, eyes narrowing, he asked, "What kind of goods are we talking about?"
"You have heard of Orchard, I presume?" The man inquired.
Jules's heart sunk, this sounded worse than he thought. "Yeah, vaguely. What about them?"
"They require human resources. People that would otherwise not be missed." His eyes scanned the room meaningfully, lingering on some of the homeless who were sheltering inside.
Jules was desperate, but he wasn't that desperate, not yet, anyhow. He gulped. "I'm sorry, but no. Would you mind leaving, otherwise I will have to call the cops."
"Just… Consider the offer," the man said. He reached into his suit's pocket, pulled out a card, and set it on the counter. "When you change your mind, you can always give this number a call."
The man turned around and left the Ladle. Jules picked up the card and stared at it. He knew he should phone the Protectorate or dispose of it, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. Guiltily, he pocketed it. He wouldn't call, he told himself, he wasn't that far gone yet.
He considered calling the heroes but… He had lost his faith in them. The heroes hadn't done anything for them, the local community continued to decay, and society's moral structure went with it. No, he thought, the heroes wouldn't help here at all.
The harsh rays of noon beat down on Jules as he walked down the street, a handgun strapped to his right leg. These days, he carried a gun when he went out, no longer feeling secure without one. He remembered back when that wasn't the case, and he felt a wave of sorrow washing over him. Passing underneath the shaded greenery, grateful for the cool, he looked up at the remains of the pastel blue building on his right. The Hampton Inn, once a tourist stop, now derelict. An empty husk with graffiti staining the walls.
He continued on alert, passing others bearing similar tools of defence. He stepped carefully around a shattered glass bottle lying undisturbed on the sidewalk. The litter that now plagued the streets was just another symptom of the government's failures against the gangs. Half-heartedly, he checked for oncoming traffic. Nothing. Then, he made his way across, careful to avoid the potholes and loose rocks that had, over time, accumulated on the once busy road.
He stepped around a scraggly teen boy seated on the sidewalk, smoking a joint, playing with the weeds between the pavement, and staring off into space. He couldn't blame him, were he not so desperately in need of money, he would likely be doing the same. The world… Just wasn't a nice place to live in anymore, and any escape from it was tempting.
Entering the Ladle, Jules could immediately tell something was wrong. The place was unusually empty despite the hour. It was usually peaceful around this time of day, but quiet didn't mean empty. He had gone out for a walk at noon, needing to clear his head. He had left his sister behind the counter, trusting her to keep people under control. She wasn't there now, the counter was unmanned. He looked around, scanning the place, trying to work out what had gone wrong. No broken chairs, so it probably wasn't a fight, he couldn't tell what had gone wrong.
Starting to worry, he headed into the kitchen. Jessica was there, curled up on the floor, huddled away in the far corner, sobbing into her arms. Her arms were bruised, dark purple splotches covering them, and tears marked her dress. An icy rage took root in his heart.
Approaching carefully, he asked, his voice hoarse, "What happened?"
She said nothing, not responding, simply continuing to sob. A dark suspicion took root, an ugly, nasty, suspicion. "Did someone try to hurt you?" he demanded. Still, she didn't reply.
Swiftly, he moved in close to take a look, she flinched back, skittish, like a wild animal. He reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and dialled. First, he called the ambulance and then the police. No matter how much he coaxed her, she wouldn't talk to him, almost catatonic. When he tried to reach out to her, she flinched back from any direct contact. He still didn't know what happened.
The police and paramedics arrived and after coaxing her to talk, the verdict came in. She had been raped. The usual patrons had all been absent, somebody new had come in. Someone who looked straight off the streets. He had drunk heavily, then once deeply intoxicated, and started to make advances. She had refused, and then he forced himself on her. Guilt wracked Jules. Just for once, he took a break, and immediately everything went wrong.
They couldn't afford to pay for the help she needed, they were struggling enough already. She didn't deserve any of this, and if life continued as is, they wouldn't make it until the end of the year. She was precious to him, the only good thing left in the world, he needed some way to help.
Absently, his mind went back months ago, recalling a man who had made him an offer. An offer he had refused. He considered it again, he would do anything for his sister. He had helped to shelter people despite his own empty pockets, then look how they repaid him. Not quite willing to commit to it, not yet, he would at least give them a call and hear what they had to say. If it came down to it, he decided, he would commit to it. Anything for Jess, he would take on the moral burden if it meant she didn't need to keep paying the price.
In the weeks following the incident, Jess barely ate. She stopped talking and shied back from any direct contact. Her hair, once short and well cared for, grew long and became a mess. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. It was hard on Jules. Jess had stopped coming to work, understandably, merely setting foot in the building would cause her to panic. He was pulling more hours than ever before, it wasn't sustainable. He needed more time, time to spend caring for her, eventually, he caved in.
A month after it had happened, he had accepted Orchard's offer. They had paid him a lot, enough to make considerable headway on his debts, then helped stock the Ladle with food. He provided it to the homeless who stopped by. Then every so often, once a week or so, late at night when all but a few were left, those who remained were given food that was drugged, taken to the kitchen exit after falling asleep, and moved into a van, never to be seen again.
The money helped, he could work less, and pull fewer hours. He had more time for his sister, to give her the aid she required. Jules did his best to coax life back into her, it was hard going, but slowly she started to speak halting sentences once more Then, occasionally, she would come in to work again. At the rate that their debts were being repaid, soon they would be able to leave. Despite this, the guilt at what he was doing gnawed at him.
Even though Jess was recovering, his nights were restless. What was once late nights spent worrying about how to pay off their loans became late nights concerned about being caught. His mood became darker, his conscience weighing on him. He didn't know how his sister would react if she ever found out, he hoped she never did. He knew what he did was wrong. Deliberately, he never looked into the specifics of what Orchard did, and he didn't want to know. He had enough nightmares haunting his sleep to not need to pile on even more.
He never figured out how she learned of it, but she did. She never called the police, never called the heroes, but sent accusing looks at him. No longer confiding in him, withdrawing again. He tried to pull her out of it, but nothing he said helped. But could he really blame her? His sister had always been right, they should have left long ago, but he had been too stubborn, too stupid to see the writing on the wall. Then she paid the price. And now she wouldn't talk to him.
That didn't stop him feeling bitter, though. Couldn't she see that he did this for her? The choices he was making, the crimes he was committing, it was all for her. Without the money, she couldn't get the help she needed. Sure, the people who went missing didn't deserve it, but they were likely to meet a bad end anyhow… Right? He wasn't changing anything, not really.
The heroes hadn't fixed anything, they barely patrolled the area and never truly reached out. It was only Orchard who made the offer. The ugly truth was that the heroes couldn't do anything, there simply wasn't enough of them. He and his sister had already suffered enough, so why shouldn't others take a turn? Let the people who had been mooching off of his kindness and weren't there when his sister needed help be the ones who paid for her recovery, because clearly… they deserved it.
Didn't they?