The Warrior of Light falls into the Wormverse. This might have been harrowing for any other person. For the Warrior of Light, it's business as usual.
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Weary Wanderer (Final Fantasy 14/Worm Crossover) [Complete]
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Setting the Tone
- Location
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Written by Elara_Moon on Ao3, posted with permission.
He was falling. Falling. Falling. Around him was nothing but a black void, devoid of sound or light. He might have expected as much; it was much the same when he passed from the Source to the First. That time, however, there had eventually formed images in the darkness – visions of the past and the future. This time, no such images seemed forthcoming.
Instead, after an eternity of falling through nothing, the world abruptly reformed, leaving him to hurriedly twist to land on his feet at the reappearance of solid ground on which to land. He braced himself, ready to absorb the shock of the landing with the skills learned over countless battles as a Dragoon, but unexpectedly, he landed lightly, with only a soft thud, as though he'd fallen perhaps ten fulms rather than the thousands it had felt like.
Straightening from his slight crouch, he looked around. Unlike in the First, where he'd been dropped into the wilderness outside of the Crystarium, this time it appeared that he was in a city, or at least a residential district. One with large plots of land, that was. He appeared to have landed on somebody's lawn; the next nearest house was well in the distance.
Overall, he had no idea where he was or what to do now. This world was not on the brink of destruction like the First had been, but surely there were still people who needed help.
He began making his way across the lawn towards the nearby house. Perhaps they would be willing and able to help him find people who needed his help. …Or, at least, be able to give him some idea where he was and what the world was like.
He stepped up a few short stairs to the front door and went to knock – in most places that had doors, knocking was an acceptable method of getting the inhabitants' attention. Before he could, however, there was a sound from inside: a muffled scream. Muffled or not, it was undeniable; the sound of screaming was, unfortunately, something he was relatively well acquainted with.
Pausing for a moment, he leaned in to listen closer.
Sure enough, he heard a quiet, pained groaning noise, followed by a high pitched giggle.
Ah. So it was like that. He was almost tempted to sigh, but that would be a needless delay.
He wasted no time. Without hesitation, he stepped back and drew his leg back for a good, strong kick.
There was a magnificent crash from elsewhere in the house. This was not something Jack Slash found particularly concerning; Crawler often caused chaos just trying to navigate buildings meant for regular-sized people. Any number of Jack's companions could, indeed, be breaking things simply for the fun of it.
He had managed to convince them of the merits of laying low, especially with the added bonus of their current game, but he wouldn't be surprised if they were getting bored. Slow torture, careful not to simply kill one's victim, was not Crawler's style in particular.
Jack sat back on his heels, spinning his knife idly in one hand, and listened, while poor, sweet Riley sobbed over her mother, frantically trying to tend her wounds. They weren't in much danger of being overheard, but if the sounds continued, Jack could assume Crawler was getting restless, in which case he would need to be handled before he started causing real trouble.
Then Shatterbird began to sing. Her song filled the house – and was shortly followed by the cacophony of every window in the house shattering at once.
Shit, thought Jack, straightening out of his crouch. The Siberian, lurking at the edge of his vision, went alert. Shatterbird also had a tendency to get restless, but she wasn't normally a troublemaker. She knew better than to start something now for no reason... which meant there was a good chance they'd already been found.
Jack turned towards the door to make his way to the living room, where Shatterbird was supposed to be keeping the father of this charming family company. Before he even made it out the door, however, Shatterbird's song went silent. Jack slowed, moving more cautiously than before. The most likely option, if indeed they'd had an intruder, was that Shatterbird had easily defeated them. Less likely, but still possible, was that their intruder was powerful, skilled, or underhanded enough to kill Shatterbird, somebody who was both powerful and cautious herself, in under a minute.
That certainly made for a dangerous foe, if so.
The Siberian followed him out of the master bedroom, then stuck herself at his side, keeping pace with him as he crossed the kitchen to the wide arched doorway leading to the living room. They weren't the only ones who had been drawn by the signs of combat; Crawler thumped and crashed his way out of the pantry, moving towards the living room, and the distant sound of Chuckles' demented, too-fast mockery of a laugh grew louder as he, presumably, made his way down the stairs.
Before Jack even made it to the doorway leading into the living room, he caught sight of Shatterbird, lying prone on the floor in a puddle of her own blood, a number of deep cuts criss-crossing her chest. His lips thinned. Then, as soon as he entered the doorway proper, he saw her killer: a black-haired man dressed in shining silver armor and a blue-and-white cape.
It was no cape outfit that Jack recognized. A newcomer? Bold, to think he could stand up to the Slaughterhouse Nine. Or perhaps he didn't know who he was dealing with.
The unknown cape was standing next to the stairs, concealed in its shadow from Chuckles, who was just landing on the ground floor. Swiftly, the unknown cape stepped up behind Chuckles and brought a sword up in one smooth movement that passed neatly through Chuckles' neck, severing it and silencing Chuckles' horrible hyena laugh. Chuckles never saw it coming.
Jack narrowed his eyes, becoming annoyed now by the audacity of this hero. Chuckles' death was no great tragedy, but the loss of Shatterbird – beautiful, deadly Shatterbird – was one Jack felt more keenly. And to think this hero had the nerve to come into Jack's house and start picking off members of his Slaughterhouse. Between that and the fact that, frankly, the armor-clad cape was simply too dangerous to be allowed to live, there was only one recourse.
While the enemy's back was still turned and he was yet ignorant of Jack's presence, Jack brought up his own blade... and slashed.
In the same moment, the armored cape turned to the side and dive-rolled out of the path of Jack's attack, leaving it to score a neat line across the wall instead, just where the armored cape's neck had been a moment ago.
Jack frowned, disconcerted by the impossible dodge. Was it pure luck? There was no way a parahuman walking around in full plate mail with a sword – and, Jack saw now, a shield on the other arm – was a Thinker. Especially not one who'd managed to overpower Shatterbird and behead Chuckles in a single swing.
The armored cape rolled gracefully back to his feet, losing hardly any time in the motion, before turning unerringly towards Jack. He either had a power augmenting his physical attributes, or was an incredibly experienced fighter. His movements were too smooth for anything else. The Siberian stepped in front of Jack and started moving towards the armored cape, flexing her fingers like she could already feel his entrails in her hands.
"What the hell is going on!?" Winter shouted from the top of the stairs.
"A fight!?" Crawler came barreling out of the dining room through a doorway right next to the stairs, tearing chunks out of the edges of the double-wide opening in his haste.
The armored cape threw himself out of Crawler's path, avoiding the swiping scythe end of Crawler's foremost arm, the acid Crawler was splattering around, and the full bulk of Crawler's massive, monstrous body all at once.
Crawler had to contort to turn around, and Winter, on her way down the stairs, narrowly avoided being clipped in the process. Inside a single-family home was hardly the most ideal location for Crawler to fight, especially if they wanted to avoid him knocking the house down on them all. Well, it couldn't be helped, Jack supposed.
"It appears we have a visitor," he said with a grin, gesturing broadly. "Let's make him feel welcome, shall we?"
This was more for the stranger's benefit than Jack's fellow Slaughterhouse members. Quite simply, it was an intimidation tactic.
The armored cape, however, did not deign to be intimidated. He looked over at Jack, blank-faced and unimpressed. Even so, at least, he was distracted long enough for Winter to throw out one of her fields on top of him. The quicker they could end this fight, the better. It had gotten too messy already.
Yet again, the armored cape threw himself into a dodge-roll, just clearing the edge of Winter's foggy field in the same instant it formed.
He should have been distracted long enough, Jack amended, slightly annoyed. So was Winter, judging by the string of invectives she let out. She began expanding her field, weakening it in exchange for greater coverage – even catching the armored cape in it at all would be better than nothing.
The armored cape, however, noticed immediately what was happening, and backed away. Jack observed this thoughtfully. The stranger was too quick and strong to be a Thinker, but his reaction speeds were too quick to be anything but. A grab-bag, perhaps? A danger sense style Thinker power and some minor enhancement to his physical capabilities would fit, and those were quite in line with the powers a grab-bag typically exhibited.
Jack aimed another slash the way of the armored cape, and yet again, he dodged without even looking, this time with a smooth side step. He didn't even falter when the Siberian launched herself at him.
A surprisingly annoying grab-bag, Jack noted.
This iteration of his Slaughterhouse didn't work well together, and with Crawler a relatively recent addition, they weren't well-versed in doing so. With Winter's field blocking her and Crawler from the armored cape, neither of them could do much. Crawler knew it, too, and growled and gnashed his many large teeth irritably, though he made no move to attack Winter and forcibly bring down her field... yet.
Winter's expanding field forced the armored cape to move steadily to the side of the room, away from the stairs where Winter and Crawler were, to avoid it, all the while trading blows with the Siberian and dodging Jack's own attacks. Irritatingly, he did all of this without any great show of effort, his slow move away from Winter's field almost appearing incidental in the course of his fight with the Siberian. Not a single attack landed on him, the Siberian's or Jack's. At the same time, of course, none of his sword strikes did anything to the Siberian, whether they hit or not.
Ultimately, Jack thought, they had the upper hand. The Siberian was an unstoppable force, and Winter's inexorably expanding field meant that it wouldn't be long before their enemy ran out of room to maneuver.
Then the armored cape made a mistake. He let Winter's field get too close and had to jump away to avoid being caught in it. After that, he was wrong-footed; he had to hurry to dodge Jack's next attack, and thus he let the Siberian get too close. Her clawed hand shot towards the armored cape's unguarded throat, and he leaned back, then suddenly kicked upwards with one leg, slamming his armored foot into the Siberian's chest.
It was enough to stagger her, and she stumbled back a step before catching herself, which allowed the enemy time to regroup. Jack threw another slash his way to interfere with that, musing on the situation. The Siberian never spoke and hardly emoted, leaving her difficult to read, but Jack got the feeling she was startled and offended by the sudden kick.
Jack himself was forced to revise his estimate of their enemy's physical strength; to knock the Siberian back, even when she wasn't expecting it, was no easy task.
Before the Siberian could even close the distance between them again, the armored cape changed up his strategy: he lifted his sword... straight up, point facing the ceiling, and struck the Siberian with a bolt of lightning.
...What?
It didn't do anything but leave a scorch mark on the floor, of course, the Siberian being who she was, but Jack revised his estimate of the armored cape's capabilities yet again all the same. It wasn't so strange for a grab-bag to have up to three or four different – weak – powers, but it was a bit surprising.
Pure surprise made both Jack and the Siberian pause – only for a matter of seconds, but the armored cape seized the opportunity. He turned towards Winter, peering through the hazy fog of her field, apparently heedless to how close it was getting. Once more, he lifted his sword, pointed towards the ceiling, this time held in a two-handed grip, and a blue-white flower of glowing light exploded out of Winter with no further warning than that. She gaped silently, red beginning to bleed through her jacket as she fell to her knees, and then onto her face. Her field snapped out of existence.
Jack pursed his lips. That made half of his Slaughterhouse dead at this man's hands. This was growing deeply irritating. Not to mention, if that was the same power the armored cape had demonstrated with the lightning, it was a very different usage of it. Jack did not like to fight enemies he didn't know the capabilities of, and this was why.
Granted, strange powers or not, it was very unlikely either the Siberian or Crawler would fall to this random, unknown cape. It would take far greater forces than a grab-bag with a few interesting powers for that.
Crawler leapt for the new chance to fight the armored cape now that Winter's field was gone, and charged across the now-safe space between them. That suited Jack just fine. Their foe could contend with the Siberian and Jack, perhaps, but with the addition of Crawler, he'd almost certainly be overwhelmed. Few were the people who stood a chance against both of the Slaughterhouse's unstoppable monsters.
Crawler opened with a glob of acid spit that the armored cape rolled away from, then turned to his usual strategy of utilizing pure bulk. The Siberian rejoined the fight, and then the armored cape was left dodging around attacks from all three of them – hardly an easy task, particularly in such a contained space.
Unlike before, the armored cape no longer had any time for attacking. He was kept entirely on the defensive, which meant that as soon as he made a mistake, the battle was theirs.
The armored cape ducked away from the Siberian, then dodged around Crawler, trying to put Crawler's bulk between himself and the Siberian. Unfortunately for him, this attempt brought him within reach of Crawler's back legs, and the scythes that tipped them. The armored cape brought his shield up and blocked the two scythe-legs with a plaintive screech of metal, but it knocked him back. The Siberian came up behind him, fully prepared to take advantage of his weakness, and forced him to do an awkward dodge roll.
This left him open to Crawler, who seized the opportunity and threw his whole bulk into his next attack, flattening their foe to the floor. For a second, Jack dared to think that was the end of it. Few and far between were those who could survive being crushed by Crawler, not to mention the acid he spewed.
But, of course... Not only armored, their foe was also some level of Brute. He rolled out from under Crawler and back to his feet, though the motion was nowhere near as smooth as his previous movements. He stumbled back a step further, clearly injured, and didn't recover in time to dodge the Siberian as she came dashing around Crawler and slashed at him. He blocked, instead, throwing his shield in front of him.
The Siberian's deadly nails impacted the shield instead of the armored cape's chest plate – and tore straight through it to the arm it was strapped to. And, with a wrench and a splatter of blood, she tore his arm off, tossing it and the shield away.
Their enemy, outnumbered and grievously injured, looked mildly put out about the loss of his arm. He backed away from the Siberian – who, like a cat who enjoyed playing with her food, let him. Idly, Jack slashed at him another time, though honestly, he was all but done for at this point, between the Siberian and Crawler, even if he didn't bleed out.
Ducking under Jack's attack yet again, the armored cape lifted the sword in his remaining hand, tapped the flat of the blade against his forehead and bowed over it like he was praying to it, and was enveloped briefly in white light. The whole thing lasted barely a breath, and then the armored cape was rolling his shoulders and standing straight like nothing had happened.
His entire arm had regrown. A moment later, with the kind of mind-aching effect common to teleportation powers, his armor and shield had returned to his arm as well. A quick glance revealed that, in fact, the entire arm the Siberian had tossed away was now gone.
...A regenerative aspect to his Brute power would have been easy enough to explain. Yet the transference of his armor to his new arm, and the disappearance of the old one... Something like Gray Boy's power? Highly localized time control?
That was dangerous.
Especially if there were more aspects to it than simply the regenerative one – somebody like Gray Boy might not be able to kill Crawler or the Siberian, but he could probably stop at least Crawler for good.
The armored cape ducked away from the Siberian, circling the room to keep a safe distance from her without running into Crawler – as much as such a thing was possible in a contained space with a monster as big as Crawler – whilst still avoiding attacks from Jack, turned towards Crawler, and threw his arms wide. It seemed foolish, as though he was saying, "Come, attack me," but the next instant, a golden glow lit the room as some form of shining glyph materialized on the floor under Crawler.
The glyph exploded up from the ground in a searing golden beam, taking a considerable chunk of Crawler and three of his legs with it.
Crawler let out a shout of pain, which quickly dissolved into mad, uproarious laughter. "Yes! Yess, good! More! Hurt me more!"
The armored cape paused. For the first time, he looked faintly perturbed, his brow furrowing. Crawler's masochistic reactions could put anyone off a battle, Jack agreed, but the fact that this bothered their foe more than losing his arm had? That was annoying. What the hell kind of hero was this? And why had Jack never heard of him before?
Crawler's midsection and legs regenerated, and he launched himself at the armored cape for a renewed assault. Their enemy dodged away, returning to dodging and weaving through their attacks with nary a chance to attempt to attack. By all appearances, they had the upper hand, Jack thought, and yet... There was a thoughtful expression on their foe's face that he didn't like the look of.
Sure enough, after a few moments of this, partway through a dodge roll, the armored cape acted. With a flash of light bright enough that Jack flinched and closed his eyes on reflex, the armored cape... changed his clothing, switching out the silver armor and blue-and-white cape for a black and white jacket over black and orange pants and boots. The whole outfit was accentuated with gold edging and accessories.
Jack stared. The Siberian stared. Even Crawler stopped and stared.
"What?" said Jack, gesturing with his knife at the entire outfit.
Genuinely, from the bottom of Jack's black, shriveled little heart, what the fuck. He'd seen – and done – a lot of horrifying and baffling things in his time as a villain and mass murderer. Everything else the no-longer-armored cape had done was, if annoying and startling, at least within expectations. This, however, was nothing Jack had ever experienced before.
The no-longer-armored cape followed Jack's gaze to his own clothing, then looked back up to meet Jack's eyes. That blank stare seemed to indicate that he had no idea what the problem was – or else that he was deliberately messing with them.
This definitely seemed like the more reasonable option, especially considering that the next moment, he plucked a book from its place at his belt, opened it to a seemingly random page, and scribbled briefly inside it, causing another flash of light, this one directly in front of him. Out of the light formed a creature: a squat, blue, glowing, quadrupedal squirrel-thing about the size of a small dog with a bushy tail and long ears.
For a moment, nobody moved. The small creature was cute, Jack supposed. Judging by his experience and the current situation, that almost certainly meant it was unbelievably deadly.
What even was this guy's power, though? This level of variety was stretching it for a grab-bag. A Trump? Jack hated to even think it. Ugh. Trumps.
It was the now-robed cape that acted first. He lifted his... book up straight in the air, and the squirrel thing dissolved into light, surging upwards and outwards until it took the shape of an ethereal dragon, twice the height of its creator. Before anyone could react to this new development, both the book-wielding cape and the newly-formed dragon spat orbs of light at Crawler.
As soon as the orbs of light impacted, they both exploded into brilliant pillars of light that completely engulfed Crawler and reached to the ceiling – possibly higher, if the ceiling hadn't been in the way.
At this point, after everything, Jack was annoyed but unsurprised to find Crawler reduced to so much ash. There wasn't even a gory mess; he'd been all but disintegrated in the blast. A laser of some sort, Jack assumed. Was this guy a Blaster too, of all things?
Maybe it was like Eidolon's power, Jack considered. Except in the form of full power sets, one at a time, and now the enemy cape had switched out his previous powers for entirely new ones, including this Blaster-style one.
The Siberian acted fast against this increased threat, lunging for the robed cape. Jack resumed his own attacks as well – if the enemy had indeed switched out his increased physical capability power and hopefully his Thinker power as well, then he'd made a grave mistake. The cape dodged away again, however, ducking and weaving around both the Siberian's attacks and Jack's as smoothly as he had before, all the while firing yet more blasts at her, though these ones were considerably smaller than whatever he'd hit Crawler with. The dragon kept attacking too, some form of wind manipulation that fluttered the Siberian's hair with every beat of its massive wings.
The enemy cape was irritatingly swift even with this inexplicable outfit change. What was the point, if not because he'd switched powers? The overall effect on the battle was minor. Their enemy had evidently gained enough firepower to kill Crawler, but was still doing nothing to the Siberian. Even so, he hadn't given up his ability to avoid their attacks, either.
And thus they were all at something of a stalemate.
Before long, the dragon disappeared, shrinking back down to the squirrel thing. It only stayed in that form briefly before its creator lifted his book again and changed its form yet again – this time to a huge flaming bird.
A phoenix.
A phoenix?
Of course that was something this Trump could do. Trumps.
Now the book-wielding cape began firing fiery blasts at the Siberian. These blasts didn't do anything more than the previous ones, but Jack didn't like the introduction of yet more powers in their enemy's arsenal.
It was beginning to look like the Siberian and the book-wielding cape could keep this up indefinitely – or at least until the stranger began to tire. Before that, however, was one other problem for Jack: their enemy had demonstrated his willingness and ability to take out every other enemy bothering him before the Siberian. And Jack was next up on the list. There wasn't much Jack could do against the instant, ranged attacks the armored cape had previously demonstrated.
However... Their foe was a hero. The civilians in the house may not be his main priority, but he was practically obligated to show concern for their well-being. Jack certainly had no such inclinations.
While the Siberian, obviously getting frustrated, grabbed a big plush chair and threw it at their enemy and said enemy, rolling out of the way, turned his glowy creature into a massive, flaming, clawed and fanged beast, Jack made his way cautiously into the corner of the room, where the father of the delightful family who inhabited this house was cowering.
Or perhaps unconscious, without the constant encouragement to stay awake that Shatterbird had been providing.
The dead weight was a pain, but Jack hauled the man up anyway, positioning him so that he could press his knife to the unconscious man's throat.
Jack turned back just in time to witness an inexplicable sight: the Siberian, collapsing to the floor, with no clear reason. The enemy cape lowered his book. The Siberian didn't move. She wasn't breathing, either, but that wasn't out of the norm for her, so it was difficult to tell what was wrong with her.
Jack gritted his teeth, truly angry now. Fucking Trumps. What was this nonsense? Jack couldn't even count how many famous and experienced capes the Siberian had defeated and come out unscathed. Who did this nobody think he was?
After a moment, the book-wielding cape turned and caught sight of Jack and his ill-fated hostage. His reaction, far from the wide-eyed horror Jack hoped for, was rather lackluster. There was no surprise. No horror. He took in the scene before him, and his eyes narrowed. That was all.
Jack sneered. "Well now, hero. If you want this poor, innocent father of two to keep his life, you'll put your weapon down and surrender."
The other cape met his eyes evenly. Slowly, he lifted his book and let it fall from his hand. Before it even hit the ground, however, with a blinding flash of light, the armored cape had, indeed, returned to the armor he'd been wearing before, sword and shield in hand.
"Don't make any sudden moves!" Jack ordered, displeased by the disobedience. He pressed the blade of his knife to his hostage's throat. Even if the armored cape used one of his tricks from before, Jack was taking this man with him. "Or this guy gets it."
The armored cape stared at him inscrutably. Always with that blank look on his face, impossible to read. It pissed Jack off.
"We can just go our separate ways," Jack said coaxingly. "I get to leave peacefully, you get the bounties on all the rest of these guys, and those kids get to keep their father. A good deal, isn't it?"
No response – and then the armored cape gestured sharply with his sword in Jack's direction. Fully prepared to be struck by lightning or disintegrated with a laser, Jack slashed across his hostage's throat, expecting to feel the warm splatter of life blood spurting out from his carotid. It was not forthcoming. Instead, a thin red line opened across the armored cape's previously un-marred neck, blood slowly trickling down.
The hair on the back of Jack's neck stood up. What the hell was this?
The armored cape began walking in Jack's direction, his armored greaves clanking on the floor with every step. Jack had a very bad feeling about this. He drew his knife back and stabbed it into his hostage, where the shoulder met the neck. Another red spot of blood appeared on the armored cape.
Jack hadn't seen anything like that since the day he killed King. What the hell. Maybe he'd been wrong about the armored cape's power all along! Maybe it was some kind of nightmare manifestation. This was practically right out of one of Jack's worst nightmares.
Shit. Shit. He had no options left.
Hefting his hostage with both hands, he slung him at the armored cape, then turned and ran. There was a back door just off the kitchen – he only had to make it fifteen feet – that wasn't that bad.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank clank clank
There was a sharp pain in Jack's back, all the way through to his chest, along with another mocking flash of light. He looked down, and saw the sword protruding out of his chest.
Well. What a boring way to die, he thought distantly.
And that was the last that Jack Slash knew.
Chapter One: Setting the Tone
He was falling. Falling. Falling. Around him was nothing but a black void, devoid of sound or light. He might have expected as much; it was much the same when he passed from the Source to the First. That time, however, there had eventually formed images in the darkness – visions of the past and the future. This time, no such images seemed forthcoming.
Instead, after an eternity of falling through nothing, the world abruptly reformed, leaving him to hurriedly twist to land on his feet at the reappearance of solid ground on which to land. He braced himself, ready to absorb the shock of the landing with the skills learned over countless battles as a Dragoon, but unexpectedly, he landed lightly, with only a soft thud, as though he'd fallen perhaps ten fulms rather than the thousands it had felt like.
Straightening from his slight crouch, he looked around. Unlike in the First, where he'd been dropped into the wilderness outside of the Crystarium, this time it appeared that he was in a city, or at least a residential district. One with large plots of land, that was. He appeared to have landed on somebody's lawn; the next nearest house was well in the distance.
Overall, he had no idea where he was or what to do now. This world was not on the brink of destruction like the First had been, but surely there were still people who needed help.
He began making his way across the lawn towards the nearby house. Perhaps they would be willing and able to help him find people who needed his help. …Or, at least, be able to give him some idea where he was and what the world was like.
He stepped up a few short stairs to the front door and went to knock – in most places that had doors, knocking was an acceptable method of getting the inhabitants' attention. Before he could, however, there was a sound from inside: a muffled scream. Muffled or not, it was undeniable; the sound of screaming was, unfortunately, something he was relatively well acquainted with.
Pausing for a moment, he leaned in to listen closer.
Sure enough, he heard a quiet, pained groaning noise, followed by a high pitched giggle.
Ah. So it was like that. He was almost tempted to sigh, but that would be a needless delay.
He wasted no time. Without hesitation, he stepped back and drew his leg back for a good, strong kick.
There was a magnificent crash from elsewhere in the house. This was not something Jack Slash found particularly concerning; Crawler often caused chaos just trying to navigate buildings meant for regular-sized people. Any number of Jack's companions could, indeed, be breaking things simply for the fun of it.
He had managed to convince them of the merits of laying low, especially with the added bonus of their current game, but he wouldn't be surprised if they were getting bored. Slow torture, careful not to simply kill one's victim, was not Crawler's style in particular.
Jack sat back on his heels, spinning his knife idly in one hand, and listened, while poor, sweet Riley sobbed over her mother, frantically trying to tend her wounds. They weren't in much danger of being overheard, but if the sounds continued, Jack could assume Crawler was getting restless, in which case he would need to be handled before he started causing real trouble.
Then Shatterbird began to sing. Her song filled the house – and was shortly followed by the cacophony of every window in the house shattering at once.
Shit, thought Jack, straightening out of his crouch. The Siberian, lurking at the edge of his vision, went alert. Shatterbird also had a tendency to get restless, but she wasn't normally a troublemaker. She knew better than to start something now for no reason... which meant there was a good chance they'd already been found.
Jack turned towards the door to make his way to the living room, where Shatterbird was supposed to be keeping the father of this charming family company. Before he even made it out the door, however, Shatterbird's song went silent. Jack slowed, moving more cautiously than before. The most likely option, if indeed they'd had an intruder, was that Shatterbird had easily defeated them. Less likely, but still possible, was that their intruder was powerful, skilled, or underhanded enough to kill Shatterbird, somebody who was both powerful and cautious herself, in under a minute.
That certainly made for a dangerous foe, if so.
The Siberian followed him out of the master bedroom, then stuck herself at his side, keeping pace with him as he crossed the kitchen to the wide arched doorway leading to the living room. They weren't the only ones who had been drawn by the signs of combat; Crawler thumped and crashed his way out of the pantry, moving towards the living room, and the distant sound of Chuckles' demented, too-fast mockery of a laugh grew louder as he, presumably, made his way down the stairs.
Before Jack even made it to the doorway leading into the living room, he caught sight of Shatterbird, lying prone on the floor in a puddle of her own blood, a number of deep cuts criss-crossing her chest. His lips thinned. Then, as soon as he entered the doorway proper, he saw her killer: a black-haired man dressed in shining silver armor and a blue-and-white cape.
It was no cape outfit that Jack recognized. A newcomer? Bold, to think he could stand up to the Slaughterhouse Nine. Or perhaps he didn't know who he was dealing with.
The unknown cape was standing next to the stairs, concealed in its shadow from Chuckles, who was just landing on the ground floor. Swiftly, the unknown cape stepped up behind Chuckles and brought a sword up in one smooth movement that passed neatly through Chuckles' neck, severing it and silencing Chuckles' horrible hyena laugh. Chuckles never saw it coming.
Jack narrowed his eyes, becoming annoyed now by the audacity of this hero. Chuckles' death was no great tragedy, but the loss of Shatterbird – beautiful, deadly Shatterbird – was one Jack felt more keenly. And to think this hero had the nerve to come into Jack's house and start picking off members of his Slaughterhouse. Between that and the fact that, frankly, the armor-clad cape was simply too dangerous to be allowed to live, there was only one recourse.
While the enemy's back was still turned and he was yet ignorant of Jack's presence, Jack brought up his own blade... and slashed.
In the same moment, the armored cape turned to the side and dive-rolled out of the path of Jack's attack, leaving it to score a neat line across the wall instead, just where the armored cape's neck had been a moment ago.
Jack frowned, disconcerted by the impossible dodge. Was it pure luck? There was no way a parahuman walking around in full plate mail with a sword – and, Jack saw now, a shield on the other arm – was a Thinker. Especially not one who'd managed to overpower Shatterbird and behead Chuckles in a single swing.
The armored cape rolled gracefully back to his feet, losing hardly any time in the motion, before turning unerringly towards Jack. He either had a power augmenting his physical attributes, or was an incredibly experienced fighter. His movements were too smooth for anything else. The Siberian stepped in front of Jack and started moving towards the armored cape, flexing her fingers like she could already feel his entrails in her hands.
"What the hell is going on!?" Winter shouted from the top of the stairs.
"A fight!?" Crawler came barreling out of the dining room through a doorway right next to the stairs, tearing chunks out of the edges of the double-wide opening in his haste.
The armored cape threw himself out of Crawler's path, avoiding the swiping scythe end of Crawler's foremost arm, the acid Crawler was splattering around, and the full bulk of Crawler's massive, monstrous body all at once.
Crawler had to contort to turn around, and Winter, on her way down the stairs, narrowly avoided being clipped in the process. Inside a single-family home was hardly the most ideal location for Crawler to fight, especially if they wanted to avoid him knocking the house down on them all. Well, it couldn't be helped, Jack supposed.
"It appears we have a visitor," he said with a grin, gesturing broadly. "Let's make him feel welcome, shall we?"
This was more for the stranger's benefit than Jack's fellow Slaughterhouse members. Quite simply, it was an intimidation tactic.
The armored cape, however, did not deign to be intimidated. He looked over at Jack, blank-faced and unimpressed. Even so, at least, he was distracted long enough for Winter to throw out one of her fields on top of him. The quicker they could end this fight, the better. It had gotten too messy already.
Yet again, the armored cape threw himself into a dodge-roll, just clearing the edge of Winter's foggy field in the same instant it formed.
He should have been distracted long enough, Jack amended, slightly annoyed. So was Winter, judging by the string of invectives she let out. She began expanding her field, weakening it in exchange for greater coverage – even catching the armored cape in it at all would be better than nothing.
The armored cape, however, noticed immediately what was happening, and backed away. Jack observed this thoughtfully. The stranger was too quick and strong to be a Thinker, but his reaction speeds were too quick to be anything but. A grab-bag, perhaps? A danger sense style Thinker power and some minor enhancement to his physical capabilities would fit, and those were quite in line with the powers a grab-bag typically exhibited.
Jack aimed another slash the way of the armored cape, and yet again, he dodged without even looking, this time with a smooth side step. He didn't even falter when the Siberian launched herself at him.
A surprisingly annoying grab-bag, Jack noted.
This iteration of his Slaughterhouse didn't work well together, and with Crawler a relatively recent addition, they weren't well-versed in doing so. With Winter's field blocking her and Crawler from the armored cape, neither of them could do much. Crawler knew it, too, and growled and gnashed his many large teeth irritably, though he made no move to attack Winter and forcibly bring down her field... yet.
Winter's expanding field forced the armored cape to move steadily to the side of the room, away from the stairs where Winter and Crawler were, to avoid it, all the while trading blows with the Siberian and dodging Jack's own attacks. Irritatingly, he did all of this without any great show of effort, his slow move away from Winter's field almost appearing incidental in the course of his fight with the Siberian. Not a single attack landed on him, the Siberian's or Jack's. At the same time, of course, none of his sword strikes did anything to the Siberian, whether they hit or not.
Ultimately, Jack thought, they had the upper hand. The Siberian was an unstoppable force, and Winter's inexorably expanding field meant that it wouldn't be long before their enemy ran out of room to maneuver.
Then the armored cape made a mistake. He let Winter's field get too close and had to jump away to avoid being caught in it. After that, he was wrong-footed; he had to hurry to dodge Jack's next attack, and thus he let the Siberian get too close. Her clawed hand shot towards the armored cape's unguarded throat, and he leaned back, then suddenly kicked upwards with one leg, slamming his armored foot into the Siberian's chest.
It was enough to stagger her, and she stumbled back a step before catching herself, which allowed the enemy time to regroup. Jack threw another slash his way to interfere with that, musing on the situation. The Siberian never spoke and hardly emoted, leaving her difficult to read, but Jack got the feeling she was startled and offended by the sudden kick.
Jack himself was forced to revise his estimate of their enemy's physical strength; to knock the Siberian back, even when she wasn't expecting it, was no easy task.
Before the Siberian could even close the distance between them again, the armored cape changed up his strategy: he lifted his sword... straight up, point facing the ceiling, and struck the Siberian with a bolt of lightning.
...What?
It didn't do anything but leave a scorch mark on the floor, of course, the Siberian being who she was, but Jack revised his estimate of the armored cape's capabilities yet again all the same. It wasn't so strange for a grab-bag to have up to three or four different – weak – powers, but it was a bit surprising.
Pure surprise made both Jack and the Siberian pause – only for a matter of seconds, but the armored cape seized the opportunity. He turned towards Winter, peering through the hazy fog of her field, apparently heedless to how close it was getting. Once more, he lifted his sword, pointed towards the ceiling, this time held in a two-handed grip, and a blue-white flower of glowing light exploded out of Winter with no further warning than that. She gaped silently, red beginning to bleed through her jacket as she fell to her knees, and then onto her face. Her field snapped out of existence.
Jack pursed his lips. That made half of his Slaughterhouse dead at this man's hands. This was growing deeply irritating. Not to mention, if that was the same power the armored cape had demonstrated with the lightning, it was a very different usage of it. Jack did not like to fight enemies he didn't know the capabilities of, and this was why.
Granted, strange powers or not, it was very unlikely either the Siberian or Crawler would fall to this random, unknown cape. It would take far greater forces than a grab-bag with a few interesting powers for that.
Crawler leapt for the new chance to fight the armored cape now that Winter's field was gone, and charged across the now-safe space between them. That suited Jack just fine. Their foe could contend with the Siberian and Jack, perhaps, but with the addition of Crawler, he'd almost certainly be overwhelmed. Few were the people who stood a chance against both of the Slaughterhouse's unstoppable monsters.
Crawler opened with a glob of acid spit that the armored cape rolled away from, then turned to his usual strategy of utilizing pure bulk. The Siberian rejoined the fight, and then the armored cape was left dodging around attacks from all three of them – hardly an easy task, particularly in such a contained space.
Unlike before, the armored cape no longer had any time for attacking. He was kept entirely on the defensive, which meant that as soon as he made a mistake, the battle was theirs.
The armored cape ducked away from the Siberian, then dodged around Crawler, trying to put Crawler's bulk between himself and the Siberian. Unfortunately for him, this attempt brought him within reach of Crawler's back legs, and the scythes that tipped them. The armored cape brought his shield up and blocked the two scythe-legs with a plaintive screech of metal, but it knocked him back. The Siberian came up behind him, fully prepared to take advantage of his weakness, and forced him to do an awkward dodge roll.
This left him open to Crawler, who seized the opportunity and threw his whole bulk into his next attack, flattening their foe to the floor. For a second, Jack dared to think that was the end of it. Few and far between were those who could survive being crushed by Crawler, not to mention the acid he spewed.
But, of course... Not only armored, their foe was also some level of Brute. He rolled out from under Crawler and back to his feet, though the motion was nowhere near as smooth as his previous movements. He stumbled back a step further, clearly injured, and didn't recover in time to dodge the Siberian as she came dashing around Crawler and slashed at him. He blocked, instead, throwing his shield in front of him.
The Siberian's deadly nails impacted the shield instead of the armored cape's chest plate – and tore straight through it to the arm it was strapped to. And, with a wrench and a splatter of blood, she tore his arm off, tossing it and the shield away.
Their enemy, outnumbered and grievously injured, looked mildly put out about the loss of his arm. He backed away from the Siberian – who, like a cat who enjoyed playing with her food, let him. Idly, Jack slashed at him another time, though honestly, he was all but done for at this point, between the Siberian and Crawler, even if he didn't bleed out.
Ducking under Jack's attack yet again, the armored cape lifted the sword in his remaining hand, tapped the flat of the blade against his forehead and bowed over it like he was praying to it, and was enveloped briefly in white light. The whole thing lasted barely a breath, and then the armored cape was rolling his shoulders and standing straight like nothing had happened.
His entire arm had regrown. A moment later, with the kind of mind-aching effect common to teleportation powers, his armor and shield had returned to his arm as well. A quick glance revealed that, in fact, the entire arm the Siberian had tossed away was now gone.
...A regenerative aspect to his Brute power would have been easy enough to explain. Yet the transference of his armor to his new arm, and the disappearance of the old one... Something like Gray Boy's power? Highly localized time control?
That was dangerous.
Especially if there were more aspects to it than simply the regenerative one – somebody like Gray Boy might not be able to kill Crawler or the Siberian, but he could probably stop at least Crawler for good.
The armored cape ducked away from the Siberian, circling the room to keep a safe distance from her without running into Crawler – as much as such a thing was possible in a contained space with a monster as big as Crawler – whilst still avoiding attacks from Jack, turned towards Crawler, and threw his arms wide. It seemed foolish, as though he was saying, "Come, attack me," but the next instant, a golden glow lit the room as some form of shining glyph materialized on the floor under Crawler.
The glyph exploded up from the ground in a searing golden beam, taking a considerable chunk of Crawler and three of his legs with it.
Crawler let out a shout of pain, which quickly dissolved into mad, uproarious laughter. "Yes! Yess, good! More! Hurt me more!"
The armored cape paused. For the first time, he looked faintly perturbed, his brow furrowing. Crawler's masochistic reactions could put anyone off a battle, Jack agreed, but the fact that this bothered their foe more than losing his arm had? That was annoying. What the hell kind of hero was this? And why had Jack never heard of him before?
Crawler's midsection and legs regenerated, and he launched himself at the armored cape for a renewed assault. Their enemy dodged away, returning to dodging and weaving through their attacks with nary a chance to attempt to attack. By all appearances, they had the upper hand, Jack thought, and yet... There was a thoughtful expression on their foe's face that he didn't like the look of.
Sure enough, after a few moments of this, partway through a dodge roll, the armored cape acted. With a flash of light bright enough that Jack flinched and closed his eyes on reflex, the armored cape... changed his clothing, switching out the silver armor and blue-and-white cape for a black and white jacket over black and orange pants and boots. The whole outfit was accentuated with gold edging and accessories.
Jack stared. The Siberian stared. Even Crawler stopped and stared.
"What?" said Jack, gesturing with his knife at the entire outfit.
Genuinely, from the bottom of Jack's black, shriveled little heart, what the fuck. He'd seen – and done – a lot of horrifying and baffling things in his time as a villain and mass murderer. Everything else the no-longer-armored cape had done was, if annoying and startling, at least within expectations. This, however, was nothing Jack had ever experienced before.
The no-longer-armored cape followed Jack's gaze to his own clothing, then looked back up to meet Jack's eyes. That blank stare seemed to indicate that he had no idea what the problem was – or else that he was deliberately messing with them.
This definitely seemed like the more reasonable option, especially considering that the next moment, he plucked a book from its place at his belt, opened it to a seemingly random page, and scribbled briefly inside it, causing another flash of light, this one directly in front of him. Out of the light formed a creature: a squat, blue, glowing, quadrupedal squirrel-thing about the size of a small dog with a bushy tail and long ears.
For a moment, nobody moved. The small creature was cute, Jack supposed. Judging by his experience and the current situation, that almost certainly meant it was unbelievably deadly.
What even was this guy's power, though? This level of variety was stretching it for a grab-bag. A Trump? Jack hated to even think it. Ugh. Trumps.
It was the now-robed cape that acted first. He lifted his... book up straight in the air, and the squirrel thing dissolved into light, surging upwards and outwards until it took the shape of an ethereal dragon, twice the height of its creator. Before anyone could react to this new development, both the book-wielding cape and the newly-formed dragon spat orbs of light at Crawler.
As soon as the orbs of light impacted, they both exploded into brilliant pillars of light that completely engulfed Crawler and reached to the ceiling – possibly higher, if the ceiling hadn't been in the way.
At this point, after everything, Jack was annoyed but unsurprised to find Crawler reduced to so much ash. There wasn't even a gory mess; he'd been all but disintegrated in the blast. A laser of some sort, Jack assumed. Was this guy a Blaster too, of all things?
Maybe it was like Eidolon's power, Jack considered. Except in the form of full power sets, one at a time, and now the enemy cape had switched out his previous powers for entirely new ones, including this Blaster-style one.
The Siberian acted fast against this increased threat, lunging for the robed cape. Jack resumed his own attacks as well – if the enemy had indeed switched out his increased physical capability power and hopefully his Thinker power as well, then he'd made a grave mistake. The cape dodged away again, however, ducking and weaving around both the Siberian's attacks and Jack's as smoothly as he had before, all the while firing yet more blasts at her, though these ones were considerably smaller than whatever he'd hit Crawler with. The dragon kept attacking too, some form of wind manipulation that fluttered the Siberian's hair with every beat of its massive wings.
The enemy cape was irritatingly swift even with this inexplicable outfit change. What was the point, if not because he'd switched powers? The overall effect on the battle was minor. Their enemy had evidently gained enough firepower to kill Crawler, but was still doing nothing to the Siberian. Even so, he hadn't given up his ability to avoid their attacks, either.
And thus they were all at something of a stalemate.
Before long, the dragon disappeared, shrinking back down to the squirrel thing. It only stayed in that form briefly before its creator lifted his book again and changed its form yet again – this time to a huge flaming bird.
A phoenix.
A phoenix?
Of course that was something this Trump could do. Trumps.
Now the book-wielding cape began firing fiery blasts at the Siberian. These blasts didn't do anything more than the previous ones, but Jack didn't like the introduction of yet more powers in their enemy's arsenal.
It was beginning to look like the Siberian and the book-wielding cape could keep this up indefinitely – or at least until the stranger began to tire. Before that, however, was one other problem for Jack: their enemy had demonstrated his willingness and ability to take out every other enemy bothering him before the Siberian. And Jack was next up on the list. There wasn't much Jack could do against the instant, ranged attacks the armored cape had previously demonstrated.
However... Their foe was a hero. The civilians in the house may not be his main priority, but he was practically obligated to show concern for their well-being. Jack certainly had no such inclinations.
While the Siberian, obviously getting frustrated, grabbed a big plush chair and threw it at their enemy and said enemy, rolling out of the way, turned his glowy creature into a massive, flaming, clawed and fanged beast, Jack made his way cautiously into the corner of the room, where the father of the delightful family who inhabited this house was cowering.
Or perhaps unconscious, without the constant encouragement to stay awake that Shatterbird had been providing.
The dead weight was a pain, but Jack hauled the man up anyway, positioning him so that he could press his knife to the unconscious man's throat.
Jack turned back just in time to witness an inexplicable sight: the Siberian, collapsing to the floor, with no clear reason. The enemy cape lowered his book. The Siberian didn't move. She wasn't breathing, either, but that wasn't out of the norm for her, so it was difficult to tell what was wrong with her.
Jack gritted his teeth, truly angry now. Fucking Trumps. What was this nonsense? Jack couldn't even count how many famous and experienced capes the Siberian had defeated and come out unscathed. Who did this nobody think he was?
After a moment, the book-wielding cape turned and caught sight of Jack and his ill-fated hostage. His reaction, far from the wide-eyed horror Jack hoped for, was rather lackluster. There was no surprise. No horror. He took in the scene before him, and his eyes narrowed. That was all.
Jack sneered. "Well now, hero. If you want this poor, innocent father of two to keep his life, you'll put your weapon down and surrender."
The other cape met his eyes evenly. Slowly, he lifted his book and let it fall from his hand. Before it even hit the ground, however, with a blinding flash of light, the armored cape had, indeed, returned to the armor he'd been wearing before, sword and shield in hand.
"Don't make any sudden moves!" Jack ordered, displeased by the disobedience. He pressed the blade of his knife to his hostage's throat. Even if the armored cape used one of his tricks from before, Jack was taking this man with him. "Or this guy gets it."
The armored cape stared at him inscrutably. Always with that blank look on his face, impossible to read. It pissed Jack off.
"We can just go our separate ways," Jack said coaxingly. "I get to leave peacefully, you get the bounties on all the rest of these guys, and those kids get to keep their father. A good deal, isn't it?"
No response – and then the armored cape gestured sharply with his sword in Jack's direction. Fully prepared to be struck by lightning or disintegrated with a laser, Jack slashed across his hostage's throat, expecting to feel the warm splatter of life blood spurting out from his carotid. It was not forthcoming. Instead, a thin red line opened across the armored cape's previously un-marred neck, blood slowly trickling down.
The hair on the back of Jack's neck stood up. What the hell was this?
The armored cape began walking in Jack's direction, his armored greaves clanking on the floor with every step. Jack had a very bad feeling about this. He drew his knife back and stabbed it into his hostage, where the shoulder met the neck. Another red spot of blood appeared on the armored cape.
Jack hadn't seen anything like that since the day he killed King. What the hell. Maybe he'd been wrong about the armored cape's power all along! Maybe it was some kind of nightmare manifestation. This was practically right out of one of Jack's worst nightmares.
Shit. Shit. He had no options left.
Hefting his hostage with both hands, he slung him at the armored cape, then turned and ran. There was a back door just off the kitchen – he only had to make it fifteen feet – that wasn't that bad.
Clank.
Clank.
Clank clank clank
There was a sharp pain in Jack's back, all the way through to his chest, along with another mocking flash of light. He looked down, and saw the sword protruding out of his chest.
Well. What a boring way to die, he thought distantly.
And that was the last that Jack Slash knew.
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- Pronouns
- He
Oh? I've seen this premise done several times with different WoLs, but the author has always lost steam within a few chapters. You certainly opened with a great scene. Your writing is good, technically speaking, and your style is interesting too. Watched, and I'll be interested to see where you go with this. Thanks for the chapter!
- Location
- Sweden
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Very fitting chap name 
This is before they recruited Riley/Bonesaw right? Good for her, good for everyone else
This is before they recruited Riley/Bonesaw right? Good for her, good for everyone else
Snubbed
- Location
- Arizona
Chapter Two: Snubbed
Operator: 911, what is your emergency?
Caller: Umm.
Operator: Hello?
Caller: I need the Protectorate.
Operator: What?
Caller: And maybe some ambulances.
Operator: I-I'm sorry? What's wrong, honey? Can you tell me what's happening?
Caller: The Slaughterhouse Nine attacked my family and a man from another world saved us and now Mommy and Daddy and Morgan are sleeping and there's a bunch of dead people in our house. The Protectorate helps with that, right? Since it's villains?
Operator: I'm sorry, what was that? Who attacked your family?
Caller: The Slaughterhouse Nine! The villain group! [sniffle] Are you going to help or not? I don't know what to do...
Operator: All right, it's going to be okay, sweetie. Just stay calm. I'll send a deputy over to your house, okay? What's your name? Can you tell me your address?
Caller: My name is [redacted], and I live at [redacted].
Operator: Okay, that's great. A deputy is on his way to you now, he'll help figure things out, okay?
Caller: Okay.
Deputy Juan Martinez honestly expected the call to be a prank. Debbie had told him that the caller was a six-year-old girl claiming to have been attacked by the Slaughterhouse Nine only to be saved by 'a man from another world'.
Yeah.
So Juan was going to do a welfare check just in case, because the least they could do was check on a distressed six-year-old with no parents present to keep her from calling 911. Maybe there really was something wrong, even if it wasn't the Slaughterhouse Nine. Juan knew, distantly, that the Slaughterhouse Nine were real, but they were scary-story real. They weren't the kind of thing that anybody you knew got attacked by, especially not in podunk Nowhere, Idaho when the nearest "city" was an hour away and had twenty five thousand people.
It was obvious that something was wrong as soon as Juan rolled up to the address Debbie had passed on from the kid. The house was dark, but the porch light was on, giving off enough illumination to see the many broken windows. It looked like it had been hit by an especially aggressive hurricane or a tornado or something, except that no such weather had passed through.
Juan was considerably more on edge as he got out of his patrol car and approached.
There were two men standing on the lawn. One was slightly overweight with dirty blond hair, wearing a tattered, blood-stained t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants, arms crossed tightly against the pervasive late-night chill in the air – Mark Davis, presumably, the father of the girl who had called. The other man was tall, with black hair, and was immediately identifiable as a parahuman just based on his choice of clothing: full metal armor and a white-and-blue cape. He was standing a respectful distance from probably-Mark, who, Juan saw once he was close enough, was standing protectively over three more people as they sat on the grass.
A dark-haired woman, presumably Sandra Davis, with a little girl in her lap – six-year-old Riley Davis who'd called 911 – and a boy laying next to her – ten-year-old Morgan Davis. Riley, in turn, was clutching what appeared to be a small dog.
All of them were bloody and shivering in the night air, looking quite traumatized, and Juan immediately felt bad for assuming it was a prank call. Something had clearly happened here. Swiftly, Juan radioed in requesting an ambulance, then approached the small family of four huddled on their front lawn in their pajamas. Mark Davis was the only one of them who seemed to notice him.
The unknown cape had been watching him since he arrived, but that guy could wait until after Juan had handled the distressed civilians.
"Mr. Davis?"
The man nodded. "That's me. And you'd be Deputy...?"
"Martinez, sir," Juan supplied. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
Mr. Davis shivered in a way that Juan didn't think had anything to do with the temperature.
"Intruders broke into our house," he said after a long moment, grimacing. "Parahumans. Monsters."
"They were the Slaughterhouse Nine!" piped up the little girl, Riley, over-pronouncing 'slaughterhouse'.
"Shush, Riley," said Mrs. Davis, patting at her daughter's hair.
"No! They were! That's what Jack Slash said!" Riley said insistently.
Juan swallowed, his mouth gone dry, and looked back to Mr. Davis. "They were... definitely parahumans?"
"Yes. No doubt," Mr. Davis said grimly. "Just look at my house, that's all the proof you need."
Juan did, indeed, look at the house. He wasn't clear on the members of the Slaughterhouse Nine or their powers, but it certainly looked like it might be the result of parahuman powers. That was the next best option after a natural disaster, anyway.
"So... What happened?" Juan asked.
Mr. Davis looked at the unknown parahuman. So did Juan. The man stared back evenly.
"Mr. Blue saved us!" said Riley. "He beat up the Slaughterhouse Nine and healed everyone!"
Healed everyone? Juan eyed 'Mr. Blue,' who didn't react to what must have been a nickname. He didn't look like a healer. Not to mention, the idea of a cape Juan didn't even know of supposedly defeating the entire Slaughterhouse Nine was ridiculous even if that person wasn't a healer. Although, maybe Riley was just wrong about it being the Slaughterhouse Nine? It was possible there were villains out there claiming to be the Slaughterhouse.
"You'd be the, uh, 'man from another world,' then?" Juan said to the cape, a bit nervously.
He'd never met a cape before, much less talked to one. They were just people, right? But word was they could be a bit crazy, even the heroes.
The man nodded silently, and did not offer anything else, which was unhelpful.
What did that even mean? Was he from Aleph? Juan didn't think travel between Aleph and Bet was supposed to be that easy... Not to mention, Aleph didn't have parahumans, did it?
"So, you came over from Aleph?"
"I don't know that name," said the man, tilting his head slightly.
"It's... like, the neighboring world to ours, I guess," said Juan.
This earned him a headshake. "No, I'm from farther away than that," the man said seriously.
Right.
"And you're a cape?" Juan asked desperately.
"So I've been told," said the man.
...What? What was that supposed to mean?
"But you're not even wearing a mask," Juan said, at a loss.
"...Should I be?"
Okay then. Sure. Juan didn't think he liked this conversation. He was beginning to think that this whole situation was above his pay grade. Could he get away with calling the Sheriff? The Sheriff was probably asleep, not working the nightshift tonight, but some things were worth being woken up for, Juan felt.
But, no. He didn't want to get chewed out if this whole thing wasn't "a big enough deal." Before he did anything drastic, he should... investigate the house, which was supposedly full of dead parahumans.
This was not what Juan had expected to be doing with his night. He'd never dealt with a homicide before. Or, deaths caused in the process of self-defense and the defense of others, whatever.
"All right. All right." Juan stared at the house. The house stared back. "I'll go check out the house, then, shall I?"
"Maybe then you'll believe me!" said Riley.
Nobody else said anything to contradict either of them. Crap, that meant Juan actually had to do it, didn't it?
Slowly, Juan started walking towards the house. The unknown cape put a hand out to stop him, and Juan nearly jumped a foot in the air at the sudden, unexpected movement. Thankfully, the cape didn't make fun of him for it, just looked at him with that same serious look.
"One thing. The woman with white and black stripes," he said. "She's not dead."
Juan gave him a horrified look. "What do you mean she's not dead?"
Was she just laying in the house, bleeding out or something? That was inhumane even when it came to a villain, right? Well, Juan had already called for an ambulance, so the paramedics could help her too, when they arrived.
"Nothing I did harmed her, so I put her to sleep instead," said the cape. "She won't wake up on her own, but if you disturb her, she will. She's dangerous, so don't wake her up."
Juan's horror did a 180 in type. Not a subdued, dying woman, but an extremely dangerous one that he might accidentally wake up and get killed by!? He looked at the house with extra trepidation. Now he especially didn't want to go in.
"I'll go with you," the cape offered in a tone that might have been intended to be soothing, evidently picking up on Juan's fear.
"No, you stay out here with them," Juan's mouth said without his permission. He cursed his own sense of duty! He should have asked for the escort! "Just, how careful do I need to be around her...?"
"Don't touch her, or knock anything onto her."
"Okay. Okay, I can do that," said Juan, nodding.
The cape nodded back and stared expectantly. That meant Juan actually had to go in, didn't it? Crap.
Fine. He pulled himself together and just went for it. If he walked quickly, he wouldn't have time to second-guess himself! A fool-proof plan.
Juan made it up to the front door, and finally saw that it was busted out and simply sitting against the frame, not closed. Okay. This was fine. He carefully set the door aside and entered the house. Immediately, he was assaulted by the powerful scent of blood, and directly in front of him at the bottom of a set of stairs, there was a dead body wearing a clown outfit. A few feet away from the body was the head.
Turning away, Juan gagged and clapped his hand over his mouth. It didn't smell like decomposition yet, but he'd never seen a decapitated body before, and he didn't want to go further into the house past the dead clown body.
Unfortunately, he couldn't identify who the clown had been, if he was indeed a villain, so if he wanted a Good Enough Reason(™) to wake up the Sheriff, he was going to have to go further in. Juan peeked quickly at the body. When his last meal didn't threaten to come back up, he made his way further into the house, stepping carefully to avoid the puddle of blood spreading from the clown's body.
Just inside the living room was the next body, laying face down in its own puddle of blood, though this one at least had its head attached. Deeper in the living room Juan encountered the promised black and white striped woman, who lay there on the floor unassumingly. Juan made a wide berth around her.
There he encountered the third body, another woman, also bloody, and wearing an incredibly distinctive dress. Between her and the striped one, Juan should definitely be able to confirm whether or not this was the Slaughterhouse Nine.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the kind of thing he knew off the top of his head. He didn't follow cape news.
Still, three bodies – four, he amended as he caught sight of yet another body, this one a man collapsed just through the doorway into the kitchen – plus the purportedly dangerous sleeping woman was definitely enough to be going off of. Juan had never dealt with such a big crime scene before, he didn't know how to handle this.
As he heard ambulance sirens begin to approach in the distance, Juan decisively pulled out his phone and called the Sheriff.
Snubnose was not thrilled to be sent on a six hour drive across Washington state in order to help with cleanup. Cleanup, of all things. Where was the fun? The pizazz? There was none. It was boring.
Almost as boring as a six hour drive.
"You're the best option, Snubnose."
Yeah, because she could actually hold a conversation.
"You know we're low on manpower at the moment, Snubnose."
Like they'd been low on manpower for almost two years, since the Leviathan attack on Seattle.
There were so many better things Snubnose could be doing. Instead, she was sitting in the back of a PRT van with her suit and a few PRT agents. There was no way she was staying suited up for six unnecessary hours of travel time, but it made for a cramped ride. Her suit alone was so big that they'd needed to take two vans rather than the usual one for a PRT squad. Snubnose felt no shame about that, but she might have a few regrets.
At least she'd been told they were almost there. They'd set out shortly before daybreak, once the sheriff of some small Idaho county had managed to convince their PRT director that he was telling the truth about having a crime scene with the bodies of the Slaughterhouse Nine in it, and it was nearing noon now.
Snubnose wasn't even sure she believed that the Slaughterhouse had been defeated. For them to appear in some random small town in Idaho, sure; their MO was basically appearing out of nowhere somewhere unexpected. That some cape nobody had heard of had managed to defeat them all? Not so much. As an organization, the Slaughterhouse Nine had been around for almost two decades, and it wasn't because they were easy to wipe out. Jack Slash had personally led the group for almost as long as it had been around – he was a slippery one.
There were pictures, of course; that was the only way the sheriff had managed to convince the director that there was any truth to his claims. But pictures could be faked. Snubnose would believe it when she saw it with her own eyes.
Especially since they hadn't even been able to provide any pictures of Crawler, the single most distinctive, difficult-to-fake member of the Slaughterhouse Nine. They claimed that the cape who'd defeated the Slaughterhouse had destroyed him completely, leaving no remains, which was utterly unbelievable in its own right.
Finally, the call came that they had almost arrived, and Snubnose suited up. As soon as the van stopped moving, the PRT agents in the back with her piled out, and Snubnose followed after them.
They were out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wide-spread houses. The house in front of them would have been cute, even quaint, if not for the shattered windows and busted-in front door. The house was clearly an active crime scene, with yellow caution tape all around the yard, but there was only a single cop present, a tired-looking Latino man who straightened upon catching sight of them.
Snubnose approached the cop, the PRT squad of ten – five from her van and five from the other – following after her.
The cop basically gaped at Snubnose as she approached. She tried not to preen too much. She made an impressive figure in her entire, massive metal suit, and she knew it. This small-town cop had probably never even personally met a hero before, though – except possibly the person who'd supposedly taken down the Slaughterhouse – so his reaction wasn't that big a compliment.
"Uhh, you're the... Protectorate hero who's been sent out, sir?" the cop said uncertainly.
Snubnose smiled, hidden behind her helmet. "That's ma'am, actually," she corrected, and took pleasure in the way he jolted. "And yes, I am. I'm to take a look and see what you've got in there."
She nodded towards the cordoned-off house.
"R-right, I'll just let you in, then," said the cop.
He unhooked one end of the caution tape from the fence post it was looped around and let it fall so that Snubnose could pass, then backed away hurriedly as she moved forward to maneuver her suit carefully through the little garden gate. It was still novel to be treated like law enforcement; Snubnose was not a cop, she'd never been through any kind of formal schooling or training to be a cop or a special agent or whatever.
There had been a brief course when she joined the Protectorate, two entire weeks of protocol and jargon and how not to piss people off, followed by another two weeks of being pinned to a more experienced hero's side for practical experience, and then she was off on her own, a fully-fledged, legitimate government agent.
All because she had a bad day and gained a superpower. Ridiculous. Not that Snubnose was complaining.
"So how's it going, Deputy?" said JJ – Jason Jensen, no wonder he went by JJ instead – the most talkative of the PRT agents who'd been sent along. "Been here a while?"
"Yes," the cop said emphatically. "I was the first responder, and I've been here since."
JJ let out a sympathetic hiss, and the cop sighed. "I was already three hours into my shift, too. No good deed goes unpunished. I'm supposed to be relieved soon though..." He looked wistfully at his watch.
"Rookie numbers," Snubnose joked. "You haven't had a long day until you've been to an Endbringer battle!"
That was true, though. Snubnose had only been to one Endbringer battle in her career – defending Seattle against Leviathan – and it remained the longest and worst day of her life. She was lucky she'd survived it at all.
"You've been to an Endbringer battle?" the cop asked, hushed.
"Sure. Gotta keep my skills sharp somehow!" said Snubnose.
The cop made an appropriately awed noise, and it almost removed the bitter taste in Snubnose's mouth. The PRT agents, more accustomed to capes in general and Snubnose personally, were less impressed. Most of them had been in the PRT since before she'd joined the Protectorate, and knew that she'd been a rookie during that Leviathan attack.
Then they were at the front door. Snubnose set it aside carefully, then began maneuvering through the small opening. The size of her suit had been deliberately chosen in order to allow for maximum combat effectiveness while still allowing her to do things like walk through doorways, and her control over her suit was finer than most people expected considering that it was a giant block of metal with no wiring, but it was still a pain to try and get through doorways. 'Just small enough to manage it' was not 'small enough to do it easily.'
The PRT agents followed her in without hesitation, led by Sergeant Levens, the squad leader (Snubnose had no idea if 'Sergeant' was a legitimate rank or title, but it was what everyone called him).
"Er, I'll just wait out here," the cop called from just outside the door.
Snubnose didn't blame him. Cape battles – and the havoc they left – were a different sort of beast.
"Good man," JJ said brightly. "Keep an eye on things for us!"
Snubnose was more interested in keeping an eye inside the building, which definitely looked like the site of a cape battle. Blood, bodies, and scorch marks everywhere; destroyed furniture littered the room, and all of the windows had been broken. The site of a localized disaster – which was basically what capes were, unless they were powerful enough to be a non-localized disaster. Almost immediately upon entering the house, she nearly stepped in a puddle of blood. Or, rather, the drying remnants of what was once a puddle of blood – so deep that there were still wet patches over six hours later. No surprise there, considering that the source of it was a decapitated body.
Well, it wasn't like Snubnose was any stranger to blood or bodies. She stepped closer, then bent down to nudge the head, lying off on its own, until it turned over enough for her to see the face.
"I'll be damned," she said.
"What is it?" Sergeant Levens asked.
"It's Chuckles," said Snubnose. "Bonafide Slaughterhouse Nine member."
She would know; she'd looked into everything the Protectorate had on the Slaughterhouse Nine before setting out. Chuckles hadn't been with the Slaughterhouse for very long, but he was undeniably one of them... which meant that there was some truth to the claims of the Slaughterhouse Nine appearing and being defeated.
The next body wasn't far away, and appeared to be a woman, fairly stocky and muscled, wearing a fur-lined jacket. Snubnose had a feeling about this.
She straightened and took a few steps to the jacket-clad body, then rolled it over to look at its face. Sure enough, it matched up with the few pictures they had of Winter, former child soldier and slave trader, current mass murderer. Former mass murderer, now, too, apparently. Good riddance.
According to the Protectorate's latest info on them, the Slaughterhouse Nine was currently, in fact, the Slaughterhouse Six, so that was two of six accounted for.
Snubnose made her way deeper into the house. As soon as she was out of the entryway and no longer blocking it, PRT agents swarmed out from around her and spread across the room, investigating the three remaining visible bodies.
"Whatever you do, do not wake up the Siberian," said Snubnose.
The Siberian was just lying there, not doing anything. She didn't look like a person who'd been knocked out or passed out; her knees hadn't given out, leaving her to crumple. It was like she was a cardboard cutout that had been knocked over, lying flat on her back, arms at her sides. It made the hair on the back of Snubnose's neck stand up; she'd never fought the Siberian, but she'd seen a video once, and the woman was eerily still, except when she suddenly burst into movement. This felt like a trap. A trap over six hours in the laying, however? That was unreasonable.
The PRT agents didn't need to be told. They were already leaving a careful circle around the Siberian. Still, their circle got a little bit bigger, perhaps with the reminder that they were dealing with an unreasonable powerhouse that their friendly cape probably couldn't do anything but slow down.
Snubnose didn't even get close. Her footsteps were a lot lighter than they rightly should be considering the weight of her suit, thanks to her power, but they were still pretty heavy, and "woke the Siberian up through the vibrations of the floor" was too embarrassing to go on her death certificate. The Siberian was plenty recognizable from afar anyway, especially as she was lying on her back, leaving her face visible. The PRT agents could handle the finer identity checking, if necessary.
Instead, Snubnose made her way to the far end of the room from the front door, where the third – or fourth, if you counted the Siberian – body lay. This one was undeniably dressed in Shatterbird's costume, gleaming stained-glass look and all. In truth, it could be anybody dressed in Shatterbird's costume, but that would be a strangely elaborate way to stage one's death.
Since that wasn't the Slaughterhouse's style – they had nothing to gain from being thought dead – Snubnose felt confident in labeling Shatterbird dead as well. Not to mention, Shatterbird's presence would certainly explain all the shattered glass in the house.
And finally, the last body. It gave Snubnose shivers when she leaned down to check the face; even with the blank glaze of the dead, those eyes seemed to stare straight through her. It was Jack Slash, who had never bothered to wear a mask in the more than a decade he'd been active. Even dead, he was a creepy bastard. In addition to being a slippery one, that was.
Snubnose let out a low whistle just thinking about it. Pinning down Jack Slash long enough to kill him was seriously impressive on its own. Add in killing the rest of the Slaughterhouse Nine at the same time, plus subduing the Siberian? That was insane.
Snubnose desperately wanted to meet the absolute madman who'd pulled this off despite never having been heard of before.
"Everyone in agreement that this is the Slaughterhouse Nine, and yes, they're definitely all dead except for the Siberian?" Snubnose said to the room at large. There were only five PRT agents still around; the rest had presumably gone to check the rest of the house, as was PRT protocol. Fortunately, being Protectorate, Snubnose didn't have to follow that protocol.
"It's your signature on the report, Snubnose," said Sergeant Levens. "Are you convinced?"
Snubnose grinned. Her signature on the report and her head on the chopping block, but that was fine. The PRT was rarely happy with her anyway.
"Sure. Heck, I'll sign right now saying the entire Slaughterhouse was wiped out," she said.
Two of the PRT agents were coming down the stairs. "Nothing upstairs," one of them reported.
"Except a lot of blood," said the other with a grimace.
"Same for the rest of the first floor," reported the three who'd gone to check out the back rooms.
"What about Crawler, though?" JJ asked. "If there's no sign of his body, then…"
Snubnose shrugged, an exaggerated movement in her suit. She had been skeptical before because they couldn't provide proof of Crawler's existence or death, but now that she'd seen the chaos and the rest of the Slaughterhouse's bodies, it wasn't as big a concern.
"Honestly, given what we know of Crawler and how survivable he is, I'm willing to believe that his body was completely destroyed just trying to get him to stay down," Snubnose said. "And if not, well, he's hardly the most subtle villain. Especially without Jack Slash telling him what to do, he'll show up before long."
"I'm sure that will be very comforting to the people he kills," Sergeant Levens said dryly.
"You're welcome to do a canvas if you like," Snubnose replied. "I'll even give it a good college try if you find him. But if he's alive, I doubt he stayed nearby, and I don't think I'll be able to kill him if the person who wiped out the rest of the Slaughterhouse couldn't."
Sergeant Levens pursed his lips, but nodded. "You're right," he said, and it wasn't even terribly begrudging.
"Great!" Snubnose said, clapping her hands together with an obnoxious clang. "So, shall we go meet this Slaughterhouse slaughterer?"
Really, the only reason she was there, rather than just Sergeant Levens' PRT squad, was because of the unknown cape who was supposedly strong enough to single-handedly take out the Slaughterhouse Nine. She might as well get around to her actual job. Plus, she was curious. What kind of person could do that? The sheriff's office had been weirdly sparse with information about their mystery cape.
"You should," said Sergeant Levens. "I'll stay here with some of my people, keep an eye on things. Make sure nobody gets in... or out."
Snubnose nodded. "All right, decide who's staying and who's going, then. I get at least one to drive me wherever I'm going, right?"
"I'll send four with you and keep the other five here with me," said Sergeant Levens.
"Sergeant! Please let me go!" JJ said immediately.
Sergeant Levens gave him a severe look. "Trying to get out of boring old guard duty, Jensen? Don't you want to hang out with your new friend out there?"
JJ wilted.
"Well, going with me is definitely the more fun option, so can you blame him?" said Snubnose, striking a jaunty pose.
Sergeant Levens' severe look turned on her. Some people were so unappreciative. Snubnose's helmet covered her entire face, but she stared earnestly back at Sergeant Levens all the same. JJ looked at him pleadingly. He sighed.
"Fine, have it your way. Jensen, you can go, along with Stark, Zhao, and Schmidt." He waved dismissively.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!" said JJ, who was always obsequious when he was getting his way.
JJ collected the other three PRT agents who'd be joining them, and as Sergeant Levens began issuing orders to the remaining agents, Snubnose led the way back out the front door and down the cute little garden path. The same cop was waiting just outside the gate into the yard, and he still looked tired.
"Great job, buddy," JJ said, clapping the cop on the shoulder. "Just hold on, all right?"
"Uh, yeah," the cop said uncertainly. "S-so, in there, is it really–?"
"Don't worry about it," said JJ.
The cop looked very worried about it.
"Where is the cape who defeated them?" Snubnose asked. "Your department has been keeping an eye on them, right?"
"Oh! Yes, ma'am!" said the cop. He looked two seconds away from saluting. "He's down at the sheriff's office with Sheriff Vance."
"And where is that?" Snubnose asked.
"It's not far from here," said the cop.
Snubnose turned away as he began giving directions. She obviously wasn't driving – Schmidt was the one who'd driven her van before, she believed – so the directions didn't matter to her. Instead, she went to go climb back into the PRT transport van, which wasn't a quick process. She didn't bother to climb out of her suit. It wouldn't be long before she needed it again.
- Pronouns
- He
That's interesting. I wonder what the timeline is here that Riley ended up being the one to call. Did she call while the older members of the family were too traumatized to take over or what?
This is interesting. Most boss-tier beings in FF are more-or-less status immune; I would expect near-absolute damage invulnerability to also convey some level of status immunity in a crossover. Did sleep pass through the Siberian to hit Manton directly because it targets the mind, or is something else going on here?
I really appreciate your choices of perspective. Most of the fun in Out-of-Context Problem stories like this one comes from the other characters reacting to the crazy things going on and attempting to fit them into their worldview. Because of this, I find outside perspectives more compelling than main character perspectives in this kind of story. I have very much enjoyed the way you are constantly switching between outside perspectives so far.
I'm sure the WoL perspective will make further appearances as the story goes on, but hopefully it stays one tool among many rather than becoming the Main Perspective. (of course, that's just my own taste.)
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Fellow Human
Verified Roado Rolla
I think second chapter should've been faster paced. It doesn't tell us much and our MC barely spoke.
Watched for now.
Watched for now.
- Location
- Colorado Springs, Colorado USA
This is not their story. They only have permission to post it here
Long-distance Travelers
- Location
- Arizona
Chapter Three: Long-distance Travelers
The sheriff's office was a small, square building with a simple sign above the glass door that said "Clearwater County Sheriff's Office." It looked so much like a little shop that Snubnose half expected a bell to ring above the door as soon as they walked in.
Snubnose preceded the PRT agents into the building, almost disappointed that there was no bell. The inside of the building didn't look anything like the police precincts she'd seen in Seattle; lit by overly-bright fluorescent overhead lights, it was a quaint office space with a few cubicles, a tiny two-cell holding area in one of the back corners, and a office in the other far corner, blocked off with glass walls. There was, at least, still a front desk of sorts immediately on the left from the door.
"Um, hello?" said the poor receptionist.
"Heyo!" Snubnose replied with her cutest wave, cocking her hips in a hopefully-cute pose. There wasn't much she could do to be approachable or friendly-seeming, presenting as a giant suit of armor as she did, but that just meant she had to go out of her way to seem hero-y, or she'd just end up scaring civilians. Fortunately, she was shameless enough for the job. "I'm Snubnose, from the Seattle Protectorate! I heard you have someone here I'd like to meet?"
"Oh, yes!" The receptionist turned to look at one of the cubicles, and Snubnose noticed that it had two inhabitants – one dressed in a deputy's uniform, and one wearing full metal armor.
It wasn't a giant suit like Snubnose's, but, in hindsight, the man was still quite obvious.
Before Snubnose could go talk to him, however, the sheriff hurried out of his office and over to her little group. The sheriff of Clearwater County was on the older side, old enough to have gone fully gray, with very dark skin and a grizzled white beard. He had the kind of stern look in his eye that Snubnose would have expected from somebody who argued the director of the Seattle PRT into sending a Protectorate hero six hours away.
"You're the hero sent by the Protectorate?" he said immediately with no preamble.
"That's me! Snubnose, at your service," she said brightly, tossing out a peace sign – it was chunky through her metal gauntlets, but still recognizable.
The sheriff nodded. "I'm Sheriff Samuel Vance. Welcome to Clearwater County," he said with a wry twist to his lips. "Have you been to the crime scene yet?"
"Sure have! Just came from there, in fact. Do you wanna talk about this in private, or...?"
Sheriff Vance glanced at the receptionist, who was clearly listening intently though her eyes are on her computer monitor, but shook his head. "No, I think everyone around here's already heard about it, confirmation one way or the other won't change anything. I was told you'd confirm whether or not our late intruders were the Slaughterhouse Nine." He looked at her calmly. "So. Were they?"
"They were. It seems you've got an S-class threat on your hands over there, Sheriff Vance," Snubnose said.
"I thought S-class threats were only villains," Sheriff Vance said, frowning.
"Eh, maybe officially. In my book, anybody who can take out an S-class threat might as well be one. I mean, that's some serious firepower, y'know." She looked over at where the mystery cape was sitting. It looked like he and the cop were playing a card game. "He's pretty unassuming looking. A lot of capes are." Even Snubnose was, when she wasn't in her suit. "But if reports are true, he wiped a monster like Crawler out of existence. Not to mention how he didn't get killed in the process. That's pretty scary."
"Nobody would say that stopping the Slaughterhouse Nine was anything but a good thing," Sheriff Vance said quietly. "Least of all the family he saved."
"I'm certainly not saying it wasn't a good thing either! Just that it marks that guy as a very powerful person, and I'll feel better once I know where his allegiance lies," said Snubnose. "Where are they, by the way? The family?"
"They were brought to a hospital, but were discharged a few hours ago when it was determined none of them had any physical injuries, supposedly thanks to that guy," Sheriff Vance said, tilting his head in the mystery cape's direction. "According to the family's young daughter, he healed them all after he defeated the Slaughterhouse Nine."
Sure, that made sense, Snubnose decided. The killer of the entire Slaughterhouse might as well be a healer as well. Some kind of wonder-Trump. Eidolon Two, maybe?
Sheriff Vance heaved a sigh. "Anyway, after that I think they got put up in a hotel by the Parahuman Victims Fund. Not sure which one. We have their statements, though, if you want to look over them."
Snubnose made a face. Ugh, the Parahuman Victims Fund. A bunch of prejudiced assholes if you asked her – and probably most other parahumans, villain to hero, since the Fund considered them all equally bad. Still, she supposed they had their uses occasionally, and nobody could deny that this family – the Davises or whatever – were victims of parahumans.
"Maybe later. I'd rather talk to our hero of the hour himself," she said.
"Right, of course." The sheriff stepped back, out of her way, and Snubnose walked towards the man in armor.
Before she even got close, he looked over his shoulder directly at her. Some kind of Thinker power? Or, she acknowledged, maybe just a good awareness of his surroundings, and she was both wearing a giant metal suit and being paranoid. The cape laid down one last card, and the cop he'd been playing against let out an over-the-top cry of dismay. Together, they gathered up all of the cards, which the cape stashed in a small bag at his waist as he spun in his office chair – which appeared to have been stolen from the empty neighboring cubicle – to face Snubnose.
If he had any particular reaction to her appearance, it didn't show in his face, which was a disappointment. Snubnose courageously worked past it. Actually, the strange thing was that the cape wasn't wearing a mask of any kind, just leaving his face in plain view. Well, to each their own; most didn't cover as much as Snubnose herself did.
The cape stood to greet her, and looked unbothered by the fact that her suit made her a foot taller than him.
"Hey there! I'm Snubnose, with the Seattle Protectorate, and these fine agents are from the PRT," she said. "You have a name, stranger?"
The knight-lookalike tilted his head to the side. "Not a... 'cape name,'" he replied with a glance towards his cop companion. "I'm told that's important."
"Well, yeah. You can't go around telling everyone your real name, heroes are supposed to have secret identities," the cop said.
"That's true," Snubnose said, nodding.
"Then no, I don't have a name," the knight said.
"I see, I see. New to this, then?"
"New to this world's customs, at least," said the knight.
Snubnose paused. "So... You're not from this world?"
The knight nodded.
"Okay, where are you from, then? Aleph?" Snubnose guessed. That would make the most sense, but she was under the impression travel between Aleph and Bet was pretty strictly controlled. Plus, how could a parahuman strong enough to defeat the Slaughterhouse Nine have come from Aleph?
"No, I'm not from Aleph."
Snubnose squinted. "Okay, what earth are you from then?"
"Earth?"
"Okay, are you an alien?" Snubnose asked, baffled. "Are you messing with me?" The knight just stared at her until she broke. "Earth is the name of our planet," she said slowly.
"Really? My home... planet is named Etheirys," said the knight.
"You're shitting me," Snubnose said flatly. The knight shook his head. "So you are an alien, then. Are you from outer space, too?"
"No," the knight said, disturbingly serious, as though that was a real possibility.
"Okay, how are you from another world, if you're not from any Earth or space?" Snubnose said. This was giving her a headache.
The knight looked thoughtful. "You could say... I came through realities, like if I was from another of your Earths, but traveled from farther away. It was certainly a longer trip than to another of my Etheiryses." He nodded to himself, as though that made sense.
"Okay, sure," Snubnose said, deciding to go with it. Either he was right or he was crazy, and arguing about it wasn't going to do any good no matter what. "So, if you're not from this world, how long have you been here? How'd you know where to find the Slaughterhouse Nine?"
"I didn't. When I came to this world, I happened to land in front of the house with the 'Slaughterhouse Nine' in it," said the knight, with a dubious twist on the name of the Slaughterhouse. Medieval knight wannabes had no right to judge.
"Wait, let me get this straight. After crossing through realities, you just happened to land in front of the very house that the Slaughterhouse Nine happened to have taken over," Snubnose said.
The knight nodded.
Snubnose was glad that her entire face was covered, because she had no idea what kind of expression it was making. That sounded so unbelievably suspicious, and yet she was weirdly inclined to believe him anyway. A weak Master effect? Snubnose couldn't be sure, especially considering that this guy was apparently some crazy Trump. Yet she didn't feel emotionally manipulated. He just had such a straightforward attitude it was hard to believe he was lying.
"...Okay, sure," she said again, simply because there was nothing else she could say. "So, you just dropped into this world and then proceeded to fight the Slaughterhouse Nine with no forewarning. You must be pretty damn strong. What's your power?"
"He doesn't know," said the cop who'd been sitting with him.
"What?"
"I asked him before, and he just said, like, 'I don't know that terminology,' and then once we figured out that they don't call parahuman powers 'powers' in the world he's from, he said, 'I have many different abilities,'" the cop explained with a long-suffering expression.
"Too many to explain?" Snubnose asked dryly.
The knight thought about it for a moment, then nodded shamelessly. Snubnose couldn't help but laugh a little. This guy's shamelessness was hilarious.
"And he's not sure what counts," added the cop. "Apparently a lot of it is pretty common in his world, so he doesn't think those count as powers."
"Wait, what kinds of things are we talking about here?" Snubnose said warily. She wasn't sure if a world where everyone was a parahuman sounded awesome or like some kind of hell.
"Healing oneself and others, creating and controlling the six elements. Some other forms of magic," said the knight.
The six elements? Snubnose shook her head. That wasn't relevant.
"And everyone in your world can do stuff like that?" That was mildly terrifying, but would explain a lot. This guy's blasé attitude towards his apparent reality-hopping, for example. Some of the scorch marks in the Davises' house, too.
"Any with the inclination to learn, and to varying degrees. Such things are skills like any other," said the knight.
"Right," Snubnose said slowly, then remembered something. "Wait, go back to that part about magic. Magic?"
"Of course," said the knight.
Snubnose stared. The knight, unbothered, stared back.
"You're a crazy person, aren't you," Snubnose said finally. It wasn't uncommon among parahumans, and at least this guy wasn't ranting and raving. Actually, Snubnose thought she remembered hearing about a Protectorate hero – in Chicago maybe – who claimed to be a wizard or something.
The crazy wizard-knight tilted his head. Snubnose interpreted it as confusion, though his expression hardly changed.
Did it matter if he was crazy? Snubnose wondered. No, not really. It didn't change how crazy strong he was, or the fact that he'd killed the Slaughterhouse Nine. As long as his crazy lent itself to being a hero, it wasn't Snubnose's problem.
"Right, whatever. Your power doesn't really matter unless you decide to join the Protectorate. Rogues and independents aren't required to disclose their power," said Snubnose. And, if he did join the Protectorate, deciding what to label his power would be the PRT geeks' problem and not Snubnose's. "Which brings me to my next order of business: are you interested in joining the Protectorate?"
The crazy cape was silent for a long, thoughtful moment, and then said, "I don't know what that would entail. The Protectorate is... a group of heroes?"
Snubnose paused. Right, he was an alien. Somehow, she'd forgotten.
"Well, it's a government agency, to be specific," she said to start with. The knight nodded, following along so far, which was good; Snubnose wouldn't have to explain the concept of a government-run institution. Or a government. "So, joining the Protectorate means to be employed by the Protectorate – or, to be pedantic, its parent agency, the PRT, or Parahuman Response Team. You'd live and work in Seattle, or your PRT district of choice, assuming for whatever reason you don't want to live in what is clearly the best city."
"It sounds structured," the knight observed, tone unreadable.
"Structured? I mean, yeah, I guess, as much as any job. You go to work, you do what your boss tells you, that kind of thing," Snubnose said.
It wasn't exactly a good recruitment speech, but it was her bosses' fault for sending her to recruit the guy. She was going to tell him the truth.
"In that case, I will have to decline," he said.
...Even if it kept him from joining.
"Why is that?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Not interested in a 9-to-5?"
Though she wasn't sure what he normally did for a living. Being a world-hopping wandering hero couldn't pay that well, could it?
The knight shook his head. "I prefer more independence in my duties. And more freedom to travel," he said.
"Oh? I guess that makes sense. Well, you wouldn't necessarily have to be tied to one district. There are Protectorate squads that travel around the country," Snubnose said.
"With similar expectations as to employees' availability," said the knight. It wasn't a question. "I don't think it's a good fit, particularly as I may have cause to return to my own world at any time."
"Huh. In that case, you're probably right. It's not a good plan," Snubnose said. The Protectorate generally preferred a certain level of reliability from their heroes, and 'randomly leaving to go back home' wasn't the same as dying or being crippled and unable to work. "You should still come back to Seattle with me to check in at the PRT office. That way you can register as an independent hero, at least. Being officially recognized by the PRT will make things a lot easier for you if you intend to continue being a hero. Plus, you can cash in the bounties for the Slaughterhouse Nine."
"Bounties?" the knight asked with a spark of interest.
"Uh-huh. All of the members of the Slaughterhouse Nine had kill orders, which basically means there's no doubt about whether or not killing them was justified, and as a result, there's also a bounty pool that people can donate into. A lot of people donated to the bounties for the Slaughterhouse, so their bounties are massive. Since you killed them, that means the bounties are yours."
The knight nodded slowly.
"Oh, by the way," Snubnose added, realizing that, as an alien, the guy might not be aware of, like, civilization and laws and stuff. "It's fine that you killed them because they had kill orders, but don't just run around killing people in the future, that's generally a crime. At best, you'll have to prove their death was justified, and you might actually get arrested if you can't."
That was a bigger 'might' than most people liked to think, especially when it came to known criminals, but it was still a very real possibility.
"Thank you for the warning," the knight said, and geez, it was getting really annoying how hard it was to read him. Snubnose couldn't tell if he honestly meant it or if he was making fun of her.
"Of course!" she said brightly nonetheless. "As a fellow hero, I'd hate to see you get into legal trouble. Anyway, we've got a couple things to finish up here, but we'd be happy to have you with us if you wanna hitch a ride to Seattle."
The knight nodded, but didn't reply. Well, what she'd said didn't necessarily require a verbal response, Snubnose supposed, but it was a bit rude nonetheless.
"I sure hope one of those things you've got to finish up is taking a certain somebody off our hands," Sheriff Vance said.
Snubnose carefully didn't startle at the sudden reminder of his presence. "It sure is," she said. It wasn't like Sheriff Vance had to remind her of that; obviously they'd be taking the not-dead-Siberian with them. There was no chance of them doing anything else. The Siberian was the greatest priority after their unnamed-hero friend – possibly even a greater priority than him, given the chance that she might be woken up. "In fact, we'll probably be heading back to the Davises' house now to figure out that situation. Actually, it would be a great help if you could join us for that as well, Mr. No-name, seeing as you're the one who knocked that somebody out in the first place."
The knight nodded again. Not even a flicker of annoyance at Snubnose's new nickname for him. So boring.
"Glad to hear it," Sheriff Vance said with obvious relief. At least somebody was readable. "All this excitement's been a bit too much for my old heart."
"I think it'd be a bit much for anyone's heart. But we'll be out of your hair soon." Along with the two most stress-causing parts of this mess, Snubnose thought. "Of course, most of the cleanup is fairly simple…"
Which was to say, the PRT would be taking the Siberian with them, but would not be handling the actual cleanup of the scene. As far as they were concerned, the dead parahumans were simply dead bodies now, and of no relevance to the PRT.
"Yes, of course," said Sheriff Vance, waving it off. "We can handle the cleanup once certain obstacles are out of the way."
"Shouldn't be long now. We'll head back over to the Davises' house, pick up the Siberian, and be on our way," said Snubnose.
"Thank you. I'll be happy to have that threat out of my county," said Sheriff Vance.
Snubnose nodded. Sheriff Vance nodded back. Snubnose turned to leave. The PRT agents let her pass, then followed after her, along with the still-unnamed knight.
"You're so cool," JJ whispered as they passed through the parking lot.
Snubnose thought he was being weirdly quiet. Had he been awestruck into silence or something?
"...Thank you," said the knight.
Snubnose climbed into the back of the PRT van. The knight followed her, then two of the PRT agents – again, one of which was JJ.
"We have really got to give you a name," Snubnose said to the knight.
"Can't you call me by my given name?" the knight replied.
"No! A hero name! It's different," Snubnose insisted. "I don't just go around calling myself Rachel, do I? It wouldn't be impressive enough. That's not my given name, by the way, because heroes are also supposed to have secret identities."
The knight shrugged, a bit helplessly.
"You're so cool, you should have a cool name too, don't you think?" said JJ. It did not look like the knight thought so. "Do you have any ideas?"
The knight shook his head.
"'Knight,'" Snubnose suggested, chuckling. That was a terrible hero name. Too unimaginative. It might fit this guy, though.
"Ooh, Knight could work. Or Warrior! Champion!" said JJ.
The knight looked unenthusiastic about these offerings.
"Don't listen to us too much," Snubnose said, a little worried the guy would just pick a random suggestion to get out of thinking of something. "It's your hero name, so you should ultimately be the one to decide."
"The Ultimate!" JJ said enthusiastically.
"That's terrible," said the other PRT agent – Stark, judging by the voice.
Snubnose ignored them. "You could think of it as like a title, even. Something that describes you as a cape."
"Ooh, Battalion! That would be cool!" JJ was still going.
"Azem," the knight said abruptly.
"Bless you," said Snubnose.
"As a hero name," said the knight.
"You want your hero name to be a sneeze?" Snubnose asked dubiously.
"No. Azem."
Snubnose heard a word that time, she supposed, though it sounded like gibberish to her.
"Is that a word in a foreign language or something?" JJ asked.
"It's... a name of sorts. A title given to the one who holds the position of the traveler," the knight said.
"Oh, I see! That's cool, I guess," JJ said uncertainly. It didn't seem like he thought it was cool. "It's not really like Battalion or something, though…"
"But it is fitting. You said you like to travel, right? And it's not like a Trump can have a name referring to a single one of their powers," said Snubnose. "Traveler works, actually."
"Azem."
"Fine, fine. Azem. But Traveler is easier to say," Snubnose said. "Not to mention, people will actually get what you mean when you say it."
Traveler-slash-Azem shook his head.
Snubnose sighed. "All right, to each their own. Azem it is, but good luck convincing PR of that."
"PR?"
"Public relations. They're in charge of Protectorate heroes' image, basically. Things like name and costume are under their purview. Even approved power usages, sometimes, if a hero has a power with particularly scary applications," Snubnose said. "I guess since you're not joining the Protectorate, you don't have to worry about them. Though, you should probably still get some tips; they're usually willing to help out independents too. I mean, at least you could get a mask to wear, rather than just having your face out in plain view."
"That's true, that's important, especially for keeping a secret identity," said JJ, nodding seriously. "I think I have some domino masks on me if you want one! Until you can get a mask of your own."
"I have some masks already," Azem said.
"Oh, really? How come you don't wear one?" JJ asked.
Azem shrugged. "It's not important in my world."
"You could show us some of them, and we can see which ones look good," JJ offered.
Just then, the van lurched to a stop, and the engine turned off.
"That's going to have to wait," Snubnose said reluctantly. "Back to work."
"Aww. I guess we'll have time later, though, as long as we ride back to Seattle together," said JJ.
Stark opened the door and hopped out.
"Wait, take this!" JJ said before Azem could follow suit, holding out a cheap, flimsy black domino mask.
Azem took it. He looked dubiously at it. Yet, even so, he gamely brought it up to his face, stretching the elastic band to loop around the back of his head, then adjusted it so that it sat nicely on his face. Or, as nicely as a 99 cent mass-produced domino mask could sit. Snubnose couldn't help but laugh at the end result; it looked absolutely ridiculous. Still, Azem left it on as he followed Stark out of the van, expression as serious as ever.
The cop from before was gone, with no apparent replacement; instead, there was now a PRT agent standing at the gate into the little garden. He nodded at Snubnose, then did a double-take at Azem.
"This is 'Azem.' Since he was the one who put the Siberian to sleep in the first place, I asked him to help us move her," Snubnose said, clapping Azem on the back – a little less carefully than she might normally, but Azem didn't budge an inch. He certainly felt like a Brute.
Azem nodded.
"Are we doing that now, then?" the PRT agent asked.
"Yup. Azem here agreed to come with us back to Seattle, so I figure we might as well pick up our other passenger and be on our way. No point in hanging around longer than necessary," Snubnose said. "The fine folks of Clearwater County clearly want us out of their hair, anyway."
"Right," the PRT agent agreed slowly.
"Know where I can find Sergeant Levens?"
"He's inside, having decided to take the duty of watching the Siberian himself."
Snubnose snorted. "Sounds like him, all right."
She passed the PRT agent, heading inside to find Sergeant Levens. Sure enough, he was in the living room, standing stern and upright even though no one was watching across the room from where the Siberian lay.
"Hey, Sergeant," said Snubnose, walking up to him.
Sergeant Levens nodded to her. "Snubnose. I see you've picked up a stray. Things went well, then?"
Snubnose grinned. What a jerk. There was a reason Sergeant Levens wasn't a recruiter. Although Azem appeared remarkably unoffended. That seemed to be his norm, though.
"Well enough, I'd say," she said, which was the best she could call it, since Azem had ultimately refused to join the Protectorate – which was definitely a big loss for their organization. The kind of capes who could single-handedly defeat the entire Slaughterhouse Nine were few and far between. "Azem here has agreed to both come back to Seattle with us to register with the PRT as well as help with moving the Siberian."
Sergeant Levens' stern gaze swung over to Azem, who met his eyes evenly. A staring contest ensued. Snubnose watched, intrigued. Who would win, the commanding Sergeant Levens, with his years of bringing young PRT agents to heel, or the stoic Azem, with his completely unknown history and experience?
A riveting scene, to be sure.
Sergeant Levens blinked first. Snubnose wasn't sure how to feel about that. The only person she'd ever seen win a staredown with Sergeant Levens was, well, her. But she cheated, by way of having a full-face covering helmet, so that wasn't a fair competition. Azem was wearing no such thing, only the flimsy little domino mask that covered so little as to be basically pointless. But at the same time, the impression she'd gotten of Azem was that he was the kind of person who could win a staredown against even, like, Eidolon – who, in addition to being one of the strongest and most famous parahumans around... covered his entire face.
"Agreed to register with the PRT, huh?" Sergeant Levens said finally, shaking his head. That was as good as saying 'refused to join the Protectorate.' "What was it, Ashum?"
"...Azem."
"Azem, then. Got any ideas for this one?" Sergeant Levens nodded towards the Siberian. "We're not sure how to get her into the van without knowing what will wake her up. We've been thinking a stretcher, but then there's still the problem of how to get her on the stretcher."
Azem looked thoughtful. "Using a stretcher is a good idea. For getting her on it… Be careful." He shrugged.
"I see," said Sergeant Levens, looking unimpressed. "In that case, perhaps you should handle it. That way, you can show all due care."
Azem nodded, as stoic as ever.
"Sounds like a good plan to me," said Snubnose, who definitely would have been the one who had to do it otherwise. "Anyway, since you're the one who fought her before, you'll probably be the best off if she does end up waking up, right?"
Unlike Snubnose, who would probably be shredded right through her armor by somebody like the Siberian.
Another nod. This guy was the life of the party.
"Go bring in one of the collapsible stretchers," Sergeant Levens ordered Snubnose's contingent of PRT agents, who had followed her in.
There was a chorus of, "Yes, sir!"
"Should we bring the others in with us?" Stark asked.
"...No," Sergeant Levens said, then, darkly, "If something goes wrong, their presence won't change anything but the number of casualties."
Everyone paused awkwardly. Even for people who regularly faced death, like PRT agents and – especially – Protectorate heroes, it was a bit uncomfortable to have it just said like that. Yes, Snubnose was aware the Siberian could easily kill her if anything goes wrong, and that her job was to try to fight her anyway. Meanwhile, Azem looked as unconcerned as ever. Snubnose was not sure he even noticed the implications of what Sergeant Levens said, his expression was so bland.
"Uh, right," said Stark.
They left to retrieve said stretcher. Snubnose wondered why the PRT vans came equipped with collapsible stretchers. Never mind, she didn't have to wonder. She'd been involved in enough fights where either heroes or villains had to be carried off afterwards – although she wasn't sure of the legality of the PRT doing so rather than going through proper medical channels.
"I see Jensen got to you," Sergeant Levens said as they waited. "You know those masks are basically useless, right?"
Azem shrugged. "No point in refusing," he said.
"How about aesthetics?" Snubnose suggested. "Because I have to say, it really takes away from the cool knight look you've got going on."
Azem looked down at himself, as though he had to check on said 'cool knight look,' then looked back up at Snubnose blankly. He didn't say anything. The silence stretched on. Snubnose had no idea how this guy had lived however many years he had so far with these kinds of social skills.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably actually five minutes, the PRT agents returned with the stretcher. They set it down next to the Siberian, warily, and then backed away quickly.
Azem stepped over to the Siberian and looked down on her for a moment. With no obvious cue, he was suddenly enveloped in a flash of light that only slightly burned Snubnose's eyes thanks to the lenses in her helmet. When the light faded, she was able to see that it had heralded, of all things, a costume change. Azem was now dressed in... robes, basically. As old-fashioned as his armor, yet still surprisingly fashionable at the same time. Consider Snubnose impressed. It helped that the robe itself could pass as simply being a long coat.
"Ignoring how impressive that quick-change was, why the different outfit?" Snubnose asked, unable to help herself even though she knew there was a high chance of getting an answer she wouldn't like. Already, she had to admit that his clothing change looked rather convincingly magical, but that was parahuman powers for you.
"This way I can recast sleep on her if she wakes up," Azem said, which brought up as many questions as it answered.
He unhooked a book from his belt, produced a literal quill from nowhere to write in it with, and then waved a hand over the book, creating a ball of gently glowing light which then formed into a small, cute, glowing blue animal of some kind that Snubnose had never seen before.
Before Snubnose could even joke about him having a pet, the small animal did a little flip in the air, flicking its tail and throwing an orb of light at Azem, which impacted him and promptly ballooned into a faintly gleaming barrier.
"Wait, does your pet cat have its own support powers?" Snubnose blurted.
Actually, a projection-creating parahuman that had projections with support powers was really cool, especially if he had several different ones with different powers.
Azem paused briefly. "...Yes, in a sense," he said.
Then he crouched down and started trying to maneuver his hands under the Siberian before Snubnose could complain about his lack of actually helpful information. Was this some kind of multiplying Trump problem where one of the Trump's powers was a Trump power? But Azem didn't seem interested in explaining.
Everyone watched with bated breath as Azem carefully slid his hands under the Siberian's shoulders and knees. She didn't stir, and slowly, Azem lifted her. Disturbingly, her joints didn't even bend, her legs staying straight as Azem lifted her just enough to set her on the stretcher. Snubnose really had to wonder exactly what the Siberian's power was, that seemed to have effectively turned her into a statue.
With the hard part complete, Snubnose wasn't particularly surprised when Azem successfully slipped his hands out from under the Siberian, still with no sign of her waking.
At least three people let out audible breaths of relief. Snubnose felt the same, but she put her hands on her hips.
"Don't get too excited," she said. "Now we still have to get her into one of the vans... and then all the way across Washington state back to Seattle. My condolences to the person who has to drive."
Everyone wilted a little except for Sergeant Levens and Azem. Snubnose grinned. Half the fun of being a hero was the danger, right?
"All right, let's do this!" she said brightly. "Azem, you take the legs and I'll take the head?"
Azem nodded and moved to one end. Snubnose moved to the other end. Azem waited for Snubnose to start lifting first, then smoothly matched her. But geez, the Siberian was heavier than Snubnose had expected – weirdly heavy, for such a dainty-looking woman. Maybe her power really had turned her into a statue. Or whatever Azem had done to her did it. And Snubnose couldn't even use her power to assist for fear of the... rather forceful side effects. What was the point of being able to nullify gravity then!?
At least Azem, as the sucker who'd agreed to take the legs, had to go backwards. He did it with no visible effort, of course, the bastard.
Things went smoothly enough until they reached the front door – JJ dashed ahead of them to open it, but then Snubnose realized she may have miscalculated. This meant she had to go through the door... while carrying the Siberian.
She should have made one of the PRT agents do it.
In a display of characteristic patience, Azem waited calmly while Snubnose squeezed herself through the doorway, and then also through the little garden gate, doing her best not to jostle or outright drop the Siberian. Azem's expression was as placid as ever, which meant any perceived judgment was in her imagination... Right?
Again, JJ rushed ahead of them to open the back doors of the nearer van. Azem went first, and gracefully stepped backwards up into the back of the van, transitioning into a horrendously low crouch in the process to avoid lifting the Siberian's feet too far above her head. Snubnose stared in awestruck horror, but Azem was casual about it, shuffling backwards in his crouch until Snubnose could reach no farther, at which point they set the Siberian down gently. Snubnose examined the inside of the van. Her suit wasn't going to fit in there comfortably with the Siberian. It was probably best for Azem to ride with the Siberian regardless, but that meant that Snubnose couldn't be in that van unless she wanted to both be without her suit and unmask in front of Azem. Fair was fair, arguably, but she didn't particularly want to anyway.
Which meant that the four PRT agents who would have to ride in this van for lack of space with Snubnose in the other one were in for an extremely uncomfortable ride together with an unconscious mass murderer and an unfamiliar cape.
That should probably be Snubnose's problem but she was going to ignore it. More important was making sure the Siberian didn't move while in transit, which was… going to be difficult.
"I don't suppose you have any helpful powers that would keep her from sliding around, do you?" Snubnose asked Azem plaintively.
She didn't really expect him to say yes. There were some limits to even ridiculous Trump powers. Yet Azem thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
"Wait, seriously?" Snubnose said, a little incredulously, unsure whether to be glad or annoyed. What kind of nonsense was this guy's power?
Another nod.
"Well, go for it, then." Snubnose gestured at the Siberian.
One more nod, and another flash of light that almost blinded Snubnose, making her wince. The glowing cat-thing did a flip and vanished with a sad tinkling noise – which implied that, to some extent, Azem did have to switch out his powers, somewhat akin to Eidolon. Snubnose wondered morbidly what the Triumvirate would think of him.
Then she was distracted by Azem's new outfit. Like before, the flash of light heralded a costume change, and this one...
Snubnose couldn't help herself. She immediately burst into laughter. Full on, ugly, knee-slapping laughter. He'd always looked quite impressive and stylish before, both the armor and the coat-robe look, despite being old-fashioned. But this one was just too difficult to take seriously, especially since he was still wearing the stupid cheap domino mask.
"I can't breathe," she wheezed out.
The PRT agents by her side were not laughing, because laughing at capes could be anywhere from foolish to outright suicidal and PRT agents knew better, but she knew they were at least as shocked as she was.
Because Azem's new outfit was... pink. So pink. A second glance made Snubnose go right back to laughing. It was another robe, except much more dress-like than the other. The base color was white, with pink accents and frills. Oh, the frills. Truly, it took a man secure in his masculinity to wear such a thing. Snubnose couldn't stop laughing. Azem, however, didn't appear to understand what was so funny. Or he just didn't care. Snubnose could appreciate that kind of attitude.
"W... why are you wearing that," JJ choked out.
"A friend made it for me," Azem said serenely.
If he knew how ridiculous it looked, then he had thoroughly accepted his lot in life.
"Okay?" said JJ, obviously uncertain.
Azem ignored both Snubnose's and JJ's reactions, taking a long stick – a staff – off his back and holding it in a steady one-handed grip in front of himself. Along with the outfit, his... weapon, so to speak, though Snubnose hesitated to call the book that, also seemed to change every time he changed power. Was there some relation?
With a wave of Azem's staff, water started falling out of mid-air, in a circle around where the Siberian lay. It pooled around her, then began seeping up over her, at her wrists, ankles, and stomach. Honestly, it was a little creepy. Snubnose started having terrible visions of drowning in spontaneously-appearing water that crawled up you and clung, leaving no escape... It was exactly the kind of thing she might expect from a water-controlling parahuman.
But Azem's water simply formed itself into what looked like restraints, then went still. Azem swung his staff around, narrowly missing the edge of the van, to return it to its place on its back.
"What, that's it?" Snubnose said. It didn't really look like it'd keep the Siberian from moving. More like Azem had decided to add a splash of color to the otherwise black-and-white Siberian.
Azem nodded.
"Ooookay, if you're sure this will hold." Snubnose poked warily at the water wrapped around the Siberian's waist, then jumped, pulling her hand back, when it was solid under her touch. It didn't squish, splash, or even wobble; just stayed still and firm. Completely unlike water, in other words. "What in the world–?"
"It's a binding spell," said Azem. "It's more difficult than that to make it budge."
"I see," said Snubnose, who did not see at all. But she was more convinced than she had been before.
Even if she didn't know what a 'binding spell' was supposed to be. She'd almost forgotten that Azem fancied himself some kind of wizard. A knight and a wizard, hah.
"All right, well, looks like we're ready to get underway, then," said Snubnose. She glanced sidelong at Sergeant Levens, who was standing next to her with a constipated expression. "Sergeant?"
"Yes, it seems so," he said with a sigh. "Somebody gather up the others. I'll hand the crime scene back over to the local LEOs and we'll make for Seattle." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, but before inputting any numbers, he added wryly, "And don't argue too much about who gets to go in what vehicle."
- Location
- England
It's all fun and games until the blood lily blooms
Fellow Human
Verified Roado Rolla
Decent chap, Siberian move could've been faster...
- Location
- US
Ahh, I see we're actually in the highly populated parts of Idaho. It's hard to understand true podunk nowhere until you live somewhere that "going into town" means an hour drive to somewhere with a sub 200 population. Jokes aside, just read all 3 chapters in one go and it seems interesting enough so far. Always interesting to see how different people end up portraying their WoL.
- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Loving Snubnose, she's a good counter perspective to the stoicness of Azem.
- Location
- Arizona
Thank you for the input, on reread the pacing is a little bad. The entire story has already been written so the pacing is basically set. The next few chapters are going to be similarly slow paced, though it does pick up later in the story.
- Location
- Gainful Employment
- Pronouns
- He/They
Ya hear that Manton?
Garreon
Paldean Top Champion
- Location
- Mesagoza, Paldea
I am picturing him getting dragged in the Siberian's direction and bumping into everything on the way. Wall smashes, road rash, breaking through crystal surfaces, cacti, almost chocking to death due to his neck getting tangled with female underwear that was out drying, a few bumps against moving cars, passing through a construction and getting covered in concrete....
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- Pronouns
- She/Her
Interesting perspective with Snubnose.
I'm confused why the stretcher didn't have straps to stop the patient falling off, or brackets in the van to stop it moving. They could also have sprayed her down with containment foam. It wouldn't do anything to constrain her if she wakes, but ought to stop her being jostled and muffle sounds. Additional power provided restraints would still be a good idea.
I too am interested what will happen when they reach the edge of Manton's projection range. Is he also asleep? Will Siberian pop or are they tethered together?
I'm confused why the stretcher didn't have straps to stop the patient falling off, or brackets in the van to stop it moving. They could also have sprayed her down with containment foam. It wouldn't do anything to constrain her if she wakes, but ought to stop her being jostled and muffle sounds. Additional power provided restraints would still be a good idea.
I too am interested what will happen when they reach the edge of Manton's projection range. Is he also asleep? Will Siberian pop or are they tethered together?
- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I'm now imagining Manton being dragged along at the end of an invisible tether.
"That's not how it works!"
Is now bitch!
- Location
- Norway
I'm guessing the siberian is going to pop like a balloon, or the feedback of pain from manton's power wakes her up.
- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- Location
- Australia
So, won't she just disappear when they get too far from Manton? Little surprised they didn't get an Echo about the Siberians nature, of all the S9 she seems like the one who'd have a reaction the most due to her nature.
Waiting for the Rabbit crewed spaceship to show up at some point to pick 'em up, unless this isn't post EW yet?
Waiting for the Rabbit crewed spaceship to show up at some point to pick 'em up, unless this isn't post EW yet?
An Unexpected Disappearance
- Location
- Arizona
Chapter Four: An Unexpected Disappearance
They hadn't even been on the road for half an hour when the call came over the radio.
"Stop the cars! Pull over! We have an emergency!"
It sounded like Stark, which was shocking on its own, as he was normally cool-headed. Worse than that, he was in the van with the Siberian. He didn't sound like he was in immediate danger of being eviscerated like if the Siberian had awoken, but there was a note of hollow terror in his voice nonetheless. Snubnose wasn't surprised when her van lurched suddenly as the driver pulled off to the shoulder of the highway.
Everyone piled out of the van, making way for Snubnose as she charged over to the other van, the inhabitants of which were also getting out, albeit less hurriedly.
With the PRT agents out of the van, Snubnose could see clearly that the only inhabitant was Azem, frowning faintly as he kneeled over the stretcher which had once carried the Siberian – now empty. The Siberian herself was nowhere to be seen. Yet there was no damage or bloodshed inside the van to indicate that she'd forcibly removed herself from their custody, either.
"What the hell happened?" Snubnose asked.
Azem just shook his head silently, as unhelpful as ever.
"We don't know," said Stark. "One second, the Siberian was laying there, motionless as ever. The next, she was just gone. She never so much as twitched. It was like she teleported away."
"God, if the Siberian has suddenly developed some kind of teleportation power, we're all screwed," Snubnose muttered. "What else could it be? All the other known members of the Slaughterhouse Nine are dead, so none of them could have rescued her, besides not having powers like that."
It was largely accepted that there were very few people outside of the Slaughterhouse who would rescue any of them. Even most villains thought the Slaughterhouse Nine went too far – there was a reason they all had kill orders, after all.
Plus, Snubnose had never heard of a power that could teleport somebody out of a moving vehicle without the parahuman themself ever entering the vehicle. That didn't mean one didn't exist, but there was a parahuman in the vehicle. One with a Trump power that could easily have provided a teleportation power. And that was the more likely option, wasn't it?
Snubnose turned a suspicious look on Azem, still kneeling in the van. She had no idea why he would spirit away the Siberian now, after having allowed the PRT to be called, waited several hours for them to arrive, and then acted so agreeable, but it had to have been him, right...?
Before Snubnose could even open her mouth, however, Sergeant Levens stepped forward.
"Azem. Did you do this?" he accused.
Snubnose blinked. That was, perhaps, a bit more blunt than she was going to be. Especially since Azem almost certainly wildly outclassed her, and could absolutely trounce every single one of them if he decided he wanted to do that.
Yet Azem just looked back, equanimous as ever. If he had any particular feelings about the accusation, it was impossible to tell. "No," he said simply.
A snort made its way out of Snubnose without her permission. Everyone turned to look at her.
"I'm sorry, I just–" She snickered. "That was the lamest proclamation of innocence I've ever heard."
Azem tilted his head to the side.
"Frankly, I agree," said Sergeant Levens. "I don't feel all that inclined to believe you. Could you try a bit harder to seem like you're telling the truth?"
Azem's eyes narrowed fractionally. It hardly changed his expression, but somehow he seemed unspeakably dangerous all of a sudden. Even in his pink, frilly dress-like robe, he abruptly felt like the person who had single-handedly wiped out the Slaughterhouse Nine. Snubnose felt a shiver go down her spine. Sergeant Levens swallowed audibly, but stood his ground – foolishly, in Snubnose's opinion.
But fortunately, there was no bloodshed. Azem stared at Sergeant Levens dangerously, but only said, "All I can do is tell the truth. Whatever happened, it wasn't me."
"You're a Trump," Sergeant Levens said bravely, though, Snubnose noted, he wasn't quite meeting Azem's eyes. "You could easily have a power that would allow it. Why should we believe you?"
"None of my abilities would allow for this."
This time, Snubnose felt the need to interject with a sigh, "A little more detail, if you please."
This had the effect of turning Azem's dangerous gaze on Snubnose, but he nodded.
"I am not personally capable of teleporting another person without teleporting myself. Doubly so without permission, and triply so without a visible effect," he said, which was possibly the most words Snubnose had ever heard him say in a row.
Sergeant Levens frowned and crossed his arms. "We're still left taking your word for it."
"You can't prove a negative," Snubnose pointed out. She gave her best over-the-top shrug, with full arm movements to make up for the stiff shoulders of her armor. "We have no choice but to take Azem's word for it. We're better off assuming he's telling the truth and trying to figure out what else could have happened. Any ideas?"
A resounding silence.
"Yeah, me neither," Snubnose admitted. She sighed. "I guess this means we have to notify Psych and the director, huh?"
"You have to notify Psych and the director," said Sergeant Levens. "Since, as a Protectorate hero, you're the highest ranking person here."
"Wait, what?" Snubnose said in protest. That seemed unfair!
"You lost the Siberian," said Derek Reynolds, director of the Seattle PRT, in his blandest voice.
"Er. Yes," said Snubnose on the other side of the call.
"And you have no idea what happened."
"Um, yeah, that pretty well sums it up," said Snubnose.
Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It did nothing to stem the building headache. "And this parahuman who apparently defeated the rest of the Slaughterhouse Nine?"
"He's still here. At least he hasn't pulled a disappearing act," said Snubnose. "But he doesn't know what happened either. He swears she was still asleep. She was asleep, right?" The answer was inaudible, but after a moment, she said again, "Right! So, yeah, we have no idea. But probably the Siberian is on the loose again, except we don't have any proof of that either because she's certainly nowhere to be seen around here."
"Great, that's just what I wanted to hear, thanks," Derek said.
"Sure, any time. I'm here Monday through Friday."
"Ha. Hilarious. Have you told Psych yet?"
Psych was the leader of the Seattle Protectorate, and while the things that happened in their district were ultimately Derek's problem, this one, he felt, Psych definitely deserved to share with him.
"No. I tried, but he's off today."
Derek bit back an invective. That was true; Psych had been on call for twenty-four hours, and actually working for eight of those. He'd picked the worst possible time to go off duty, but Derek couldn't blame him. Even capes needed sleep – well, most of them.
"...All right. Get back on the road, there's no point hanging around hoping the Siberian will reappear. I'll make sure Psych hears about it when he's back in, but you'll probably be back first," Derek said.
"Yes, sir," Snubnose said.
Derek hit the button to hang up, then put his head in his hands. What a mess. Why couldn't this be happening on the east coast? He much preferred when all of the drama happened away from his district. Even dealing with the Elite was better than having to worry about nonsensically strong power-houses on the loose in his district.
At least it hadn't been long enough for news of the Slaughterhouse Nine defeat, or the Siberian's specifically, to have gotten out. There would not have to be an awkward announcement of how badly Derek and his PRT had screwed up. Derek comforted himself with this knowledge as he sent out the notification request for any sightings of the Siberian. This was the better option. His pride, of course, didn't care, when he could have been sending out an announcement of the Slaughterhouse Nine's total defeat.
...Albeit not at his Protectorate's hands. Close enough.
The Seattle PRT headquarters was right in the middle of the city, solidly downtown. Snubnose hated it, and was glad that the Protectorate headquarters was in a less-dense part of the city. Still, after several hours crammed into the back of the PRT transport van with too-many other people (who had decided that they would rather squeeze too many people into Snubnose's van than spend those hours with the unconscious Siberian), she was glad to hop out into grimy downtown Seattle.
Snubnose stretched obnoxiously, well aware of passersby on the street gawking at her. Protectorate heroes weren't really that common a sight, even around the PRT headquarters – especially since the PRT building had its own parking garage. The only reason they'd stopped outside was to have Azem enter the building through the front door.
"All right, let's go!" Snubnose said, clapping Azem on the shoulder. He'd switched back to his original armor, and still felt like steel, jolting her arm a bit in retribution, but Snubnose didn't let it bother her.
"You'll handle it from here, Snubnose?" Sergeant Levens asked.
"Naturally! I'll make sure to show Azem around the place," said Snubnose, tipping her head and lifting one shoulder in a makeshift exaggerated wink, because nobody could see whether or not she winked. "You boys can go take a break."
Actually, Snubnose was due a break too, at this point, but the opportunity to see more people interact with Azem was too good to pass up.
Sergeant Levens looked deeply unimpressed. "Behave," he said severely. Snubnose spread her hands innocently, but he didn't give her a chance to respond. "We'll leave it to you, then."
He glanced around at his squad, and they all piled back into the vans, which sped off to find their way into the parking garage, leaving just Snubnose and Azem. In their defense, the PRT agents were probably used to working more typical hours than Snubnose, as a Protectorate hero.
"So, shall we?" Snubnose said brightly.
Azem nodded. Snubnose headed for the front door of the PRT building, Azem's expectant gaze searing on her back. Unlike the employees' entrance, which was quite plain, the front of the PRT building almost looked like a storefront, with big glass panes and a glass door. Directly in front was the reception desk, for all important business civilians might have with the PRT. On the left was the gift shop, considerably more well-trafficked, but Snubnose didn't bring him that way, as much fun as it might be.
Instead, she headed up to the reception desk, Azem a silent shadow at her side, and waved cheerfully at the receptionist.
"Hello!"
"Good evening. Snubnose, right?" said the receptionist, a woman with brown hair in a bun and a nametag declaring her to be 'Allison.' Allison turned to Azem. "And... I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with you."
"That's okay, 'cause he's a new hero. Came here to register with the PRT, even," Snubnose said, already knowing that Azem wouldn't. "Also collect a bounty, I guess."
To Allison's credit, she didn't look even slightly flummoxed by this. It wasn't all that strange for somebody who was used to working the front desk at the PRT headquarters, Snubnose supposed.
"Okay, great," Allison said, sounding decidedly less enthusiastic than her words would indicate. "It's a pretty simple process, so I'll just ask a few quick questions. Cape name?"
"Azem."
Allison's perfectly-shaped eyebrows furrowed. "Azme?"
"It means 'traveler,'" Snubnose said helpfully.
"All right then," said Allison. She typed briefly. "City of operation? Seattle, right?"
"No," said Azem, and nothing else.
"He's planning on traveling around," Snubnose said, rolling her eyes. How had this guy made it so long?
"Oh, I see. That makes sense, I suppose," Allison said. "Okay, I'll put in 'itinerant' then. Would you like to give a brief power description? This one is totally optional."
Azem thought about this one for a moment. "No."
Allison didn't seem surprised. "Okay, how about a given name or address? Also optional, but they are on the form." She didn't seem to expect these either.
Snubnose genuinely wondered if any independents who registered with the PRT actually told them their name or address. Obviously, as a Protectorate hero, the PRT knew everything about Snubnose's life, but the kind of people who had something against joining the Protectorate to the point that they would rather vigilante on the side for little to no pay rather than getting a real job as a hero? They didn't strike Snubnose as the type to readily hand over personal information.
"No."
Shocking.
"You don't even have an address," Snubnose commented to Azem, who shrugged. "Wait, do you even know what addresses are?"
Azem sent her a sideways look. "We do have houses in my world," he said. "Most cities use some form of an address system."
"Most cities?" Snubnose asked, mildly curious, but mostly hoping to get him to talk more about his crazy alien thing.
It didn't work; he simply shrugged again.
Allison cleared her throat. "Okay, there's just one more thing and you're done. We just need to get a picture of you so I can get you an ID." She looked back up at Azem. "Um, is this your final costume?"
"Well, it would be funny," Snubnose said. His handsome face needed something to detract from it, and the domino mask did a decent job. It just wasn't fair for somebody to be powerful and good-looking. Hadn't this guy heard parahumans were supposed to just be regular-looking people? Reluctantly, she added, "But no, he's still deciding on a mask."
Eventually, this guy was going to become known for defeating the Slaughterhouse Nine, and Snubnose considered it her duty to make sure he looked impressive when that happened. Apparently he didn't care about his own appearance, after all.
"In that case, we'll leave the picture for later, although it would be best if you decide quickly so we can get that done," said Allison.
"Yeah, he has no idea what he's doing as far as looking like a cape," Snubnose said, and Allison looked Azem up and down, then nodded. "I was going to introduce him to some of the PR people and see if they'd give him some tips."
"A good plan. At least he's got the cape part down," said Allison, making Snubnose laugh and earning no reaction from Azem. "In the meantime, we'll say you're officially registered as an independent hero. You mentioned collecting a bounty?"
"Yep. Bounties, actually. He's collecting the bounties on the Slaughterhouse Nine," said Snubnose.
Finally, an actual reaction from Allison; her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Even the receptionist for the PRT didn't come across something like that every day.
Nobody did, to be fair. The Slaughterhouse Nine's bounties being collected was a big deal. Snubnose wondered how long it would take for it to get out. It wasn't a small amount of money, either. Snubnose was happy with her Protectorate salary, but she couldn't help a twinge of envy at the thought of the payout.
"What, seriously? There's no way," Allison blurted.
"As the responding Protectorate hero, I can confirm it's for real," Snubnose said. "Well, maybe not the fight itself, but I saw the bodies myself, and nobody disagreed that Azem here killed them."
"Right," Allison said faintly. She typed a few things, then shook her head. "I don't think I can authorize that. That's… a lot of money."
"Really? How much, exactly?" Snubnose asked curiously. She didn't actually know for sure beyond the assumption of 'a lot.'
"Well, it's... Ninety-two million dollars."
Snubnose blinked once. "What."
Allison nodded. "Yeah."
"Ninety-two million?"
"Yeah," Allison said again, more emphatically.
"All right, that's reasonable," Snubnose said, nodding. "I don't think I would feel comfortable giving away ninety-two million dollars of the US government's money either. Even if it's arguably coming from the Slaughterhouse bounty fund."
"I honestly don't think I'm allowed to, even if I wanted to give away ninety-two million dollars of the US government's money," Allison said. "I don't know who is allowed to."
"Eh, we'll just go to Director Reynolds," Snubnose said with a shrug. "He'll probably want to meet Azem anyway."
"Right, that makes sense," said Allison, in a somewhat dazed tone. "I suppose you'll be needing a visitor's badge, then."
She pulled one out of a desk drawer and held it out. Demonstrating that he was neither a fool nor a child, Azem took it without prompting, examined it, then looped the string around his neck so that it dangled over his chest.
"Okay, well, have a nice day!" Allison said brightly.
Snubnose grinned. She wasn't sure if Allison had unconsciously fallen back into her customer service voice or if she was just that happy to see them become somebody else's problem, but either way was kind of hilarious.
"You too!"
Theoretically, Snubnose was supposed to request a meeting with the PRT director. He was a busy man, after all, etc., etc.. But she didn't care for things like that – and he might reject the request just to spite her either way – so she just led Azem towards the elevator instead. Director Reynolds couldn't be that busy, anyway, as he replied almost immediately after she knocked on his office door.
"Come in!" he said, so Snubnose did.
Director Reynolds took one look at her – and their visitor behind her – and said, "No."
Snubnose laughed. "No? You were the one who said to come in!"
"Not so that you could bring me more trouble," Director Reynolds said, rubbing his temples.
"I didn't bring trouble," Snubnose lied. Azem had trouble written all over him. "I just thought you might like to meet the man who defeated the Slaughterhouse Nine."
"Is that right," Director Reynolds said flatly.
"Yep! Director Reynolds, this is Azem. Azem, Derek Reynolds, the director of the Seattle PRT," Snubnose said cheerfully.
Azem nodded. Director Reynolds sighed.
"All right. Azem, is it? From what I hear, you're a new hero," the director said. Snubnose knew full well how much she'd told him, and the fact that Azem was a new hero was the least of it. She wasn't surprised he was refusing to acknowledge the alien bit, though. "What are your intentions from here?"
He gave Azem a hard look. Azem met his eyes evenly.
"To help people."
"What, that's all?" Director Reynolds said.
It was a little too much of a goody-two-shoes answer, Snubnose thought. She was a pretty dedicated hero, but "to help people"? How about to fight bad guys, or make money? To become famous, like the Triumvirate? That was totally within Azem's capability.
"Well, currently, his intentions are to collect the Slaughterhouse's bounties," Snubnose said helpfully. "Which I may have mentioned to him."
Well, success: it got Director Reynolds to stop giving Azem the evil eye. Downside: it was because he was now giving Snubnose the evil eye. You win some, you lose some. Snubnose tried half-heartedly to look abashed.
"Oh, did you?" said Director Reynolds, in a very calm tone that somehow conveyed, Are you trying to rob the United States government of almost a hundred million dollars?
"I sure did. I mean, he did earn it, and all," Snubnose said, which was entirely true. She honestly believed that Azem deserved the money, ridiculous as the amount was – and even if she would maybe like even a fraction of that payout – for having successfully rid the world of (almost) the entire Slaughterhouse Nine. She was pretty sure everybody who'd ever paid into their bounty fund would agree, too.
"Yes, of course," Director Reynolds said, looking grudgingly in agreement. "I'll arrange it personally. That will be the bounties for Jack Slash, Crawler, Shatterbird, Winter, and Chuckles, correct?"
Wow, low blow, Snubnose thought, rolling her eyes. Somebody finally managed to kill almost the entire Slaughterhouse Nine – in one go! – and Director Reynolds wanted to squabble about the last remaining member? Take your victories where you got them, geez.
She couldn't resist a glance towards Azem, who nodded, looking as unconcerned by this as by literally everything else. At this point, she wasn't even surprised.
Director Reynolds looked a bit annoyed by the non-verbal answer. He cleared his throat pointedly, to no avail. "All right then. Thank you for your service. If you'll give me your bank details, I can arrange a wire transfer of the funds."
There was a moment of awkward silence. Director Reynolds stared expectantly at Azem. Azem stared at Director Reynolds, unreadable. Was he trying to make a decision? Was he trying to remember said bank details? Was he being difficult on purpose? Or... was he confused, possibly with no idea what a bank was?
"Director, he doesn't have a bank account," Snubnose said into the silence. He's an alien, she didn't add, though it was, she was pretty sure at this point, true.
"Oh," said Director Reynolds, expression pinched and perhaps a bit embarrassed. "I – can't you make one?"
"Not without some form of ID. And a social security number," said Snubnose. Neither of which Azem had, presumably, being an alien.
Another awkward silence. Director Reynolds looked surprisingly uncomfortable now. Perhaps he wasn't used to dealing with aliens?
"All right. In that case, the only option left is... cash," he said. "However, ninety-two million dollars is an absurd amount of money to hand over in cash."
"That's true," Snubnose said. She hadn't really thought about it, but... how could anybody just walk away with that much money? Even if a Brute could literally carry it, it was a bit impractical.
"It's fine," said Azem.
Snubnose looked at him, startled – both that he'd spoken up basically unprompted, and at his actual words.
"It's fine?" she repeated.
He shrugged. "I always carry a lot of – money on me. It's not a problem."
"I guess if your world doesn't do things like banks and credit you'd be used to it, but–"
"Do you know how much ninety-two million is?" Director Reynolds asked disbelievingly.
"...Yes."
Director Reynolds shook his head. "Then you should know it's ridiculous to ask for that in cash."
"It's fine," Azem said again.
Director Reynolds looked at Snubnose like he expected help from her corner. Well, she supposed she'd been dealing with Azem for a while now, so if there was Azem-wrangling to be done, she should be the best at it. But she didn't really feel like it.
"Seems like he knows what he's talking about," she said, taking amusement in the way Director Reynolds' face fell, all expectation of help dying a swift death. "Besides, the PRT has never refused to cash out a bounty before."
Director Reynolds rubbed a hand over his face. "All right," he said, a bit muffled. "Sure. Let's do that then. I'll arrange for almost a hundred million dollars to be brought here. In cash. But that's going to take time, all right? A couple of days, at least. So I don't know what you have planned, 'Azem,' but you're going to have to hang around Seattle until then."
Azem nodded silently.
"And don't cause any trouble," Director Reynolds said sternly. As sternly as a normal human could say anything to a walking weapon of mass destruction like certain powerful parahumans.
There was a telling pause before Azem nodded again. Snubnose thought she was figuring out how to read this guy, at least to some extent. And the thing was, he wasn't shy or hesitant for all he refused to speak more than absolutely necessary; for him to pause... meant he was lying. Snubnose snickered. Judging by the way he'd supposedly hopped into their world and almost directly into a fight with some of the scariest villains one could encounter in the US, she was willing to bet he was the type who found trouble without trying – or else was found by trouble.
"Anyway, that means we have time to go talk to the PR people!" Snubnose said with a tiny bit of genuine excitement. A little bit because Azem's look was actually pretty cool and it would be nice to see him with a mask that suited him, but, she would admit, mostly because then she'd get to see a professional PR person deal with the absolute train wreck that was Azem. "'Scuse me, sir."
Snubnose turned, grabbed Azem's wrist, and went to pull him out of the room. It was like pulling on a wall; he didn't budge in the slightest. Not even his arm moved. She turned back to look at him. He was still standing normally, not even bracing himself against her.
That was pretty impressive, actually. She'd already been assuming he was some kind of Brute, so not too impressive, but he was a pretty strong Brute, it turned out. Snubnose obviously wasn't using her power on him, but she tended to have a pretty good amount of force behind her movements simply thanks to her super-heavy zero-g armor, so for Azem to have, apparently, not even noticed that she was trying to move him, he was probably on the upper end of Brutes. This was no Trump or grab-bag 'oh yeah, and a minor Brute power too', he was strong. Made sense, since his preferred power-set or fighting style or whatever seemed to be his sword-and-shield knight look.
Azem looked at Snubnose, then at her hand on his wrist, and obligingly moved towards her. Good enough for her! Snubnose pulled him out of the room, with Azem obediently moving along with her as though she could possibly do such a thing.
"Snubnose–" Director Reynolds started, and then just sighed as Snubnose and Azem left the room.