"Doesn't matter if you've got a knife or a gun or a goddamn missile, I'm the one with the power here."
Truth has an edge to it, and this one catches you despite your best efforts to let it sail by. Every week it seems like there are more and more meta-criminals on the streets – every week it seems like there are more and more variables for you to have to anticipate, react to, overcome. Any thug you meet in a dark alley could have the power to vaporize you with a glance, and you have no such tricks hidden up your sleeve. You've trained for this job every day of your life, but how long until you get yourself killed by some punk who was just born lucky?
Something swells in your gut – something angry and violent and alive, spurring you to action. It washes through you, submerging the aches and pains of your body under a furious purpose. Adrenaline sharp enough to feel in your teeth.
You charge in forward, taking initiative. Metas have more tricks up their sleeves than the average bear, and it's dangerous to give them time to set those up. Put them on the back foot and they're less likely to be clever with their powers – fear pushes and they fall back on their instincts. Become stupid.
It only takes you a moment to realize that Amy isn't your average meta-thug. She stomps the top of the train as you charge over and over, reaching out with a hand to block your first blow.
Building up charge. You wrench yourself to the side at the last moment, whistling by her outstretched hand. There's a muffled thump and the air in front of her fingers
ripples, distorted by the force she projects.
You roll to your feet, twirling the knife in your fingers. She smiles as she turns on you, her foot pounding rhythmically against the train again. Waiting for you.
You take a deep breath and force down the eagerness that rises to meet her smile, that suicidal pride that Augur has lectured you for so many times. It's different now. You are no longer the only choice for Oriole – your every moment must be dedicated to earning back that certainty that you had for so long taken for granted. There is work to be done, and it must be flawlessly.
In, out. In, out. The breathing settles you. You're content to wait. Amy is already packing enough force to break half the bones in your body with a touch – let her build up more. She's too dangerous to charge in on recklessly. You'll need to be certain that you can end this before you get within range of her hands again. A single exchange of blows is already more than you can afford. This is not a frenzied back and forth, a back-alley brawl where carelessness can be forgiven. This is the moment before the cut, in the samurai movie, the instant before the draw in a showdown at high noon.
Amy speaks, raising her voice to be heard over the rushing wind. "Not much of a talker, are you?" She asks, taking a few hesitant steps forward. She has all the power here, but still she steps hesitantly. You're a teenager with a knife, and she's a grown woman with the power to make physics her bitch, but still she steps hesitantly.
She is nervous, you realize. The wind whips her hair against her face and though her eyes don't move from you she cringes somewhat, trying stop her hair from impairing her vision. She has all the power, but beneath it she is human as you. As vulnerable as you.
"Would you prefer I banter?" The other knife is still in her shoulder. It must hurt like a bitch, but she doesn't seem to feel it. Adrenaline will help with that, but not entirely. She's used to pain. Knows how to endure it. Training...or a general familiarity with violence. The KMA doesn't like training assets itself, so she must've proven herself with another outfit before getting the spot.
Amy shakes her head ever so slightly. "I'm not really the bantering type." And yet she continues to talk. "The longer this takes, the more likely it is one of my boys guts your friend."
You toss the knife from one hand to the other, and her eyes follow the glint of the blade back and forth, back and forth. "Dissent can take care of herself." Why is she talking? Some people like the chatter, use it to vent the frustration and anxiety that arises in the middle of a fight, but you don't think that's her. Those types tend to ramble, to babble, to say the first thought that comes into their heads. Amy's words are too slow. Too calculated.
"Are you sure about that? Or do you just not want to think about what will happen to her when she-"
You tune Amy out as easily as flipping the channel. You still hear her, but as long as she's going to pull such juvenile tricks you're happy to let the words go in one ear and out the other. Another step forward. She's still talking, and not very well. You can see the concentration in her face, pulling her muscles taut even as she tries to feign amusement. No, this isn't her usual method of operation. It's a play, and one she's not entirely comfortable with.
Why? She steps forward again, shrinking the distance between the two of you. You're out over the river now, open water barely illuminated by silvery moonlight. She's close now. Only a few more steps separate you from her. You want more distance, more time, but to take a step back now would tell her that you were scared, and you have no doubt she'd pounce. She wants to see fear, needs to be in control.
Control. Your head jerks and she rocks, as if expecting more movement. She had brought two dozen KMA agents to deal with Dissent. Lured her into a killbox where she could have a sniper watching her at all times. Still bothered to poison her, and waited for that poison to take effect. Didn't hesitate for a moment when the plan blew up – ran for the edge immediately. Knew exactly where the high line was. Knew exactly when the train would be coming. It's about control. As much as she can have over the situation.
Such a human need. But taking that from her is only the first step. The high line reaches land again and New York whizzes by around you, transitioning quickly from the overpriced bars and diners that infest the riverside to massive, gleaming skyscrapers. A moment later those are gone, replaced by dilapidated high rises. New York is a patchwork city, each new development woven into the existing pattern with no care for what adjoins it. It finds its identity somewhere deep within that chaos and unpredictability.
You will have to do so as well. Amy takes another step forward. No more time.
"Augur," you say, loud enough for Amy to hear clearly. "Stop the train."
Steel screeches, a high keening cry into the night. Amy's eyes widen as the train begins grinding to a halt. Her escape route, compromised. Her control, shattered. If only for a moment.
A moment is all it will take. You dash forward, low, reverse grip on the knife. Amy flails wildly, fighting the lurch of the rapidly slowing train, trying to get into position to counter your attack. You come within range of her hands and they snake towards you, the air already rippling around them. You surge upwards and swing the knife hard.
Her finger finds the blade. You can feel the force of the blow travel up your arm, jarring your shoulder. The steel of the knife flexes, flexes, flexes – and then suddenly shatters into a hundred splinters which are carried away by the night. You can see the triumph in Amy's eyes. She has you. She slams her foot against the train again.
Your flashlight springs to life, a high powered flash directly to her face. It's not the laser pointer intensity you directed at the sniper earlier tonight, but it's enough to blind her temporarily, stop her from connecting with you as you pivot and fall past her. Your right hand finds the handle of Dissent's knife, still lodged deep in Amy's shoulder. You pull, fingers dancing along the length of the hilt. It comes free with a sick squelch, flinging droplets of blood in a high arc, and you toss the weapon back behind your head, reaching out with your left hand until you can feel the grip against your fingers.
You clench your fist, seizing the knife mid-tumble, and drive the blade into Amy's throat.
She gasps. Steady. STEADY. A single movement will kill her and she knows it. The train has stopped completely, and you can hear the confused shouts of its passengers, but right now you only have eyes for Amy.
Her face is raw, human panic. No control. "You need medical attention," you whisper, voice still ragged from adrenaline. "Only I can give it to you. You understand?"
She cannot speak her assent. Cannot nod her head. But she says yes all the same.
*
By the time you return to the Hell's Kitchen bar where your chase began, Dissent is laid out on a paramedic's stretcher throwing curse words at anyone who jostles her IV.
"Cardinal!" She says as you approach. Her words are slurred, but the southern drawl is back – not quite as strong as when she dons her costume, but noticeably stronger than when she talks to you as Charlotte. "Did ya get the bitch?"
"She's in police custody." You look Dissent up and down, checking for serious injuries, and though her body is a Pollock of cuts and bruises, you don't see anything that sticks out as truly life threatening. She will be recovering though – for weeks, if not longer. "You did alright for yourself, it looks like."
"Thank Christ." Her head lolls backwards – the slow, liquid movements of someone pumped full of painkillers - and gives you a lazy smile. "Makes all the...gettin' the tar kicked outta ya...kinda worth it, huh? When it means ya...really nail 'em?"
"That's why we do it." You can't help but think of what Amy had said, back on that rooftop. The bounty on Charlotte's head – so much money for one girl. "Listen, Dissent,"
"Nah, nah," Dissent waves you off. "Not doin too much a' that right now...hey, Cardinal, tell me somethin." Her eyelids flutter, then close, but she is not yet asleep. "Why're ya out here?"
You frown beneath your mask, disengage one gauntlet. It comes off your arm with the click and whirr of a dozen different mechanisms working in concert, and you press the back of your hand to Charlotte's forehead. No fever. "What are you talking about?"
If she notices your hand at all, she doesn't react to it. "I mean why do you keep
doin' this?" She says. "I saw you on the news...while I was in that cell...hit by a truck...you ain't like me. Ain't got the…" she gestures vaguely at herself. "I just wanted to...just thought I might...pick your brain a lil, you know?"
"I really don't. Dissent, you're on a lot of drugs right now, I think it would be better if we did this a little la-"
She reaches up and grabs your hand, which you realize is still on her forehead. Her grip is weak, but you don't pull away. "Hit by a truck," she says again, "came right back...what made ya think...anythin' about tonight...would be different from the last?"
{} Dissent is trying to give you Influence. Since you already hold influence over her, you will instead shift one of her labels (Danger/Savior/Freak/Superior/Mundane) up and another down.
[] "Because I'll make it different."
+Savior; -Mundane
[] "Because I won't let the city stop me."
+Danger; -Savior
[] "Because I'm going to be Oriole."
+Superior; -Danger
{} The following question is deliberately vague - it's up to you to interpret and answer as you see fit.
Do you see Dissent as an equal?
[] Yes
[] No
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