Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[tenchi96]

Or maybe it was the Stranger than Lisa mentioned.

Click to shrink...

The Stranger she mentioned is one of the captives.
While she may have been turned, I think it unlikely, given the purpose of the captives there.

 

[nobodez]

Excellent chapter, and I'm looking forward to it popping up in the votes again.

 

[Starfox5]

Gah, cliffhanger! Good setup, and a nice series of scenes with Gordon.

 

[webxro]

"May I have the room for an hour?"

"Wait." That was Hanran. "You're going to - ?"

Director Walsh cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, let's give her the room."

"Except for my orderly," I stated. "He can stay, if you don't mind."

Click to shrink...

Is there a sticky fingers situation implied here ? Or something ? Or am i the only one seeing it ?

 

[Ack]

Is there a sticky fingers situation implied here ? Or something ? Or am i the only one seeing it ?

Click to shrink...

Hanran is asking if Taylor's going to figure out which dossiers match up all by herself, rather than brainstorming with the rest of them. Walsh, having consulted with Rankine, is saying 'yes, she is'.

 

[Potato Nose]

The Stranger she mentioned is one of the captives.
While she may have been turned, I think it unlikely, given the purpose of the captives there.

Click to shrink...

Unless Valefor is already there.

 

[Ack]

Unless Valefor is already there.

Click to shrink...

Unlikely.

The current date is 17 years before canon. Valefor was capable, at that time, of masquerading as a teenage girl.

 

[Potato Nose]

Unlikely.

The current date is 17 years before canon. Valefor was capable, at that time, of masquerading as a teenage girl.

Click to shrink...

Ah. Well, having been to Vegas, trust me when I say you'd be surprised what a determined drag queen can accomplish with their appearances, but I will concede the unlikeliness.

 

[cosoco]

So, Lisa can make Taylor feel tired on command?

 

[Ack]

So, Lisa can make Taylor feel tired on command?

Click to shrink...

She was desperately trying to get Taylor to drop into communication mode; the feeling of tiredness was how it translated.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-2: Out of the Frying Pan​

Saturday, June 11, 1994
The Compound

Kari Schultz buried her face in the thin, hard pillow and tried hard not to sob audibly. Smasher was 'visiting' Joanne in the next cubicle; Kari folded the pillow around her head so she didn't have to hear the noises. Tears stung her eyes and she hunched around her misery. Even as she tried to get more comfortable, the leather cuff around her right ankle pulled tight, reminding her once again of her captivity.

Despite her own personal troubles, one thought kept intruding. Oh god, I hope Mom's okay.

Behind her, the door opened.

-ooo-​

Monday, May 16, 1994
A Small Town in Texas

"Theeere we go." Kari helped her mother settle her legs into the wheelchair. "Comfy, Mom?"

"Yes, dear." Kari's mother, both legs paralysed from the accident that had killed her husband, smiled up at her daughter. "Thank you. You're such a help."

"You're my mom. I'm not about to leave you on your own." Kari planted a kiss on top of her mother's head, then took the handles of the wheelchair.

"Your father would be so proud to see how you've stepped up," her mother insisted.

"I'm just doing what needs to be done." Kari pushed the wheelchair out of the bedroom, into the living room, and through to the kitchen. With her mother at the table, they chatted as she cooked breakfast. Her mother was right; she had been a typical teen before the accident. Before … well, before.

But now she was getting better and better at cooking. Responsibility was now something that came naturally to her; checking her mother for bedsores, helping her in and out of the tub, in and out of bed, it was all now part of her daily routine. This was not the life she would have chosen for herself a year ago, but it was the one she had.

If only Dad was still here …

-ooo-​

The car accident had been such a stupid thing. A patch of oil on the road plus a passing car swerving too close had caused her father to lose control of the vehicle. The car had gone off the embankment, rolling over several times. Kari must have bumped her head, because she came to a few minutes later. She was at a weird angle, with part of the roof pressing down on her. Ominously, there was no movement, no noise from the front seats. She had called out to her parents; there was no reply.

And then she smelt gasoline, the thick vapours making her cough and gag.

That was when she panicked. She had struggled, screaming, desperate to get out, to survive, to get away. With her bare hands, she had torn at the metal imprisoning her. Her nails tore, her skin bruised, but she was no closer to getting out. I'm going to die here.

And then, it all changed. The metal curled away at her touch, stretching and tearing like wet newspaper. She wrenched herself free of the seat-belt, climbed out of the hole she had made. Staring at her hands, uncomprehending. How did I do that?

She had torn open the car to get her parents free. Unable to drag them up the embankment, unsure if they were even alive, she had hauled them as far as she was able away from the car, in case it caught fire or exploded or something. Then she had scrambled up to the road and flagged down the first car to happen by.

Her mother lived, paralysed from the waist down. Her father had died at some point between the crash and help getting there; she was haunted by the idea that had she been with him, had she known first aid, she might have kept him alive long enough for proper medical attention to save him.

-ooo-​

The phone rang, jolting her from her reverie. Looking down, she saw that the eggs were done. "Here, Mom," she said, putting the pan on the table. "Can you serve these out? I'll get the phone."

Dashing across the room, she grabbed the receiver before it stopped ringing. "Hello?"

"Hello? Am I speaking to Kari Schultz?"

"Yes, you are," she replied warily. "Who is this?"

"I represent a businessman who would like to speak to you about hiring your services -"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no." Kari took a deep breath. "Ever since it came out that I've got powers, you – you parasites have been on me to use them in one way or another. I don't want to. In fact, I wish I'd never gotten powers at all. They've been nothing but a burden to me. First the news, then the would-be superheroes, then you people. I wish you'd all just go away."

"But there is quite a substantial amount of money on offer here. Your mother's medical bills -"

"- are paid for. We have insurance. Now leave me alone." She didn't quite slam the phone down, but she did put it down with more force than strictly necessary.

"Another one, dear?" Her mother looked up at her mildly as she got back to the table. "What was it this time?"

"A 'businessman' with a 'substantial offer'." Kari took a deep breath, then another. "Pretty sure it was something illegal."

"Probably." Her mother smiled at her. "I got a call like that while you were at the store the other day. I told them that I was recording the call. You've never heard anyone hang up so quickly."

"Huh. Maybe I should do that too." Kari took a forkful of egg. "At least the PRT were nice enough to leave me alone after I told them that no, I didn't want to be in the Wards."

"You know," her mother mused, "you could do a great deal of good -"

"I already do a great deal of good," Kari told her. "Right here. With you. I don't want to be a superhero. I want to be your hero."

"And you are, sweetie. You are."

-ooo-​

They finished breakfast and Kari washed up, then checked the fridge. "Just going to the store to get some milk and the newspaper," she reported to her mother, who was now knitting while watching TV. "Anything else I should get while I'm there?"

"Some fruit would be nice, dear," her mother said. "And I think we're almost out of toilet paper."

"I'll get another few rolls," Kari decided, scribbling on the back of an envelope. "Toilet … paper."

It was only a few blocks to the store; in the sleepy West Texas town where she lived, it was only a few blocks to go anywhere. Kari enjoyed the exercise, swinging out her arms and enjoying the brisk morning breeze. The town was small enough that everyone knew most everyone else, and so she drew waves and smiles from people as she made her way down the pavement. She had drawn a certain amount of notoriety when her powers first became known, but given that she didn't make a big deal of it, public perception of her soon changed from 'Kari, who's got powers' to 'Kari, who's helping her mother'.

"Kari!" It was a child's voice; she turned around to see Johnny and Lisa running toward her. Johnny was ten and his sister Lisa was eight; she had baby-sat them more than once. They were good kids, if a bit excitable.

"Hey, guys," she greeted them. "How's things?"

"Great!" Johnny enthused. "Hey, Kari, can you do your trick with this?" He held out a large metal washer.

"Yeah, do your trick," Lisa urged.

Inwardly, Kari sighed. She had given in to the temptation to show off to the younger kids a few times, and now they wouldn't leave her alone about it. They were worse than the people making the phone calls in a way, but at least with the kids she knew what they wanted.

"Sorry." She shook her head. "I don't do that any more."

"Just once?" wheedled Lisa. "Pleeeeze?" She looked up at Kari with an amazingly pitiful lost-puppy expression.

Kari sighed. "No. Sorry. Just leave it alone, all right?" If I do it this time, they'll keep coming back.

"Okay," Johnny agreed. "Come on, Lisa."

Reluctantly, the two children headed off down the street. Faintly, she head the boy saying, "See, I told you it wouldn't work …"

Shaking her head just a little, Kari went into the general store and spent the next few minutes picking out her purchases. The guy behind the counter barely paid any attention to her as he rang it up and made change out of the money she handed him, for which she was grateful. I could go the next month without hearing about my powers, and I'd be glad of it.

Back on the street, she struck out for home, already planning the day ahead. Once she had the groceries in the fridge and her chores done, she would settle down and do the home-schooling material that she had been sent. She could really be attending the local middle school, but she didn't like the idea of leaving her mother alone for any length of time.

Engrossed in her thoughts as she was, she barely noticed the van that slowed as it approached her. It pulled over as she passed by, then a voice called out. "Excuse me, kid, can you help me?"

Stopping, she turned around, to see a man leaning out of the passenger side window of the van. "Uh yeah, sure. What's up?"

The man did a picture-perfect double-take. "Wait, are you that Schultz kid? The one with the powers?"

Her lips tightened. "So what if I am? I don't use them. Now, did you need a hand or can I go now?"

For an answer, the rear doors of the van burst open and two large, burly men burst out. Before she knew quite what was happening, they grabbed her. One slapped a bunched up cloth over her face; the acrid smell made her head spin. The other pulled a bag over her head. She tried to struggle, tried to scream, but to no avail. Her head began to swim; the last thing she registered before passing out altogether was the sensation of being dragged into the van.

-ooo-​

Wakefulness returned slowly. She blinked her way to full awareness, looking around muzzily. For a long moment, she thought that she had overslept, that her mother was waiting on her. But the room was wrong, the bed was uncomfortable and the shift she wore was thin and scratchy, totally unlike the flannel pyjamas she preferred.

And then she became aware of the people standing in the room. Men. Total strangers. Looking down at her. She screamed and tried to scramble back up the bed, dragging the thin sheet with her. However, halfway there, something fastened around her right ankle pulled her to a sudden halt. A rope, stretching from beneath the sheet to one post of the cot, had gone taut, preventing her from retreating any farther. With another scream, she cowered, pulling the sheet up and doing her best to cover herself with it.

"Shut up." It was the man standing at the forefront of the group who spoke. His voice was deep, resonant and harsh. He had features to match; hard, rawboned, uncompromising.

When she didn't stop screaming, he stepped forward and slapped her twice across the face. His hand was large and work-roughened; it jolted her face from side to side. Her ears rang with the impacts and she stopped screaming, if only to try to figure out which way was up. A coppery taste in her mouth told her that she had bitten her lip when he hit her.

"Good." His tone never changed. "Now stay quiet."

Her eyes wide, she cringed away from him. The last time she had been struck was when her father paddled her for stealing cookies. That had been six years ago, when she was eight years old. Nobody had ever hit her in the face before, much less an adult man.

"What – what do you want?" she whimpered. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

"You're here because you've got powers." Her cheeks were stinging now. She thought she could feel a trickle of blood from her nose. But that was nothing to the sense of shock at his statement.

"What? This is because of my powers?"

He nodded, once. "Yes."

This was making no sense at all. "But … my powers aren't that great. And I don't use them. Not for anyone. Not for any amount of money. If you know who I am, then you know that."

His face twisted and for a moment, she thought he was angry, that he was going to hit her again. And then she realised that the grimace was what he used for a smile. She wished he wouldn't; it was worse than his ordinary expression. "You're not here to use your powers, girl."

"I … what?"

"I'm not stupid enough to think that you'd use your powers for our cause. You don't see the Truth, after all." His expression was of one viewing a holy revelation. It was possibly worse than the smile. "But your children will. They'll be raised in it."

She almost choked on the word. "Ch … children?" It took her a long moment to realise the implications of what he was saying. When she did, she wanted to throw up. "No. No. No. Please, no."

Turning away from her, ignoring her words as if she were just an object, a thing, the rawboned man looked at the three other men in the room. For the first time, she realised that they wore costumes, or at least masks. Trying to ignore her terror of what had been intimated was going to happen to her, she focused on them.

The first was a man of average height and build. He wore a costume that was yellow around the hands and arms, fading to a greyish-black for the rest of it. Despite the domino mask he wore, the look he gave her would have made her skin crawl if she hadn't been already terrified.

The second was a head taller than everyone else in the room; his build suggested a body-builder or weightlifter. His skin tone suggested stone rather than flesh, he had no hair, and his eyes were deep-set red orbs. He wore a sleeveless black shirt and long pants; there was a white fist crudely stencilled on the front of the shirt. There was no expression on his face as he looked at Kari.

The last of the three was a teenager, as far as she could tell. She couldn't see his face or hair, but from his short sleeves, she could tell he had swarthy skin. His expression was hidden behind a full-face mask, striped in black and yellow. His costume also had black and yellow stripes over it. This should have had the effect of making him look vaguely comical or clownish, but somehow they just made him look sinister.

"Well, gentlemen," the man stated. "Which of you will take her on?"

"For God's sake," she screamed, getting her voice back. "I'm only fourteen!"

A second later, her ears rang all over again as her head rocked back from another slap.

"You will speak only when spoken to," warned the man. "My name is Hadrian Lange. You will address me as 'Mr Lange' or 'sir'. Preferably, you will not address me at all." Taking a hold of her shoulder-length blonde hair, he pulled her head back until they were eye to eye. "Do you understand? Say 'yes, Mr Lange, sir'."

Blinking the tears of pain from her eyes, she managed to croak, "Yes, Mr Lange, sir." More blood was in her mouth; she wasn't sure that one of her teeth hadn't been loosened.

"Good," he purred. "You can learn after all." Stepping back, he gestured to her while looking at the men. "So, which of you wants to break her in?"

The big man with the stonelike skin shook his head. "Not me. I'd kill her. You don't want that." His voice was understandably deep, but quite human. He turned and trod from the room, his steps making the floor shake.

There was a long silence, then Lange looked at the other two. "Quite right. Well, that leaves you two. Anyone?"

Terrified, Kari stared at the costumed men, willing them to retreat as the big one had done. Maybe if nobody wants to -

"Well then," Lange decided briskly, "if neither of you is up to the task, I'll do it. You two can wait outside." He began to unbuckle his belt.

"Me!" blurted the younger of the two remaining parahumans. "I'll do it. I'll, uh, I'll break her in." His accent was definitely Mexican.

Lange paused and looked over at the teenager. "Really?" One eyebrow raised. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

The kid pushed his chest out slightly. "A year ago, mi papi was beaten to death before my eyes. Then I got my powers and killed the man who did it. Si, I can do it, jefe."

"One man, junior?" asked the other parahuman. "Chump change. Ever murdered a busload of nuns?"

"What, you have -?" began the boy.

"Hah, nah. But I always wanted to." The older man chuckled. "I went to a Catholic school. I fuckin' hate nuns."

Lange slapped the man on the shoulder. "You'll probably get your chance, Sunstrike. But now I think we should leave Aguijón alone to get acquainted with the girl. You know how young love is."

"Maybe we should stay and make sure he does the job right," Sunstrike suggested.

Aguijón muttered something in Spanish that Sunstrike apparently understood, because he flushed slightly. "You want to say that again, junior?" he asked. The room darkened slightly, while a glow built around his hands.

"Now, let's not fight," Lange interjected. "Sunstrike, let's go." He turned to Aguijón. "Remember, no metal gets near her."

They went out together; the door closed behind them. Kari looked at the boy called Aguijón.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, please, please. Don't do this. I'm begging you."

Slowly, he pulled off the mask. He wasn't quite as young as she had thought, but he was still only a few years older than her, seventeen or eighteen at most. The look around his eyes, though … going by that, he could have been decades older. "I didn't know what to do," he confessed slowly. "He is my jefe. But I couldn't let them just … do that to you. So I told them I would do it."

"Please, don't," she repeated.

"I don't want to do it," he blurted. "I don't want them to do it, either."

"Then don't," she insisted. "Please."

"I … will not," he assured her. "But I don't know how long the jefe's patience will last."

He sat down on the side of the cot; she cringed away from him.

"I won't hurt you," he said, carefully picking his words. "What is your name?"

"Kari," she whispered. "Kari Schultz."

He nodded solemnly. "I am Roberto. Roberto Garcia."

She took a deep breath. "Why are you with these people?"

-ooo-​

Tuesday, July 20, 1993
Not Far North of the Mexican Border

"'Berto!" shouted his father in Spanish. "Get out here, you lazy lout! The truck is almost here!"

Roberto hastened to obey, jumping up from in front of the antiquated TV set and running outside. "Have you seen the news, Dad?" he asked in the same language as he joined him at the side of the road.

"Will the news help us pick fruit any faster?" his father said harshly.

"No, but it was about superheroes fighting -"

"Superheroes!" The elder Garcia spat expertly into the dust. "Do they come and help us pick our crops? No. Do they stop pigs like Jenkinson from stealing our wages and giving us barely enough to eat and drink while we pick his fruit? No. I piss on them!"

"I think this is serious," Roberto insisted. "It was that monster. It's back. They were fighting it."

"What monster?" asked his father.

"The one that the heroes fought in Iran, or wherever it was, back in December. It came back, but this time in Sao Paulo."

"I do not believe that this thing is true," his father muttered. "The heroes made it up so that we would worship them some more." He shaded his eyes as a rattling noise became audible in the distance. "Here comes the truck."

"No, it is real, I am sure of it. It's as tall as three houses, one on top of the other. It killed heroes like you or I would swat a fly." To illustrate, Roberto slapped a horsefly that had landed on his arm, then wiped off the mess on his shirt.

"Unless it wants to come here and swat Jenkinson like a fly, or help us pick the fruit, then I don't care." The truck pulled up alongside and Roberto's father swung aboard, then extended an arm for his son to clamber up as well. "Now, I don't want to hear any more of it."

But Roberto could not help thinking about the creature that they called el Gigante. It had been so huge, so terrifying, so unstoppable. What does it mean?

-ooo-​

Roberto was just six paces behind the old man he knew only as Hernandez when the latter stumbled, then collapsed. His basket fell to the ground, the freshly-picked cherries spilling in the dust.

"Hey," Roberto said. "You okay, senór?" Setting his own basket down, he started forward. However, he had only just knelt down beside Hernandez before a large hand seized upon his shoulder.

"Get back to work, you lazy little shit," growled the rough voice of Jenkinson, the work overseer. "And you, Pancho, get up. No lying down on the job here."

"I think he is not -" Roberto got no farther before he was physically pushed back, to sprawl on the ground. The breath was knocked out of him and he struggled to focus.

"You don't give me any lip, kid," Jenkinson told him, "and you get no trouble. Now, I already told you to get back to work once."

"Hoy!" Roberto recognised his father's voice; a vague shape stepped past him to confront Jenkinson. "You don't touch mi hijo, cabrón!"

From the way Jenkinson's breath sucked in, he obviously recognised the word, or perhaps he just knew that he'd been insulted without understanding the specifics. Either way, he lashed out with a slap that rocked Garcia's head to one side.

Roberto's father was no brawler, but one did not make the trip north to the United States, or survive in the fruit picking trade, without having a certain amount of toughness. He shook his head and shoved Jenkinson, hard. Then he spat in his face.

Roberto was just climbing to his feet when Jenkinson came forward again. This time, the overseer's fists were clenched and there was blood in his eye. His first punch caught Roberto's father in the gut; as the man folded, Jenkinson smashed him in the face with the second. Garcia staggered, but Jenkinson wasn't done yet. He grabbed the Mexican by his shirt-front and pounded blow after blow into his face and body.

"Papi!" Roberto started forward, but a casual back-hand from Jenkinson lifted him off his feet and landed him across his own basket; wicker splintered and cherries squashed beneath him. His head rang and he tasted blood in his mouth.

It was only vaguely that he could focus on what was happening before him; his father seemed to have recovered a little and was struggling with Jenkinson. But the overseer was a big man, stronger than Garcia, and far more versed in brawling. All Roberto could hear were the heavy punishing blows, like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef.

By the time his head cleared, it was all over; Jenkinson stood, Roberto's father hanging limply by his shirt-front, still clenched in the overseer's large fist. With a contemptuous motion, Jenkinson tossed Roberto's father down so that he landed beside his son. "Get him up and working," he sneered. "Or you both go without pay."

Painfully, Roberto rolled over and shook his father. "Dad," he whispered in Spanish. "Dad. Wake up." The elder Garcia didn't respond; his head lolled limply from side to side. Roberto gagged to see the blood that coated his face and chest. "Dad," he repeated, more loudly.

It was then that he realised that his father's chest was not rising and falling, that he could not hear breathing. Getting up on his knees, he shook his father again. "Dad? Wake up!"

Holding his ear over the elder Garcia's mouth, he could not hear breathing, nor feel the warmth of expelled air. "Dad? No! Dad!"

In that moment, Roberto's world came crashing down around him. His father had been the pillar of strength in his life, the mainstay around which all else had revolved. When his mother had died of the coughing sickness, his father had nursed her for days on end, had dug the grave with his own hands, had laid her to rest and dried Roberto's tears. When Roberto had thought he could not go on, his father had been there to be strong for him. And now he was dead.

He blinked, and the world changed. When he opened his eyes, Jenkinson was standing over them both. Reaching down, the big man took ahold of Roberto's hair and lifted him to his feet with main force. "I said, get him -"

He never saw it coming. With a scream of loss and anger, Roberto lifted both his hands, now liberally bedaubed with his father's blood, and sent a stream of … of things streaking from them into Jenkinson's face. They were small and looked as though they were coloured in black and yellow, so a small corner of his mind dubbed them 'bees'.

When they struck the overseer, the effect was as though he had been stung by bees in truth. The tiny projectiles disappeared as they hit, but each one left a bloody pockmark about the size of the end of Roberto's finger. Just one would not have done much damage. But he wasn't dealing with just one.

Jenkinson's scream was music to Roberto's ears. He let go Roberto's hair and stumbled back, his hands going to his face. Already, the brutal features were a bloody mess; Roberto was fairly sure that his left eye had already burst, the clear stuff inside dribbling down his cheek.

Roberto remained where he was, but the 'bees' kept coming, streaming from his fingertips, blasting toward Jenkinson. The backs of the overseer's hands were pocked in their turn, then Roberto directed his attack toward the overseer's throat. Each projectile tore out another tiny piece of flesh; Jenkinson tried to defend himself, but he didn't have enough hands for the job. So he turned and ran.

That didn't save him. The 'bees' followed him, veering around other people at a thought, ripping into his back, into the back of his neck and his buttocks. The rugged work clothes that the bigger man wore didn't protect him for more than a moment; as the flesh of his face had been shredded, so was the tough cloth.

Roberto could have run after him, but he didn't. Instead, he had the 'bees' swarm around his enemy, forming a tighter and tighter swirling mass, with Jenkinson at the centre. The other workers were staring, some backing off, as Roberto generated more and more of the tiny yellow and black objects.

Jenkinson may have tried to scream, but no more than a horrid gurgle came out, just before the 'bees' entered his mouth. He staggered and fell then, apparently unable to keep going. Roberto kept up the attack, only ceasing when it was abundantly clear that the man was dead. In fact, while it was just barely possible to determine that the remains had once been a human being, anyone but a forensic pathologist would be hard put to identify who he actually was.

The last of the tiny projectiles hit the mound of dead flesh, created one last pockmark and disappeared. Roberto looked at what was left of Jenkinson; for the first time, as the rage ebbed, he truly looked at what his newfound powers had done to what had been, moments before, a living person.

He fell to his knees and vomited. Up came his breakfast, as well as the few crusts of bread that he'd had on the truck and the half-dozen cherries that he had popped into his mouth when Jenkinson was looking the other way. He heaved, throwing up everything in his stomach, gagging on the bile, until nothing was left to bring up.

As he subsided, panting, there was a light touch on his shoulder. He looked around, face still wet with the tears that had run unheeded down his cheeks even as he directed the deadly attack against Jenkinson.

Jorge, one of the other workers, took a cautious step back. "You should go," he said diffidently in Spanish.

Roberto spat to clear his mouth. "I can't," he replied in the same language. "I have to – my Dad -"

"We will see that he is buried properly," Jorge assured him. "But you must go. You have killed an American on American soil. They do not forgive things like that."

"But he killed my Dad!" protested Roberto.

"It does not matter." Jorge's words were now in English, forcing Roberto to concentrate on what he was saying. "When the gringos find out about you, they will bring soldiers to capture you. If they do not kill you, they will send you to prison. You should go. Hide. Change your name."

"You will see that mi papi is buried well?"

Jorge nodded. "I will. We were friends for a long time."

Carefully, Roberto stood up. "Where should I go?"

"I cannot say." Jorge shrugged. "South, the gringos will not be able to follow you over the border. But the cartels will want you to work for them. North, you may be able to hide. But you will need dinero, or else you will be dependent on others."

Roberto spat again, away from Jorge so as not to insult the man. A few of the 'bees' erupted from his fingertip, flew around his head, then vanished. "With these I could get dinero."

"You would be what the gringos call a 'super-villain' then?" Jorge gave the term care in its pronunciation. "Using your powers for crime? Breaking the law?"

"Why not?" Roberto was speaking Spanish again, his words fast and angry. "An American killed my Dad. They would arrest me for killing him. Their laws did not do anything to help us in the conditions that Jenkinson had us working in. I invite them to go fuck themselves."

Jorge's nod was slow, non-judgemental. "It is not what I would do, but then, I have not just had my father killed. Go. We will be as stupid and uncomprehending as any group of ignorant workers could be. None of them will learn from us that you have gone north."

Taking the few steps to stand at his father's side, Roberto looked down at the still form. A vast and yawning gulf separated him from the man now, almost as wide as that which separated Roberto from the boy he had been just minutes before. It passed through his mind that the change in his life was absolute; never more would things be the same for him.

Kneeling down, he passed his hand over his father's face, not so much to close the already-shut eyes, but to achieve one last contact with normality. "Vaya con Dios, papi," he whispered.

Standing, he turned, started toward the road leading out of the cherry orchard. Wordlessly, one man stepped up to him, offered a scratched and battered plastic bottle full of water. A woman handed over a cloth bundle that smelled of bread. He reached into a basket and took out a handful of cherries, adding it to the bundle.

Jorge caught up with him, walked alongside for a moment. "I just wanted to wish you good luck," he told Roberto. "And that if you hadn't killed Jenkinson, I probably would have broken a stick over his head sooner or later anyway. That man was a swine."

"That's being insulting to swine." The reply was almost automatic.

"True." Jorge huffed a laugh. "Just remember, if you are going to be a super-villain, you will need to cover your face and make up a name for them to know you by."

"I know." Truth be told, Roberto hadn't thought anything of it up until now, but the fact was indeed self-evident. "And thank you."

He walked on, out toward the main road. Absently, he ate a cherry, spitting out the stone. I will be a villain, he told himself. Thinking back to the yellow-and-black 'bees', he mulled over names. Hive? No. Swarm? No. It took him quite a while to come up with one that he liked.

-ooo-​

March 26, 1994
New York City

"Name?" The PRT officer wasn't quite bored, but he wasn't looking overly enthusiastic either.

Roberto cleared his throat. "My name is Aguijón."

"Agi-hon?" The officer frowned. "How do you spell that?"

Letter by letter, Roberto spelled it out. "It means 'stinger'."

"As in missile?"

"As in bee, senór."

"Ah. Right. Okay, yeah, I've got you here in the database." The PRT officer tapped keys. "Says here that you're a Blaster four. Well, let me tell you this now, Aguijon," he said, managing to mangle the name only slightly, "your power's gonna do exactly squat against the big guy. What's your range?"

"If I can see it, I can hit it," Roberto said; honesty forced him to add, "eventually. But I can make my attack move to hit a moving target. Dodging does not help. And with time I can create a moving, uh, cloud. Make it hard for the monster to see."

The PRT man shrugged. "Couldn't hurt. Just try not to hit anyone but the Behemoth, okay?"

Roberto nodded seriously. "I will try."

He was still not sure what impulse had caused him to volunteer to join the fight when word came out that the Behemoth was due to hit New York. Part of him still remembered the dread that he had felt the morning that his father had died. Deep within him, some part of him still connected El Gigante with his father's death.

I must see the monster with my own eyes, he told himself. I must know if it is truly that terrifying.

-ooo-​

Three hours later, he knew.

He had tried; God alone knew how hard he had tried. But his biggest mass attack had counted as nothing against the unearthly hide of the monstrous creature. Swarming them around its head had done nothing to impair its knowledge of where its foes were, and had several times come close to striking airborne allies. So he was reduced to helping others.

Not that this was any easy task. Fire was everywhere, rubble littered the pavement, and Roberto thought that his ears might be bleeding from the intensity of the shattering noise produced by the monster. Along with some other low-powered parahumans, he had fallen back to 112th Street when the Behemoth had broken through the cordon. They had tried to do this in a measured and disciplined fashion. This had not translated well in what had become a war zone.

Half a fire truck flew overhead; he ducked instinctively, even though it would have missed him anyway. Fifty feet farther on, it struck, sending pieces flying in all directions. Most of it survived to wipe out a dozen shop-fronts. He grunted as he took up the weight of the semi-conscious PRT officer who had been directing his squad; he had no idea where the rest of his squad was.

He wanted to run, very badly. Run and run and never look back. Looking into what passed for a face on the Behemoth was something he had done for a very brief moment, but that moment had been enough. The creature was that terrifying. It was that unstoppable. If it did not signify the end of the world, he wasn't sure what would.

The aid station was only another block and a half. Roberto's muscles were already screaming from the exertion, but he would not quit. This man, at least, will survive the apocalypse that has happened here.

-ooo-​

Saturday, April 9, 1994
Bremond, Texas

It was the noise of the hecklers that drew Roberto's attention. Once he got close enough to the meeting hall to read them, the crude flyers pasted to the noticeboard served to keep it.

IS THE BEHEMOTH THE HARBINGER? IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?

The words resonated to a question which had torn at him endlessly since New York, since he had begun to travel south once more, as a wounded animal will return to familiar surroundings. He pushed open the door to the hall and entered.

There were not all that many people in the crowd, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in noise. Every time the man on the stage tried to make a point, they yelled and jeered, apparently more interested in shouting him down than making points of their own. A few among them were trying to shout them down, which was only adding to the overall din.

Ten months before, he would have turned and walked away. Prior to gaining his powers, Roberto Garcia had not liked conflict. Now, he still didn't necessarily like it, but he could certainly deal with it. And he could deal it out in spades, if he had to.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his mask and donned it in one quick motion. He wanted to hear what the speaker had to say about El Gigante, so this crowd had to be quieted or moved out first. And they were unlikely to listen to Roberto Garcia, Mexican migrant fruit picker. Aguijón, on the other hand, they would listen to.

It didn't take long to work his way around the side of the hall; nobody noticed him scrambling up on to the stage. They did notice him when he walked across to stand next to the speaker, a tall rawboned man with harsh features. The man looked at him and voiced a question, but Roberto didn't hear it because of the noise.

Reaching across, he took the microphone from the man. The racket was already starting to subside when he held up his hand and spoke. "Shut the fuck up. I want to hear this."

These weren't necessarily the best words with which to start; they sparked a vocal group, right at the front, who began hurling abuse and beer cans at him. Well, he knew how to deal with that.

From his upraised hand, a swarm of his 'bees' sprang into existence. The flying beer cans were each struck by dozens of them, pockmarking the thin metal and deflecting them away from him. All except for one; that can still had most of its contents, trailing them in a thin stream as it flew at him.

The projectiles failed to deflect the can; it struck him in the forehead, beer splashing over his clothes before the can fell to the stage. He felt the pain, but it did not give him pause; it merely hardened his resolve.

From swarming before him, the tiny black and yellow projectiles darted down into the crowd. The shouts of derision turned to cries of pain as each of his 'bees' picked out someone who had thrown something. Tiny bloody pockmarks appeared on bare skin here and there. Roberto didn't know how painful it was – his 'bees' simply absorbed back into his skin when they struck him – but it certainly seemed to get their attention.

He spoke again, as the swarm built up before him. Real bees would have buzzed ominously; these were silent. Perhaps they were more frightening that way; the way those he had stung were screaming and fighting to get out of the exits, he supposed that it could be so. "As I said, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Let the man speak."

There was no more heckling, to be sure. Unfortunately, this was because there was no more crowd. The main door and both fire exits were wide open now, with people streaming out in what was only a hair short of full-blown panic. It was a good thing that there hadn't been more people in the hall; otherwise, someone may have been seriously hurt.

Silence fell as the last of them left. The tall man turned to Roberto. "Well, I suppose that's one way to do it." His voice was just as harsh as his features.

"I'm sorry." Roberto handed him back the microphone. "I just wanted them to be quiet so I could listen."

"Don't be." The man tilted his head toward backstage. "They will likely bring the authorities. I suspect you don't need that kind of attention. I doubt there were ten men there who were willing to hear what I had to say. You, on the other hand …"

The man was staring at him with a peculiar intensity; Roberto began to feel a little uncomfortable. "What?"

"You believe that the Behemoth is the herald of the end times, don't you?" The question was direct.

"I … do not disbelieve it," Roberto answered. "I was in New York. What I saw there …"

The man was leading the way through the back of the building; Roberto followed. "I would be utterly fascinated to hear the full story," the man said, and Roberto believed him. "But for now, we need to talk elsewhere." He held out his hand. "Hadrian Lange."

Roberto shook it. "Aguijón."

"It's good to meet you, Aguijón." Lange gave him another penetrating stare. "I have a plan for the end times. Parahumans like yourself feature strongly in it. Would you like to hear about it?"

He has a plan. Thank God somebody does. Roberto nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would."

-ooo-​

"Breeding parahumans?" Roberto wasn't quite sure if he'd heard right.

Lange nodded seriously. "Parahumans are the new force in the world today. If we are to survive the end times, we need as many as possible on our side. You're just the third one I've managed to recruit, after Sunstrike and Smasher." His gaze was penetrating, direct. "Becoming the father to the generation which will save our world is a huge responsibility. Are you up to it?"

Betty-Lou and Ellie-May, the two teenage girls to whom he had just been introduced, each smiled shyly at him, then giggled. He stared at them as the reality of the situation asserted itself. "You mean, I am to -"

"Yes." Lange's voice was matter-of-fact.

"And their parents -"

"Are fully on board with it," Lange assured him. He repeated his earlier words. "Are you up to it?"

Roberto swallowed; he felt that there was something off with the situation, but teenage hormones won out. "Uh, yes?"

The girls giggled again.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, May 17, 1994
The Compound

"When I found out about the other women, I was told that they were volunteers," Roberto confessed. "I only started to realise the truth a few days ago. I think Lange knows I do not like … that."

"Then help me," begged Kari. "Get me out of here."

"I can't," Roberto told her. "I am not as brutal as the others. They see me as the weak sister. If I was seen to be bringing you out, then they would stop us. They would probably kill me and recapture you."

"Then get me metal, any metal," Kari urged. "I … I don't want to use my powers, but I'll use them all day to escape here if I have to."

He took a deep breath. "I'll try. But they know about your powers, so they will be watching."

"Please." Her eyes were fixed on him. "Don't let them do this to me."

"I'll try," he said again. "But right now, I want you to scream."

"Scream?" she asked.

"Scream," he affirmed. Grabbing her hand, he twisted her wrist. She cried out in pain.

Belatedly catching on, she cried out again. "No, don't, stop!"

Letting go of her wrist, he slapped his hands together; she cried out again on cue.

-ooo-​

When Roberto let himself out of Kari's cubicle, she was sobbing quite realistically into her pillow; as far as he could tell, she wasn't really acting. He made a show of adjusting his clothes as he closed the door; turning, he saw Sunstrike chatting to the guard in the corridor.

"Huh," said the older parahuman. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Roberto sneered at him. "There's a lot you don't know about me." He let a minor swarm of 'bees' escape his hand and swirl around his head.

"Hey, just saying." Roberto knew why Sunstrike wasn't pushing the issue; the man's powers depended on ambient light, and it wasn't very bright in the corridor. "Nicely done. You know how to treat a bitch, that's for sure."

"Just so long as you stay away from her." Roberto shouldered his way past the man. "Or she won't be the only bitch around here."

"Ooh." Sunstrike mimed fear, but there was wariness in his eyes. "Fine. I got the others, anyway."

Yes, you do. For just a moment, Roberto wanted to cut loose, to kill the guard and Sunstrike, to free the prisoners. But he wouldn't succeed and he knew it. Those captives who survived would be in worse straits than ever.

He had to wait, and plan, and close his eyes to the worst of the suffering. I may be a villain, but this is monstrous. I need to save them all.

-ooo-​

Saturday, June 11, 1994
The Compound

Something odd was going on. Roberto had noticed the air of tension since breakfast. People were acting just a little strangely, as if they knew something that he didn't. The guards were a shade more tense, and he'd seen Sunstrike and Smasher in close conversation with Lange. But Lange hadn't called him over to join in the discussion, so Roberto figured that they didn't want him to know.

Whatever it was, it had to be big. But he didn't know what. And he couldn't just ask someone; to betray his ignorance when he was supposed to be one of the ones in the know would damage his image. People would look at him more closely.

On the other hand, right now they were somewhat distracted. He had a fork tucked into his sock; it had resided there for the past two days, except when he went in to visit Kari. He still didn't know how to get around the hand-held metal detector that the guard outside her room was equipped with.

This might be my chance. If they're looking the other way …

He wasn't quite sure what Kari could even do with a fork; it was cheap metal and bent easily, but she had asked for metal and so he had gotten her some metal. Now all he had to do was actually deliver it to her.

He pushed open the door to the building where the women were being kept. Every day he came here; every day it turned his stomach a little more. The main room was bright and airy, but to him it stank of squalor and degradation. For the past three weeks, he and Kari had been working to pull off the deception. He would visit her and they would make noises to suggest that the deed was being done, but all they did was talk in undertones. He hadn't even kissed her, although he desperately wanted to.

A deep and nagging guilt was burning inside him for that. He was attracted to her; of course he was. Sometimes, deep in the night, he would be struck by the temptation to actually do what Lange was expecting him to be doing with her. It wasn't as if anyone but Kari would object. And if he was gentle enough, perhaps she would want him to do it again …

As it was, he was still visiting his other 'girlfriends' as often as he thought he could manage without drawing comment. That was the only thing that allowed him to keep going, to keep him sane. But even then, there was the twinge of guilt, given that he was deceiving them in another way.

Some part of him wondered if the metal detector was just facilitating an excuse, if his real reason for not helping Kari to escape before this point was because he wanted her right there. If she remained a captive, the logic went, then maybe, possibly, she would accept her lot and let him have sex with her. But that would result in not only losing all trust she had in him, but also his own self-respect.

So he had decided to bite the bullet and help her escape. It was better than forever holding back for good reasons or bad, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Today I get her out. Maybe.

He had half a plan put together for once they had gotten out of the building, a route that might possibly get them out the front gates, given a whole heap of luck.

Nodding to the guard at the entrance to the corridor, he went to move past him. "Going to see the Schultz girl."

To his surprise, the guard – a big, beefy hillbilly type with minimal neck and less in the way upstairs than most – put up a slab of a hand against his chest. "Nope."

"What?" Roberto stared at him. "Why?" For a frozen moment, he thought that they knew about the whole thing. Chills began to chase each other up and down his spine.

"'Cause Sunstrike's in there with her. Gotta wait your turn like ev'rybody else."

The chill down his spine turned into a full-blown ice-storm in his guts. "No."

A slow, decisive nod. "Yup."

And then he heard Kari scream.

He didn't even begin to think about what he was doing. Raising his hand, he sent a blast of 'bees' into the man's face; the big guy staggered back, clutching at his ruined flesh. Roberto dashed past him, heading for Kari's cubicle. She screamed for a second time as he reached the door. It didn't open; Sunstrike had obviously slid the latch across.

Lunging forward, he threw himself at the door. The cheap particulate board gave way and he stumbled into the room. Sunstrike looked around in annoyance; he was holding down Kari with one hand and pulling the remains of her shift off with the other. His pants were around his ankles; Roberto was already seeing far more of his anatomy than he'd ever wanted to see.

"For fuck's sake, junior, I thought you had her broken in," he snapped. "She's fighting like she's never had it before."

"Leave her alone." The tiny 'bees' were boiling from Roberto's hands, forming a swirling cloud around him. "Get away from her."

"Really? You do know that we've just been giving you the chance to be the first to put a bun in her oven." Sunstrike shook his head. "Move over, kid. Time to let the adults have their turn."

"I said get away from her." Roberto took a step closer.

Sunstrike straightened up, letting Kari go; she immediately scrambled as far away from him as the leash on her ankle would allow, pulling the sheet up to cover her body. The older villain sneered at Roberto, and the room darkened abruptly. "Make me."

Fill the air between us with bees and jump sideways before he can fire, or just sting him where it'll really hurt? Roberto was suddenly aware that he faced a foe who knew his capabilities and was willing to kill him in order to get what he wanted. The one thing he knew he couldn't do was back down. If I do, then he's free to do what he wants to Kari. I won't let that happen. I have to win this.

All of this passed through his mind in a split second; he tensed, and then the radio on Sunstrike's belt crackled. "Sunstrike, Smasher, come in. It's happening now now now. Get outside!"

For a long moment, it looked as though Sunstrike was going to ignore the radio call, but then light returned to the room. The villain pulled up his pants, fastening his belt. "Gotta go." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "But next time you want to call me out … it'll be the last time."

With that, he was gone, out the door. Roberto pushed it to, suddenly aware that his knees were shaking. Droplets of sweat that he hadn't been aware of were running down his face.

"Oh god." Kari's voice was on the edge of hysteria. "Oh god."

Galvanised into action, he leaped to the side of her bed. "Are you all right? He didn't -"

"No." Her eyes were huge in her face. "But he was going to -" She burst into tears.

"Shh, shh, shh," he urged her. "Here, I got this for you." Bending, he pulled the fork from his sock.

She stared at it. "Is that -" Her hand darted out and took hold of it. "Metal! Thank you, thank you!"

As he watched, fascinated, it melted and reformed in her hand, into a short, wickedly serrated blade. Scrambling back down the bed, careful to hold the sheet over herself, she began to saw at the rope attaching her ankle cuff to the bed.

"Here, I'll help," he offered. Taking hold of the rope, he pulled it tight, to give her better purchase. With the other hand, he attacked the rope with a steady stream of his 'bees'. The nylon fibres were tough, and took their time parting; it didn't help that the knife kept losing its edge. However, between them, they had it cut in a matter of moments.

"What's going on?" she asked as she climbed off the bed. "Why did he leave?"

"I don't know," he replied, pulling off his jacket and handing it to her. She shrugged into it; he was tall for his age and she was somewhat petite, so it hung to mid-thigh on her. "They haven't told me anything."

"Well, let's go," she urged, her voice still teetering on the edge of hysteria. In her hand, the knife blade lengthened to something approximating a stiletto. "And if it looks like we can't get out … please … ?"

Unsure of what she meant, he blinked for a few seconds. She gestured with the knife at her own throat. "I don't want to live through what your boss has planned for me."

The penny dropped, but he didn't get the chance to react to the revelation. For the last minute or so, he'd been hearing the sound of a distant helicopter engine, but for one reason and another, he had not been paying a lot of attention. The room darkened dramatically, followed by the sound of an explosion. Kari and Roberto looked at each other. "Sunstrike," they said at the same time.

"If there's something going on," he went on, "this has got to be our best chance." He ducked out into the corridor, with her right behind him. There was a door that led outside, bypassing the main room, but that was always locked from the outside to prevent opportunity escapes. Unlike the flimsy cubicle doors, this one was too sturdy to easily break. So the main room it is.

With an agonised glance at the other cubicle doors – he had vowed to rescue them all, but right now was right now, and if they stopped to release the other women, they might never get away – he led the way toward the main room.

There was a tremendous BOOOM and the building rocked on its foundations. Kari screamed and clutched at Roberto; he, in turn, grabbed for the wall. As they steadied themselves, he saw her mouth moving. Although temporarily deafened, he figured that she was asking, "what was that?"

"I don't know," he replied, augmenting the words with a shrug and spread hands. Turning back toward the main room, he stumbled on, his head still ringing from the tremendous noise.

Keyed up as he was for a fight, with 'bees' swirling around his hands, he was surprised to discover that there was nobody in the room when he got there. "Come on!" he shouted. "Let's go!" As an afterthought, he gestured forward.

At his gesture, Kari darted past him into the room. To his puzzlement, she fixated on a small card table and darted toward it. What -?

And then two large hands clamped on to his shoulders and he was lifted from the floor. He barely had enough time to think - Smasher - before he was hurled across the room. Fortunately, there was a folding chair there; he hit it, knocking it over backward and bending the frame before hitting the wall. Winded, he lay there, trying to figure out which way was up and how to breathe again.

Unable even to focus enough to use his projectiles – they had all dissipated when he hit the wall – he could only watch, through blurry vision, as Smasher approached Kari. She had been busy in the few seconds since entering the room; the top of the small table now lay on the floor, as she held a lump of reforming aluminium. As he watched, it lengthened and sharpened to become a spear.

Smasher said something, but Roberto didn't quite catch it, even though his hearing was improving, as there was a burst of gunfire from outside that drowned out the villain's words. Kari, her face desperate, jabbed her improvised weapon at him. He caught it and tried to yank it from her hands; however, the metal stretched and oozed out from between his fingers like putty. In the meantime, the butt end flicked around like something alive, growing a razor-sharp blade as it did so. It slashed at Smasher's legs, but only managed to open very shallow cuts.

A look of astonishment on his face, Smasher glanced down, just as the blade made a try for his groin. He knocked it aside, then stepped up to her in one long stride. His hand wrapped around her throat. Much as he had with Roberto, he lifted her off the ground, but there seemed the distinct possibility that he would not be putting her down alive.

How he managed it, Roberto would never know. But he managed to lever himself up off the floor and lunge across the room. Leaping into the air, he clawed his way on to Smasher's back and clamped his hands over the stone-skinned man's eyes.

Then he unleashed his 'bees'.

Smasher screamed, a deep long bellow, as he released Kari and reached up to wrench Roberto's hands from his eyes. Roberto kept the swarm coming, attacking Smasher's eyes and now-open mouth, streaming up his nostrils. There was a horrible crunching, as pain lanced up both of Roberto's arms; Smasher had squeezed, breaking the bones in both hands like cheese sticks.

As he was thrown to the floor, discarded like a rag doll, Roberto tried to focus, to keep the 'bees' coming. They were still attacking Smasher as he loomed over Roberto, one massive foot raised to crush the teenager into the floorboards. But it never came down.

Gradually teetering backwards, Smasher landed on the floor with an impact quite appropriate to his name. Standing over him, Kari retracted the aluminium tentacles from his ears; she was shaking, her face white, but there was a determination, a strength, in her eyes. She killed him, Roberto realised vaguely. She stabbed him in the brain.

Boots thundered down the corridor; three of Lange's men burst into the room. Their rifles – legally-bought civilian versions of military assault weapons, reworked quite illegally to fire fully automatic – tracked in on Kari. "Drop it bitch!" yelled the first man.

"Or we drop you!" the second added, just as loudly.

The third headed for Roberto. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending a hand down to help him up.

Kari was not going to surrender, Roberto realised. She was going to make the men shoot her down. He didn't blame her in the slightest; while he hadn't been able to help the other women, and had very little idea of what they were actually going through, he still knew that he didn't want to face the same fate. Which was looming large in her future, if she lived through the next thirty seconds.

The outside door was kicked in. The man standing over Roberto brought his rifle to bear, as did one of those on Kari. The third kept his eyes, and his weapon, trained upon her. She didn't drop the metal as she also turned to look at the door.

The man who stepped inside wasn't armed; that was the only thing that saved him from being shot. His right arm dangled uselessly at his side, while his left cradled a woman, her head lolling against his chest. While he was broader than any of the other men in the room, no pipsqueaks themselves, the woman was remarkably slender, which was probably the only reason he could carry her in such a fashion. Both wore uniforms of some sort, but between the dirt, the smoke and the blood, Roberto could not make out which branch of the military they were from, let alone rank insignia.

"Hey, soldier boy," snapped one of the guards. "Turn around slow, or get shot."

The big man nodded, turning slowly to his left. As he did so, the woman's head came up. So did her right hand, which had been previously hidden by her body. In it was a small pistol. Before either Roberto or the guards could properly register that the weapon even existed, three shots sounded. All three men dropped, neat holes now decorating the bridges of their noses. The pistol swung toward Roberto, but Kari, jolted to action, shouted, "No!"

For a long moment, Roberto looked Death in the eye. As small as it was, that pistol barrel looked amazingly large to him. Then the gun was raised again. Other men, bruised and bloodied, stumbled in behind the first one; the door was slammed and a heavy chair pushed against it.

"Dios mio," marvelled Roberto. "Who are you people?"

"Captain Snow, PRT," the woman told him, in a voice made husky with pain. "This is Sergeant Kinsey." She favoured him with a dry look from behind her glasses, one lens of which was cracked. The look told him that she knew exactly how dire their situation was. It also told him that she was not one to let the odds bother her. "Congratulations. You're rescued."

End of Part 5-2

Part 5-3​

 

[Asheram]

Gods, that was uncomfortable to read. So congratulations!

 

[Starfox5]

Very dark part, but gripping and lots of action.

 

[vyor]

That got hard to read at parts.

 

[Kolejny dzień]

Wake him up and KILL HIM AGAIN!!

 

[Zackarix]

Dark, but not as dark as it could have been. It's often better to leave some things unsaid and let the reader's mind fill in the blanks.

 

[seeing_octarine]

Friday, June 11, 1994
The Compound

Click to shrink...

Should be June 10. Only caught it because I flipped back to the end of the last chapter to get my mind back into the story.

 

[Ack]

Should be June 10. Only caught it because I flipped back to the end of the last chapter to get my mind back into the story.

Click to shrink...

Actually, should be Saturday. (dammit)

 

[tenchi96]

Dark, but necessary chapter, although I must admit I missed Taylor.
I take it, with so much backstory, that Kari and Roberto will play a bigger role in the future?

And it seems quite a few people survived the helicopter crash.
The next chapter should be very interesting, with all the action I anticipate.

Thank you for writing.

 

[Nexidava]

Phew, that was a tough read. Thanks for not making it any worse.

Very glad to have a Recoil update, especially one that looks to be moving us in a more positive direction.

Thanks for the chapter, Ack!

 

[Ack]

Dark, but necessary chapter, although I must admit I missed Taylor.
I take it, with so much backstory, that Kari and Roberto will play a bigger role in the future?

And it seems quite a few people survived the helicopter crash.
The next chapter should be very interesting, with all the action I anticipate.

Thank you for writing.

Click to shrink...

Kari and Roberto will not be one-post wonders, no.

Taylor, Kinsey, Hanran and Rodriguez survived the crash.

Phew, that was a tough read. Thanks for not making it any worse.

Very glad to have a Recoil update, especially one that looks to be moving us in a more positive direction.

Thanks for the chapter, Ack!

Click to shrink...

You're welcome.

 

[Ack]

Recoil


Part 5-3: Combat Rescue​

Taylor

I awoke to pain. Lots and lots of pain. Acrid smoke stung my nostrils and lungs, and I heard crackling flames. "Wake up, ma'am!" Kinsey yelled in my ear. "We have to move! Now-now-now!"

"Urgh," I mumbled. The smoke irritated my throat and I tried to cough. The vague pain that I'd been feeling previously turned into an excruciating explosion of jagged pain throughout my abdomen.

He's right, Lisa told me. The chopper's due to explode in … two minutes and forty-three seconds. Now open your damn eyes and undo your seat harness so Kinsey can rescue you. It's his turn, after all.

There was something odd about that, but I couldn't focus on it. I forced my eyes open and regretted it; the smoke attacked them at once, making them sting and tear up. We'd trained for this; I blinked away the tears and found the seat harness release. It hurt to move my arm, but I activated the release anyway; the straps fell away.

Kinsey caught me as I slid sideways out of my seat. The smoke made me cough again, and I bit back a groan as the pain lanced through me again. That wasn't a bruise, or even a cracked sternum; I wondered how badly I was really hurt.

-ooo-​

The classroom was clean and white and pristine, in direct contrast to the interior of the helicopter. In the back of my mind, I could feel myself being manhandled by Kinsey, lying on his back and holding me to his chest as he pushed himself along with his boots.

At the front of the classroom, Lisa stepped up to a large round metal plate set in the floor. She wore a white lab coat and a pair of absurdly cute librarian glasses. With a click, a hologram was projected upward from the plate. It was of me, in living colour. Blood was splattered over my uniform here and there; as the hologram slowly rotated, I could see rents and tears in my clothing.

Okay, I said dubiously. That doesn't look good.

"It's not," she told me. Picking up a remote, she clicked a button. The uniform was gone in an instant, showing the wound in my abdomen. Another click stripped away the skin, then major muscle groups. "As you can see, the broken off strut punched through your vest a little under your breastbone, skimmed past your heart, pierced your right lung, and came up hard against your ribcage."

So it's still in me. I tried to come to terms with that. Am I gonna die?

"It will kill you eventually if you're not treated, yes," she confirmed. "But right now, it's preventing too much blood loss. Also, you have a broken leg and a badly wrenched shoulder. But even if you could walk, I'd advise you not to. Flexing your torso as little as possible is also a good idea."

Yeah, got that, I murmured dryly. Two more questions. What shape's Kinsey in, and how am I able to talk to you? I'm awake.

"Last question first, you're only semi-conscious," Lisa corrected me. "You're right on the edge, and it's kind of important, so I'm making more of an effort than normal." She pushed up her glasses with a finger. "And Kinsey has a broken arm, but otherwise he's just banged about a bit. Walsh bought it when Sunstrike shot us down, and the pilots were killed in the crash."

Fuck, I muttered. Options?

-ooo-​

I could feel myself being jostled more, with agony lancing through my torso with each jolt. The classroom began to fade away, replaced by reality. Kinsey was getting to his feet, assisted by Hanran. Rodriguez was bending over me.

"Chopper's gonna blow," I mumbled.

"What? What was that?" He raised his head. "She's awake again."

I steeled myself and spoke more loudly, wincing at the pain. "Chopper's gonna explode. Now. Cover."

Hanran looked around. "What was that about the chopper?"

"She says it's going to explode."

Kinsey was on his feet by now. "If the Captain says it's going to explode, we need to move. Now."

In two long strides, he was beside me, lifting me carefully with his one good arm. Wordlessly, Rodriguez assisted him from the other side. I didn't know how much of the two minutes and forty-three seconds we had left, but I did my best to assist. Unfortunately, my best wasn't very good at that moment.

We had only just made it around the corner of the nearest building before the helicopter did indeed explode, the fuel taking any ordnance with it when it went. The detonation was impressive, even from behind cover; Hanran stumbled and went to his knees, along with Rodriguez. The only reason that I didn't follow them was that Kinsey was supporting me. The building next to us boomed and shuddered dramatically, while flaming debris flew past, just yards away.

Hanran was just getting to his feet when Kinsey shoved me into the arms of the FBI man. I clutched feebly at Hanran, not wanting to find out how much a fall would exacerbate my injuries, while trying to figure out what Kinsey was up to. However, I wasn't kept in suspense for long; while my ears were still ringing too badly to hear the rasp of Kinsey's hand-cannon clearing its holster, I would have had to be profoundly deaf to not hear it being fired at close range.

He fired three times; I managed to get my head around far enough to see a man fall, and another spin back behind cover. A third already lay unmoving in the dirt.

"There'll be more," he stated grimly. "We need an exit plan, and we need it fast. Captain?"

Brutally, I shoved down my whirling thoughts, the dizziness, the pain. I had studied the layout enough from the air that I knew where we were in the compound. Unfortunately, this spelled out for me exactly how screwed we really were.

"Too far from the gate," I managed in a breathy rasp, trying not to cough. "Be picked off before we get halfway there. Surrender makes us hostages or shot on sight." I raised my uninjured arm and pointed at a building. "The prisoners are in there. We secure that and execute Plan Bravo."

"Yes, ma'am." Kinsey handed off his pistol to Hanran and scooped me up with his one good arm. "Can you shoot, ma'am?"

I edged my one good arm down to where my Glock was holstered and pulled the pistol out. It only hurt a little, rather than a whole lot. I nodded, holding the small pistol in my lap. "I can, Sergeant."

"Wait, we're going to assault that building?" Rodriguez was obviously unhappy with the plan. "We don't know who's in it."

"We do know who's out here," Kinsey told him flatly. "Our current position is untenable. The Captain's given an order. I'm following it. Hanran?"

Hanran hefted the heavy pistol in two hands. He'd been out of the field too long, I figured. Too long driving a desk. He didn't look in the least bit happy. But at least he had no quit in him. The look he gave Kinsey held more than a little fear, but it also held determination. "I'm with you."

"Good. Let's go."

Kinsey obviously had an idea of how bad my injuries were; he didn't run across the intervening distance, but instead covered it with long loping strides. I was still jolted, with sharp spikes of pain slashing across my nervous system, but my brain didn't white-out with the pain. At least, not quite. Hanran followed close behind, watching our flanks with the massive pistol held two-handed and low; Rodriguez hesitated for a long moment, then ran to catch up.

As he reached the door to the building, Kinsey didn't hesitate; he swivelled on one foot and delivered a massive kick with the other. The door burst open and he kept going straight in, moving more sideways than forwards. He was looking backward over his shoulder to see what Hanran and Rodriguez were doing, while trusting me to clear the room.

There were three men with guns, a teenage girl wearing a yellow and black jacket and holding a metal spear, and two men lying on the floor. One, huge and bulky, was ominously still. The second one was barely out of his teens, and wore a white T-shirt and pants with yellow and black stripes.

I had hold of the pistol, but my angle was awkward. While I could take out one of the guards, the other two would open fire and I wouldn't be able to target them easily. And I didn't know what the kid in yellow and black would do, so I'd have to neutralise him fast as well.

The rifles came up. "Hey, soldier boy," one of the guards said. "Turn around slow or get shot."

Kinsey did exactly as he was told, bringing the other two targets into my line of fire. I raised my head and brought up the pistol at the same time.

Four targets, close range, unmoving. I had shot perfect scores on targets, X-ring hits every time, at several times this distance. The few times I'd had to use weapons in the field, in anger, I'd hit what I'd aimed at.

Back then, of course, I hadn't felt like every square inch of me had been pulped by a baseball bat. And I'd been the one to catch them by surprise.

All of this passed through my mind in an instant, even as I opened fire. Left to right, servicing targets with never more than a passing qualm that I was ending human lives here. Firing just as fast as I could, the little pistol's tiny felt-recoil still managing to jar me painfully, one shot per target. But the long hours on the target range were paying off; they made fast, accurate shooting into something as nearly instinctive as handling millions of bugs had once been for me.

Kinsey was obviously unarmed; they had started to lower their rifles. This, and the fact that they didn't have military readiness drilled into them, was what doomed them. I killed two of them, with picture-perfect shots to the bridge of the nose, before the third even began to react. I shot him before his rifle was halfway toward horizontal, then swung my sight picture on to the kid on the floor, already beginning to take up pressure on the trigger.

"No!" shouted the girl with the spear. She was just in time; an instant later, and I would have taken up final pressure and the boy would have died. For a long moment, I strongly considered firing anyway; he was an unknown quantity, a bad thing to have in the same room as us. But then it occurred to me that the girl was wearing a jacket far too large for her, that it was a match for his costume. He gave it to her. There's more going on here than I know about. I raised the pistol.

Hanran and Rodriguez stumbled into the room behind us; without needing to be told, they slammed the door shut and began dragging a heavy chair in front of it. Good. We need to secure the building.

"Dios mio," the boy on the floor said in tones of awe. "Who are you people?"

"Captain Snow, PRT. This is Sergeant Kinsey." I gave him a closer look. From the girl's attitude toward him, and his attitude toward us, I mentally assigned him a nominal tag of 'potential friendly'. Of course, a little reinforcement of that attitude never hurts. I want him in no doubt that we're ten feet tall and bulletproof. "Congratulations. You're rescued."

-ooo-​

Emily

Lieutenant Emily Piggot, of the Parahuman Response Teams, stepped up to the entrance of the command tent. One of the two guards on duty there moved to bar her way. "No entry," he said flatly. "Orders."

Emily measured him with her eyes. "I need to get in there right now," she stated. "Do you know why I need to get in there right now?" Without giving him a chance to answer, she forged on. "Because our command and control just went down behind enemy lines, and I don't see anyone going in there to get them out."

From within the tent, she could hear raised voices. "We have orders," repeated the guard.

Emily stared him in the eye. "You hear what they're doing in there? They're arguing instead of doing something useful." Turning, she gestured toward the compound in the distance. "And meanwhile, in there, one of the finest military minds of our generation is at the mercy of a bunch of racist redneck rapists."

Her words hung in the air for a long moment. The guards began to look uncomfortable. Finally, the other one cleared his throat. "I, uh, I can escort you in, ma'am," he offered.

"Good," she said. "You do that." Without waiting for an answer, she moved past him and into the tent.

Within wasn't quite the chaos she expected, but it was almost as bad. Five people were arguing around the map table. Or rather, four people were arguing and the fifth was being shouted down. Around the periphery, junior officers attended to their superiors, but their expressions were telling. It wasn't going well.

All heads turned as she entered. One of the men, wearing a National Guard uniform, stepped forward. "What the hell?" he demanded. "I gave orders -"

"Sir!" Emily went to attention and saluted. Automatically, he returned it. "Sir, I'm here to ask a question. What's the status of the rescue mission?"

"That's above your pay grade, lieutenant -"

Stepping forward, she got right in his face. "The hell it is, captain," she hissed. "We have seven people down behind enemy lines, and you REMFs are arguing over who's in charge, so you can present your own pet plan for saving the day."

All eyes widened at the pejorative term; the captain began to turn red. "Now listen here -"

"No, you listen." Emily knew that her military career was more or less over, but she spoke over him anyway. "The more you fucking argue, the more chance that your commanding officers are being slaughtered not one mile from here. Now, pick a plan." She picked out the one PRT captain by eye. "Sir. Does your plan involve going in there and kicking ass till we get our people back?"

The captain raised his head. "Yes, lieutenant, it does."

"Good." She pointed at him and spoke to the rest of the officers in the tent. "I like his plan. He's in charge."

The National Guard captain raised his voice. "Lieutenant, you're out of order. Corporal, arrest the -"

Emily had had enough. As the corporal put his hand on her shoulder, she turned and drove her elbow back as hard as she could, catching him on the point of the jaw. Caught by surprise, he collapsed; as he did so, she took his rifle from him. The clatter of the soldier falling to the floor was louder than the clack-clack as Emily pulled back the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round, but the latter was what got their attention.

"One. More. Time." Her voice was low but deadly. She kept the muzzle of the rifle down, pointed at the floor, but the implicit threat was still clear. "The PRT is taking lead on this." She nodded to the PRT captain. "Sir. Your plan?"

He looked back at her with an unreadable expression, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yes." Raising his voice he called out. "Guard!"

Emily tensed as the second guard pushed his way into the tent. The man's eyes widened as he took in the man on the floor, who was just now starting to groan his way back to coherence. He began to raise his rifle.

"Never mind that," the PRT captain snapped. "Gather the troops. We've got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in." He glanced at Emily. "Lieutenant. Will you peacefully surrender yourself to my custody?"

Emily shifted the rifle to her left hand and came to attention; her salute was parade-ground perfect. "Sir."

-ooo-​

Taylor

As Hanran pulled the shutters closed, I gestured with the pistol toward the corridor that led out of the room. "What's down there? Another entry point?"

"Uh, yes," blurted the girl. She pointed at the rifles that the guards had been holding. "Uh, can I -"

For a moment, I wasn't sure what she wanted, then I twigged. Going by the spear, she was able to manipulate metal by touch. She wants the gun for its metal. "Sure, but just one." Neither Kinsey nor I was able to use one at the moment, but Hanran and Rodriguez were still able-bodied.

Both men were staring at me. "What do we do now?" asked Rodriguez. "We're trapped in here."

"First thing," Hanran told him. "We secure the entry points. Give me a hand with that chair."

The girl shook her head. "I got this." She discarded her spear and picked up the closest rifle by its barrel. Instinctively I winced and went to correct her weapon handling technique, but before I could speak, the rifle seemed to melt. The metal flowed up around her hands, covering them like gloves and spreading into the sleeves of the jacket. Letting the wooden stock and the cartridges fall to the floor, she turned and headed for the corridor entrance.

Why didn't she use the bullets as well? But that was something I'd have to find out later. "Hanran," I said. "Go with her."

Despite the fact that he technically outranked me, he obeyed at once. Rodriguez picked up one of the other two rifles, but didn't seem to be sure of what to do with it. I looked at him. "You okay, sir?"

The question seemed to come as a surprise. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was so sure we could talk this down to a peaceful conclusion."

I grimaced. "Never underestimate the power of a fanatic to make a situation worse."

"But what can we do?" he asked, perhaps rhetorically. "You and the Sergeant are hurt. We're not -"

-ooo-​

Kari

Kari glanced back at the grey-haired man called Hanran. "You're a bit old to be a soldier. And you're not wearing a uniform."

He had a nice smile, she decided. Like a favourite uncle. "I'm not a soldier. FBI. We're here to get you out."

She decided that his statement was more in the 'hopeful' range than anything to rely on. "Is that a bullet-proof vest? Does it have metal in it?"

"Yes it is," he replied. "But no, it – get down!"

Raising the big pistol he was still carrying in two hands, he aimed it at her. No – at the door. Letting out a squeak of terror, she fell to her knees, clamping her hands over her head. The gun went off twice, the flash blinding her and the report setting her ears to ringing. As if in slow motion, she saw the shiny brass cartridge-cases bouncing on the floor near Hanran's feet.

When she looked around, there were two ragged holes in the sturdy door, which was standing just a little bit open. Hanran strode past her and shoved it shut, then leaned against it. "Hey."

She shook her head, trying to dispel the ringing.

"Hey! Girl! What's your name?"

She blinked at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you. What's your name?"

"Uh, Kari?"

"Well, uh-Kari, I think it's time for you to do whatever you were going to do with that metal."

"Oh. Right." She got to her feet. Pushing her hands against the edge of the door, she made the metal flow off of her, drilling into the wood, bridging the gap. In moments, the door was as solidly shut as it would ever be.

"Is everything all right down there, sir?" It was the burly soldier, the one called Sergeant Kinsey.

"We're fine, but they know we're in here now," Hanran called back. He turned to Kari. "That's a very useful trick with the metal. Know where you can get some more?"

She didn't even have to think about it. "Yes."

-ooo-​

Lange

Hadrian Lange looked up from the hand-drawn map detailing the defences of the compound, his eyebrows drawing down. "Say that again?"

"Th-that chopper that crashed," stammered the militia man, holding a bloodied hand to his shoulder. His right arm hung uselessly at his side. "Some of 'em got out. They're in the Breeding House. We went to go in there, they shot at us through the door. Clive's dead." His backwoods accent made the word sound like 'daid'. "My brother's dead."

"Say the word and I'll go take care of them." Sunstrike's tone was vicious.

"No." Lange shook his head. "We need you to keep their flyers and choppers honest." He turned to the wounded militia man. "Ben. Take a dozen men and get that building back. Take Seth, too. You might need his door-buster charges."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Why do we have to use those damn things? He always makes 'em too powerful."

Lange took a step toward him. "Because I said so." The look in his deep-set eyes promised dire retribution if his words were not obeyed; Ben flinched, but hesitated before leaving.

"What?" Lange's voice was even more dangerous.

"Uh, what about the breeders?"

The rawboned man spent barely a second thinking about it. "Try not to kill 'em, but if it happens, it happens. If they're loose and fighting back, kill 'em all the same."

"Right. Right." Ben made his escape.

Lange turned his attention back to the map. "All right then. Does anyone have any new information on what they have out there?"

-ooo-​

Taylor

"Fuck," muttered Rodriguez. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. We're in the shit now."

"We've been in the shit since the chopper went down," I reminded him, being careful to breathe shallowly. "The depth has varied, is all."

"If we gave ourselves up -" he began.

Kinsey interrupted him. "No," he growled. "Not happening."

"But we could negotiate -"

"Being in the power of these people is not a good negotiating position," I told him flatly.

"Well, right now, we're not in a great position either," he reminded me. "How are we going to hold them off? There's only four of us, you and the Sergeant are the only ones with current military training, and you're both injured!"

"Six," offered the kid. He'd sat up, but no more than that. Now that I looked at him more carefully, I realised that there was something wrong with his hands. "There are six of us."

"Six, then," Rodriguez muttered. "Two parahumans, four normals, two injured. Against everything that's out there. Those are shit odds."

"Getting better all the time, I'd say," declared Hanran, emerging from the corridor. The person who came out next wasn't the girl with the metal manipulation. Oh wait, of course. This is where the prisoners were being held. I was seriously annoyed with myself for forgetting that, however temporarily. Of course, I'd had several other things on my mind, but the welfare of the girls being held here should have been higher on the agenda.

The woman who exited the corridor behind Hanran had to stand at least seven feet tall; she had long brown hair that hung in limp rat-tails. One hand was being used to hold a stained sheet around her body. I recognised her from the dossier I had perused; her name was Joanna or Joanne. From the description, she held a medium to high Brute rating, or she would have if the PRT was assigning those to non-villains yet. I could well believe it; I was taller than most women and more than a few men of my acquaintance, and she beat me out by at least a foot. In bulk, she made Kinsey look almost puny, which was a very impressive feat.

For a moment, she looked taken aback, given the four corpses on the floor. Then she strode up to the big stone-skinned guy – I still wasn't sure what had killed him, save that there was blood coming from the ears, and his eyes were a gory mess – and kicked him, very hard, in the head. The corpse was shunted sideways, turning almost ninety degrees, from the force of the kick. I thought I heard bone snap, and I was pretty sure it wasn't hers.

"What the fuck?" Rodriguez turned from where he'd been peering out through a gap in the shutters and brought the rifle up instinctively. "Who the hell are you?"

"Stand down," I ordered the both of them. "Rodriguez, she was a prisoner. Joanna …?"

"Joanne," she corrected me. Her voice wasn't as deep as I'd thought it might be. "They fucking fed me a knockout drop to get me here. Chained me to a metal bed. This fucker …" She shuddered. "I swore if I ever got loose, I'd never let them take me alive again."

"I won't let them take you at all," I promised her. "We're here to get you out, and that's what's going to happen."

"Big words," she muttered. "Two old guys, a couple of hurt soldiers, and some punk in stripey pants. How you gonna pull that off?"

I answered her question with one of my own. "Are you bullet-proof?"

"What the hell sort of question is that?" She pointed at herself. "How the fuck do you find that out without using a gun? Shoot yourself and then find out, sorry, you're not really bullet-proof after all, it just felt like you should be?"

She had a point. I had only found out that my spider-silk armour was good against pistols the hard way, and even then I had initially thought that Coil had really shot me. It certainly wasn't an experiment I was going to try willingly.

On the other hand, she was certainly very strong, and also rather durable, given that she'd kicked him with her bare foot and not shown any signs of pain. The beginnings of a plan began to unfold in my head.

"Understood," I replied. "Captain Snow, PRT. This is Sergeant Kinsey, that's Rodriguez of the ATF, and I didn't catch your name, kid."

The boy looked up at me. He was holding his hands loosely in his lap; they were starting to swell and turn blotchy. "Aguijón. It means 'bee-sting', or 'stinger'." His voice was strained; I figured that whatever had happened to his hands had to be painful.

"Bee-sting, huh?" Despite my own problems, I found it hard not to smile. An insect-themed cape … what are the odds? "Do you control bugs?"

"No." He raised his hand fractionally. A couple of tiny yellow and black objects about the size of the tip of my little finger appeared from his hand. "I make these." The 'bees' orbited him a few times, then ended their journey by smacking into the floorboards, where they seemed to do a little bit of damage.

"Shit, you're one of them." Joanne was across the room in about three strides. "I heard your name a few times. You're gonna die, asshole." Her hand went around his throat and she effortlessly lifted him clear off the ground in one move.

"No!" I shouted, but she ignored me. Her hand began to close; I could see his face purpling. I doubted that my Glock would make an impression on her, and Rodriguez seemed to be frozen to the spot. I could kind of understand this; if she was bullet-proof, then shooting at her would be a really bad move. But I couldn't just let her murder Aguijón, especially if he was innocent of what she was implying, which the other girl's behaviour seemed to indicate. "Joanne! Stop!"

She paused, looking over her shoulder at me. "You don't have the right to tell me to stop. You don't know what this asshole's done."

"Has he done it to you?" I didn't know the answer, but I could guess at it. Please let me be right.

"No," she admitted reluctantly, "but I know he's been in with Kari a lot. He makes her cry. Well, no more." She turned her attention back to Aguijón. "Be glad I'm gonna make it quick."

"He never touched me!"

The metal-manipulator's voice came from the corridor. She was carrying another girl in her arms; I could see grimy bandages around the girl's ankles. I didn't have time to wonder about that as Kari – as I presumed her name to be – stepped aside to let the other girls out of the corridor. No-one else was lame, although they were all wearing bed-sheets as makeshift clothing.

Two had bandages over their eyes, and were being led by two others. The last had a kind of smoky-grey appearance, becoming almost translucent as she stepped into the main room. Her sheet, where she had it wrapped tightly around herself, took on some of this quality. The Stranger, I'd say. Apart from the smoky girl, they all looked relatively normal, if one discounted the bandages, the unwashed hair, and the bruises both faded and fresh.

However, Kari – as I surmised her name to be – wasn't wearing a sheet. Nor was she wearing Aguijón's jacket. What she was wearing looked to be about half a ton of steel. Or at least, there was a human-shaped steel statue in the corridor. Kari had to be wearing it or controlling it; either way suited me just fine. It also, not coincidentally, took care of step one of the plan. Get some metal to the girl.

"What the fuck?" asked Joanne. "Are you honestly defending this piece of slime?"

Kari carefully set down her burden and stepped forward. The floorboards creaked alarmingly, but held; I guessed that if they hadn't given way under the stone-skinned Brute, they wouldn't give way under Kari's new accoutrement. "He never touched me. Let him go." I figured that she was trying for a firm tone, but didn't seem to know how. I might have to give her pointers in that. However, it wasn't really necessary; wearing an entire Renfaire's worth of steel plate gave her words a certain amount of weight. So to speak.

I was beginning to get concerned about Aguijón's chances of survival. Joanne hadn't let him down or relaxed her grip, and his face was a really worrying shade of puce. "Let him down," I told her. "Don't kill him until you can prove he did something. Do you really want to murder an innocent man?"

Joanne ground her teeth together. "None of these bastards are innocent," she gritted. "He's here, isn't he? Guilty by association."

I never saw the metal tentacle lash out, but it wrapped around Joanne's arm and yanked hard. Startled, Joanne lurched backward, losing her grip on Aguijón's throat. He fell to the floor, hacking and choking as he tried to inhale much-needed air. Well, that answers the question about how good she is with her power.

"He didn't touch me." This time, her delivery was much better. The inches-thick metal tentacle that had sprouted from her right shoulder was still wrapped around Joanne's forearm.

Joanne grabbed the tentacle and yanked on it, hard. Caught off guard, Kari stumbled forward, even as she instinctively grew metal spars that braced against the floor, preventing her from falling headlong. Keeping her grip, Joanne heaved harder, but this time, Kari was ready for her. The metal stretched, the length of tentacle whipping back around to rejoin with the main mass. Joanne was unready for this, just as she was caught by surprise when the metal reformed to encase her hands and forearms.

In that moment of silence, we all heard the sound of someone outside fumbling with the door.

-ooo-​

Ben

The seven men sidled up to the Breeding House as stealthily as they could. Ben's shoulder was swathed in bloodstained bandages, the arm supported by a rough sling. Seth's crew was around at the far end, where the door to the corridor let out. The plan was to set the bombs on the doors, then drop back and let the timers tick down.

Each of the six men with Ben was armed and ready for action; once they burst in, the stunned intruders would be easy pickings. Ben carried the home-made breaching charge in his one good hand. As hampered as he was, he didn't trust it with any of the other men.

"Dang it," muttered one of the others, Travis by name. "They closed the dang shutters."

Ben didn't qualify that with a reply, both because he didn't think it deserved one and because it was what he would've done. Though I woulda knocked a few slats out so I could see properly.

"Why don't we jes' start shootin'?" asked Jesse, the youngest of the men that Ben had picked. "Our bullets'll go right on through."

"An' right on out th' other side," Ben muttered. "'Less you wanna explain ta Mr Lange how you was shootin' at our own men?"

It was unfair, Ben decided. The people inside didn't have to worry about hitting friendlies. Him and his buddies did. But he was gonna get revenge for Clive anyways. That was for certain sure.

With a gesture, he quieted their voices. Moving even more carefully, he eased up alongside the steps rather than put a foot on them. They had a bad habit of squeaking loudly at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

Reaching across, he hefted the door-buster in his good hand, trying to hang it off of the door handle. His arm shook with the strain as he did his best to flip the loop of cord over the handle. And then the inevitable happened; the breaching charge rubbed against the door, making a distinctive scraping sound.

Ben froze; for a long moment, he waited for the shout of alarm from within. But none came. He started to move again …

-ooo-​

Taylor

Kinsey turned; I raised my pistol, although I couldn't see anything to shoot at. In any case, I wasn't optimistic at the chances of the bullet punching through the heavy timber doors. Hanran took a step forward, Kinsey's pistol in his hands. I winced, knowing exactly how loud that thing was at close quarters. He fired three times, spacing the shots across the door. There were yells and screams from outside.

As if by unspokent agreement, Kari released Joanne's hands, sending a spike of steel across the room. It jammed into the floor in front of the door, then spread upward, drilling into the wood for purchase. When she pulled the metal tentacle back, she left behind a solid-looking bracket holding the door well and truly closed.

"In case you hadn't realised," I began. The rest of my speech would have been a fairly predictable we're all in this together, so for fuck's sake don't fight between yourselves, but I never got to finish it. A giant hand picked us all up and threw us against the wall instead. The last thing I was consciously aware of was Kinsey twisting in midair, trying to take the impact in my place. I felt a red-hot tearing inside me, and passed out.

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey slowly recovered his wits. He was half-lying against the wall, still cradling Captain Snow with his good arm. Explosives, he realised dully. They set a charge on the far end of the building while decoying us at this end. Used too much. His head throbbed atrociously, and he wasn't sure if he could move.

Looking down at the Captain, he cursed weakly; the bloodstain on her abdomen was wider than it had been before, and the blood looked fresher. Worse, her head was lolling to one side, while a trickle of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth. Her chest still rose and fell though, so she was still alive. I don't know for how much longer, though. Especially if we can't get her to medical attention.

Setting his jaw, he tried to struggle to his feet, but failed. There was something wrong with his legs, or maybe his back. He took a deep breath, which hurt – busted ribs, probably – and looked around, taking stock. Hanran was down; Kinsey eyed the bloodstain spreading across the man's chest and grimaced. He was a good man, for a Feeb. Rodriguez, on the other hand, was just now climbing to his feet, shaking his head.

Who else? Kinsey turned his head, trying to ignore the sharp pain that resulted. People were down, he could see. The Mexican cape was groggily sitting up, along with a couple of the girls. Others were ominously still.

As the ringing in his ears eased off a little, he could hear shouts, screams and the sound of gunfire. A bullet smacked into the wall not altogether far from his head, and he looked around. He could see right down the corridor to … smoke and dust. End of the building's gone. Fuck. Surprised we're alive. Why aren't they in here already?

His head cleared a little more, and he realised that the really big woman and the metallokinetic were both gone. Must be holding them back. I need … I need … His initial instinct to be out there and causing trouble for the bad guys waned as he recalled Captain Snow's injuries. I need to stay here and make sure she gets medical attention. Besides, he wasn't sure what sort of difference he could make, right now.

The girl with the bandages on her ankles crawled across to him. She seemed to move almost in stop-motion; it took her no more than a second to cross the room, but she seemed to blur between distinct points on the way. He wasn't sure whether it was a power that she was manifesting or a symptom of how badly he was hurt. "Mister, uh, whoever you are?" Her voice was high, desperate. "Are you okay?"

"No." It came out as a cough. That hurt, too. "Help the others."

As she crawled away, the Captain stirred next to him. He had thought she was well and truly out of it, but her eyes half-opened, then closed again. She began mumbling to herself. This was a not uncommon habit of hers when asleep or nearly so, and he decided to take it as a good sign.

-ooo-​

I lay in a hospital bed. The ward was bright and sunny, with a huge picture window at the far end of the room. Outside, the sun shone down on gorgeously manicured greenery, with an explosion of brilliantly-coloured flowers in every garden bed. On the bedside table, there was a get-well card alongside a Manila folder and what looked like a cordless computer game controller. Lisa bustled about, wearing a nurse outfit, fluffing up my pillow and then straightening the sheets that lay over me.

What the hell happened?

"Bomb," she explained succinctly. "A bunch of them put a breaching charge on the door at the far end of the building. It more or less blew the end wall off."

Christ. Good thing we got everyone out of those rooms.

"Yes," she replied seriously. "There was another one they were putting on the door at our end, but Hanran shot the guy with the bomb and one of his buddies. The rest retreated."

Uh, how is everyone?

She picked up the folder and leafed through it. "Well, let's see … Hanran has a splinter through his throat. He will die very shortly. We don't have the medical equipment to help him. One of the girls has suffered serious internal injuries as well. The others are in reasonable condition, considering. Kinsey was injured further, trying to get between you and the wall. He succeeded, by the way, but he will need hospital time before he's back on his feet. The Mexican kid is a bit bruised but fine, and so is Rodriguez." She paused to lift up a note. "Oh, yeah. Meant to tell you before. Rodriguez is the reason they got the drop on us."

What the fuck? I sat upright. You're shitting me. Rodriguez is a mole?

"Steady down," she advised me. "You're not well. No, he's not a mole. He's just … sympathetic to their cause. When we settled on this plan, he contacted Lange, in the hope that knowing what he was facing would cause Lange to give up before anyone got hurt."

But Lange decided to double down, I muttered. Because fanatics are so easy to talk into giving up.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Whoop – something's happening." Snatching up the controller, she clicked a button; the picture window blinked and I realised that it was actually a wall-sized TV screen. The image that came up next was a tad blurry, with fuzzy eyelashes at top and bottom.

Is this what I can see?

"Yup," she muttered tensely. "Kinsey heard what you said about Rodriguez."

Oh, shit.

"Yeah, oh shit." Lisa pressed a button on the controller and moved it, and I saw my hand move into view on the screen. It was holding my pistol.

Wait, are you -

-ooo-​

Kinsey

For someone who had been working in law enforcement for years, Rodriguez seemed to have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Clutching the rifle, he knelt beside Hanran for a moment before shaking his head and standing again. Moving nervously and jerkily, he went over to the door, then leaned around to look down the corridor.

"Rodriguez." Kinsey forced himself to speak louder than he really wanted to. "Help me sit up. Get my pistol." If this was going to come down to the Alamo, then he was going to go out facing the enemy with an empty gun. We're even in the right state for it.

The ATF man came over. "We never should have come here," he muttered. "What are we really doing here?"

Losing his nerve. Fuck that. I've got to snap him out of it.

But just as Kinsey drew a breath – this one hurt, too – the Captain seemed to rouse slightly. "You're shitting me," she murmured. "Rodriguez is a mole?"

Those four words clicked into his head. Rodriguez is a mole? All of the unanswered questions, all of the little hints regarding the ATF man's behaviour, came together into one picture. The motherfucker sold us out.

Never for even a split second did Kinsey imagine that what Captain Snow had said came from some fever dream. He had known her for far too long; she was blessed, as far as he could tell, with a level of intuition that bordered on the supernatural. Give her material to work with, and she would settle down into a waking doze; when she awoke, she had the answers, to a level of detail that left lesser men baffled.

So when she said those four words, he believed them implicitly. However, he realised too late that Rodriguez had heard them as well. Looking up into the ATF agent's eyes, Kinsey saw the dawning realisation.

"She's delirious," Rodriguez blurted. "Babbling. Doesn't know what she's talking about."

Save the Captain, save the Captain. "Yeah, you're right," Kinsey grunted painfully.

It was as if a switch had been flipped behind the man's eyes. "Bullshit," muttered Rodriguez. "You can't lie worth a damn."

"Not too late to give yourself up," Kinsey tried desperately. His good arm was trapped under Captain Snow's unconscious body. He couldn't try for her pistol, or even make a grab for the traitorous ATF man.

"It was too late a long time ago," Rodriguez stated. The rifle began to swing toward Kinsey. "They're right, you know. The Behemoth is the first sign. The world is ending, and I can't let -"

He jerked back and screamed as a swarm of yellow-and-black objects surrounded him, punching tiny holes in his flesh. Abruptly, he jerked the rifle around, aiming at the Mexican kid. Even with the swarm on him, there was nothing Kinsey could do.

The flat crack of the Captain's pistol came as a total surprise. Blood sprayed from the side of Rodriguez' head; the ATF man fell sideways, his weapon unfired. Kinsey stared down at Captain Snow, who looked back with a bright gaze. She winked slowly at him once, then her eyes closed once more. The small pistol slipped from her hand and went clunk on the floor.

-ooo-​

- playing my body like a computer game?

"What if I am?" Lisa grinned as she manipulated the controller; on the screen, my hand rose with the pistol in it, aiming at Rodriguez. The little yellow and black objects were attacking him, but they would not stop the ATF man from shooting Aguijón.

Until Lisa pressed the fire button and put a bullet through the side of Rodriguez' head. Rodriguez fell; Lisa did something with the controller that turned the viewpoint to look up at Kinsey's surprised expression. Part of the screen went dark, then the whole thing blanked out.

Wait, did you just wink at him?

"Mayyybe." Lisa's grin was out in full force now.

Gimme that thing. You are not responsible enough to be in charge of it. I made a grab for the controller.

Laughing, she evaded me, holding it up out of my reach. "Sorry. You're unconscious now. It won't do anything."

You winked at him. Why did you wink at him?

Her grin morphed into a smirk. "Because it's funny. You seriously need to flirt with him more often. You might surprise each other."

I gave up reaching for the remote, and shook my head. No. We are not opening that can of worms again.

Rolling her eyes, she huffed a sigh. "Fine. Be boring."

Thank you, I will. Are Kinsey and I going to make it?

"Yeah." She nodded. "If I'd known Piggot was half this badass back in the day, I would've been more respectful to her."

I raised an eyebrow. No, you wouldn't.

She chuckled. "You're right. I wouldn't. But I would've thought about it."

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Captain Snow was still breathing, so Kinsey turned his attention toward Aguijón, who still had his hand outstretched, the yellow and black 'bees' orbiting him.

"Good going, kid," he grunted. "Well done."

Aguijón began to answer, but the gunfire outside increased in intensity. Kinsey thought he heard explosions as well. He raised his head, listening.

"What's happening?" asked the Mexican kid. A couple of the girls, conscious but with the good sense to keep their heads down, also looked to Kinsey for the answer.

"Sounds like the cavalry's on the way," he grunted. "Someone help me sit up, and get my gun. We just have to hold out till they get here."

One of the girls, a brunette who may have been pretty under other circumstances, nodded. Getting up from where she'd been huddling under an upturned chair, she stumbled over to where his pistol lay next to Hanran's outstretched hand. Picking it up, she brought it to him, then crouched down next to him.

"Are we going to die?" she asked, as the noise of battle outside increased yet again. With a grunt, she helped him to sit up against the wall, the Captain cradled on his lap. He gratefully took the pistol in hand.

"Not if I can help it. Now, take cover." He aimed the pistol at the open corridor for a moment, then rested it on his knee. "Kid, watch the other door. See anything that's not wearing a uniform, blitz it."

Aguijón nodded shakily. "Si, jefe."

Kinsey listened to the gunfire and other noises, trying to gauge the way the fight was going. He was all too aware that he only had a few rounds left, but he was damn sure that he'd make every one count.

And then came the noise he'd been anticipating and dreading; a scrambling noise, followed by heavy boots coming down the corridor. He raised the pistol again. I'll get one chance at this …

-ooo-​

Emily

Subtlety was out the window. Riflemen raked the windows and top of the wall as Emily led her squad forward. The PRT captain had accepted her request to lead the assault, and the other officers had not objected; she strongly suspected that if she were killed in the fighting, they would not be overly unhappy.

The captain had had a word with her before the assault. Normally you'd be under guard by now, he'd said. But we're sadly lacking in troopers with your kind of initiative and current counter-terrorism training. So I'm letting you lead the assault. But you'd better not fuck it up, Piggot, or we're both out of a career.

She had looked him square in the eye. They've got my friend. I'm not going to fuck this up. Sir. She had saluted; he had returned it. There was no more to be said.

"Positions!" she yelled, and the squad split in half, going to a crouch and covering their faces with their arms. Behind them, a soldier levelled an RPG – where they'd scrounged that from, she wasn't sure – and let fly. The projectile lanced forward between the two halves of the squad, striking the front gate of the compound. Its explosive charge, designed to make a mess of the average armoured vehicle, wrought havoc with the wooden barrier.

Even before the dust and smoke had cleared – some of the bits and pieces were still pattering to the ground – Emily screamed the command to advance. Hefting her rifle, she was up and running, heading for the now-gaping hole in the enemy's defences.

A figure loomed in the cloud of smoke; she snapped a shot, and it fell away. She jumped over the debris that formed half the gate, fired at another defender, then took cover as a storm of fire came back at her. Pulling a grenade from her belt, she hurled it in the general direction of where most of the fire seemed to be coming from. By the time it landed and exploded, her squad had joined her, and were adding their fire to hers.

The beachhead had been established, but she had to keep pushing in. Her squad was just the tip of the spear; if they were going to take this place, if they were going to save Taylor, then they had to move fast. The last thing Emily wanted to deal with was to see Taylor with a gun to her head.

I'll kill every one of these motherfuckers first.

"Fire Team Alpha, to the left," she snapped. "Fire Team Bravo, to the right. Fire Team Charlie, with me, down the middle. Push them back, keep them on the back foot. Go!"

As the fire teams opened up, she came out of cover, running hard across the open ground. Her squad followed her, firing on the run at the indistinct forms shooting back at them. They're defending their home. Tough. I'm here to get my friend out.

A bullet tugged at her sleeve, and another ricocheted off of her helmet with an impact that made her head ring. But she made it to the building she wanted to get to, then spun back around with her rifle aimed around the corner to give covering fire. Another grenade lobbed downrange seemed to deal with a couple more of the defenders, and then the rest of her squad had made it to cover as well.

Not all of them were there; she counted two sprawled forms, out in the open. Neither one seemed to be moving. Fuck. It was the first time that people had died under her command. Intellectually, she knew that it wouldn't be the last time, probably not even today, unless she was killed first.

This was a situation that she had been told would happen someday. Officer training went over it in detail; what to expect, how to deal with it. I just never expected it to happen to me.

"Lieutenant?" That was Jerome, her sergeant. A good man. Steady.

She took a deep breath, turned to look them each in the eye. "Let's make this count."

Jerome smiled faintly. From what she recalled, he was ex-Marines. "Oorah, Lieutenant."

She nodded very slightly in reply. "All right. Place we want is this way." She led the way to the other side of the building. It was almost peaceful here, if one ignored the steady crackle of gunfire and the occasional explosion. In the next street over, surrounded by the wreckage of a couple of buildings, was the burnt-out remains of a helicopter. Ignoring the charred remains she could see still sitting in the cockpit, she pointed past it. "That building over there is the one we want. It's where Captain Snow and Sergeant Kinsey would've taken cover. It's where the prisoners are being kept."

Jerome leaned past her to look. "It's been targeted already. The other end's been damaged."

"Not by us," Emily noted. "Makes it more likely they're in there. Okay, squad -"

Rifle fire sounded close by. Corporal Scarelli went down without a sound, while Private Kenworth screamed as a round went through his leg. Emily dropped to a crouch, aimed past her squad members at the tangoes who had just rounded a building twenty yards away. "Go-go-go!" she yelled, opening fire.

Jerome obeyed at once, leading the way past the downed chopper toward the objective. Bullets whipped and whizzed past Emily, but she was beyond fear or hesitation. The loss of Chadwick and Kelso and Scarelli had been a rite of passage for her; an unpleasant one, but necessary all the same. People died in battle; to accept that, to be aware and yet not be paralysed by it, was an essential part of the makeup of a soldier. She fired, coldly and methodically, each round a kill-shot. Centre mass. Centre mass. Centre mass. Five shots, five down.

And then she heard the screams. It wasn't Kenworth; he was gritting his teeth as he reached for a medical pack. This was from back around the corner.

Dropping the magazine, she slotted another one in as she turned toward the source of the noise. Leaning around the corner, she saw.

Atop the wall, in the distance, was a bright star in the shape of a man. A beam of sun-bright light, emanating from this man, was playing over the remains of her squad – Jerome, Leacock, Forge, Norris, fuuuuuck!

Around the man himself was a halo of darkness, almost as if he were sucking the light from the air around him. Emily neither knew nor cared; his powers could have come from him performing lewd acts with livestock for all she was concerned. This was now personal. Bringing her rifle to her eye, she took aim. Her sight picture formed up. She took up first pressure on the trigger.

At the last moment, he seemed to realise that she was there. A beam of light licked out, hit the wooden building. It caught fire – but she shot first. Three shots, at the same point. Not a head shot. Against an unarmoured opponent, always go for centre mass.

The beam of light cut out. A moment later, the halo of darkness cut out, the corresponding light dissipating. The man fell; where to, she didn't care. Pretty sure that was Sunstrike. Good riddance.

"Kenworth?" she asked over her shoulder, not looking.

"Nearly got the bleeding stopped, lieutenant," he replied, pain in his voice.

"Good man." Stepping back, she crouched beside him. "Feel up to walking?"

He tightened the bandage around his leg. "If I have to, I'll run, ma'am."

She felt a swell of pride. Barely old enough to shave, he was already doing his best to project the machismo of a professional soldier. Reaching out, she took his hand and hefted him to his feet, standing as she did so. He grunted as the weight went on to his wounded leg; she slid her shoulder under his. While he was a little taller than her, she was far more solid, and easily able to support his weight. "Ready?"

"Ready, ma'am."

"Good. Take this." She offered him her pistol, butt first. He took it awkwardly in his left hand. As a right-handed shooter, she knew that his accuracy would be terrible, but if he could put enough rounds downrange, it wouldn't matter.

As she moved forward, he did his best not to slow her down, hopping on his right leg and stepping firmly with his left. They moved out past the corner of the still-burning building. Jerome and the rest of her squad lay where Sunstrike had hit them with his light-beam power. They hadn't even seen it coming. Kenworth looked down at them and swallowed.

"Take a good look," she advised him. "That sort of shit is what happens when you drop your guard against a parahuman even once. So be damn sure to shoot first."

He nodded. "Ma'am." Convulsively, he tightened his grip on the pistol.

The blown-open end of the building was the easiest point of entry; carefully, Emily climbed up, then hefted Kenworth up while he covered her back. They moved down the corridor, Emily all too aware of the noise of their boots on the wooden floorboards. The doors were askew; each showed a room without windows, furnished only with a bed. She was almost certain she knew what the beds had been used for. Whatever we do to them, it won't be nearly bad enough.

The end of the corridor was just up ahead. She moved more cautiously …

-ooo-​

Lange

"This can't be happening." Hadrian Lange muttered the words to himself as he hurried down the passageway.

Once the attackers breached the gates, he had known that the end result was inevitable. The government could muster an effectively unending number of assault troops; the only way to win was to convince them that it wasn't worth the cost of attacking. When the helicopter had come down inside the walls and the incompetent fools under him had not immediately seized the survivors for use as hostages, they had sealed the doom of the Brotherhood of the Fallen.

He still didn't even know exactly why the governmental forces had chosen to target him, just that they had. It wasn't as if the Brotherhood was high-profile; he had worked very hard toward anonymity for the group and what they stood for.

But now, however they had gotten on to him, it was all crumbling down around his shoulders. His followers were fanatical enough to keep fighting in his absence. All he needed was a few more minutes, then he would be able to set the timer and then make use of the well-concealed escape tunnel. Hadrian Lange would disappear forever; he had enough contacts to garner a new identity, make a new start. Find more people to rally behind him. There were always more fools.

Pulling a key from an inside pocket, he unlocked the door to his office. After locking it again behind him, he dropped two heavy bars into purpose-made brackets it to make absolutely sure that he wasn't disturbed. Taking a large briefcase from beside his desk, he turned to the safe that squatted in the corner of the room. With the ease of long practice, he spun the dial, first one way and then the other. The safe opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing that which he would much rather not have to leave behind.

First, the money. Stack after stack of cash ended up in the briefcase, representing enough in the way of liquid assets to tide him over until he could rebuild the Brotherhood of the Fallen.

On the next shelf down were documents which revealed far too much about him and his secrets. I should have burned them years ago. But into the briefcase they went as well. Closing the case, he snapped the latches shut.

One more thing to do. On the lowest shelf of the safe was a flat square plastic box with a safety switch and a red button. Pressing the button would start the timer on a large amount of explosive set under the compound itself. When it went off, it probably wouldn't kill all of the intruders, but it would make identification of the dead very difficult; thus, he would get his revenge for this setback and cover his tracks.

He reached for the remote.

-ooo-​

Emily

Something had obviously been going on in the large room at the end of the building. Close to the end of the corridor, Emily could see a large grey-skinned man, lying on his back. He appeared to have no eyes. Further in, a pair of legs was visible.

Prudently, she paused before revealing herself. "PRT! Drop your weapons!" I have to assume whoever's in there is hostile until proven otherwise.

"PRT!" The voice was barely a croak. "Sergeant James Kinsey!" He rattled off his service number.

"Kinsey, it's Lieutenant Piggot," Emily replied. "Is Captain Snow there?"

"Here, but unconscious, ma'am. We've got wounded."

Dammit. It could still be a trick. She remembered meeting the burly Sergeant, but she didn't know his voice well enough, or his service number. "Sergeant. Captain Snow's friend. The one who can shoot. What's his name?"

She fancied she heard amusement in his tone, as pained as it was. "He's a she, ma'am, and her name's Gladys Knott. I hear she waxed your ass but good."

The surname was unfamiliar, but the rest was correct. She still recalled her jaw-dropping amazement as a goddamn schoolteacher outshot her, target after target. "Coming out, Sergeant. Don't shoot."

Together with Kenworth, she stepped forward, to see even more carnage than she expected. Five dead men, six if she counted the obvious parahuman. Both Hanran and Rodriguez were down, she noted absently. Six girls, two unconscious. Fuck. And Kinsey …

The burly Sergeant was propped up against the far wall, his pistol in his hand. Cradled against his body was Taylor. They were both bloodstained, scorched and obviously injured; she looked the more beat-up of the pair, but not by much. "She's alive?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but we need medics, bad." From the sound of his voice, Taylor wasn't the only one.

"Roger that, Sergeant." Outside, the firing was almost done. She activated her radio. "Fire Team Charlie Actual calling Fire Base One. Objective achieved. Six, I say again, six hostages secured. Casualties, I say again, casualties. Medical assistance required urgentmost. Do you copy, over?"

It took a long moment for the reply to come back. "Message received, Fire Team Charlie Actual. Medvac incoming alpha-sierra-alpha-papa. Hold tight. Fire Base One, out."

"Fire Team Charlie Actual, that's a roger. Out." Emily looked looked over at Kinsey. "Congratulations, Sergeant. You did it."

Kinsey's smile, though pained, was genuine. "The Captain did the hard work, ma'am. I was just along for the ride."

-ooo-​

Lange

The door to the office burst open in a cloud of splinters. Lange spun around, coming to his feet, the remote forgotten. An imposing figure, made no less so by the sheet wrapped around her, stalked into the room. The bars, top and bottom, snapped like dry twigs, impeding her advance not in the slightest.

"You … fucking … little … shit," snarled Joanne. "I'm gonna take you apart like a fucking Christmas turkey."

He looked up at her, curling his lip. As he opened his mouth to speak, she lunged forward, only to stumble and collapse to the floor. An agonised shriek left her lips as she writhed, her back arching off the ground.

"You're nothing," he said. "I can kill you here and now, and you can't do -"

Too late, he looked up to see the metallic statue standing in the doorway. Metal leaped out from her, wrapping around him, pinioning his arms and legs. Worse, the metal also covered his eyes, holding his head tightly. Line of sight to the brutish woman was broken; his power over her ended. He could hear her getting to her feet.

"You were saying?" she asked. "Nice save, Kari. Thanks."

"I, uh, no problem," a softer voice answered. "What do we do with him now?"

"There's money in the briefcase," he said swiftly. "Let me go and it's all yours."

The big woman laughed harshly. "You drugged me. You chained me down to a fucking bed. You let Smasher do what he wanted to me. And you think money will get you out of this?"

"All right then," he replied. "I surrender. Hand me over to the police."

-ooo-​

Kari

"No." Joanne's voice was flat. "No. You don't get out of this so easily."

"Uh, we do have him prisoner," Kari objected, but her heart really wasn't in it.

"And the moment his eyes are uncovered, he can cause pain just by looking at someone." Joanne shook her head. "And what he's done. What he was going to do to you. You're just going to let him walk after all that?"

She was right. Kari could remember, all too clearly, her terror in that small stuffy room, with the rawboned man looming over her, undoing his belt. What could have happened … I owe Roberto so very much.

"I …" she began, but Lange spoke over her.

"You will do nothing," he snapped. "You will let me go. You will both let me go. I will walk out of here, and you will do nothing to stop me."

Far from being hypnotic, his voice was grating on the ears. But Kari felt it influencing her, deep inside. He's right. I have to let him go.

Joanne swayed. "Kari, you have to let him go … no!" Her eyes came into focus for just a moment. "No, shit, his voice, his voice!"

But it was too late. Kari was already letting the metal slide off of him. The moment his eyes were free, they focused their burning gaze upon Joanne; she screamed once more as she hunched over. But then she straightened again, agony etched in her every feature, every inch of movement a battle against almost insurmountable odds.

"No," she grated. Lunging forward, she clamped her hand over his mouth.

That insidious voice stilled, Kari took her opportunity. This was a man who had caused Joanne to be violated many times. The other girls had suffered just the same fate. Much the same would have happened to her, but for a kind Mexican boy who chose not to bend to peer pressure.

He was going to break me in. How many of the others did he do that to?

Her resolve hardened. The metal rod sharpened, punching into his abdomen, branching out into a thousand needle-sharp points, metal reaching into every part of his body. His back arched as he screamed past Joanne's gagging hand. And then it burst outward, turning him into a silvery pincushion from the inside.

Joanne released him. His eyes stared back at them, but there was no power in his gaze any more. He gasped once, twice, three times, like a landed fish, and then he stopped breathing. His head lolled sideways.

Slowly, Kari withdrew the metal from him, the spikes retreating into his flesh and withdrawing along the entry points. When the last of it slid out of the wound in his abdomen, he fell bonelessly to the floor.

"Oh shit," Kari choked. "I killed him. I really killed him."

Joanne put an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, but he really deserved it," she assured the younger girl. "Thanks. You saved my ass back there."

"You saved both of us," Kari replied, then watched in confusion as Joanne took hold of the heavy desk and hefted it. "What are you doing?"

"Confusing the hell out of whoever does the post-mortem," Joanne grunted. With an effort, she brought the end of the desk down on the supine corpse, several times in a row. Drawers fell from the desk and their contents scattered over the floor, but Joanne didn't stop until Lange was more or less unrecognisable as a human being. With a thud, she dropped the desk on top of the mangled body. "Okay, now we can go."

Without a backward glance, they both walked from the office.

End of Part 5-3
​

Author's Note: REMF = Rear Echelon Mother-Fucker. An officer who never goes to the front lines, but issues orders that screw things up and get soldiers killed.

Part 5-4​

 

[Starfox5]

Very good, gripping action scenes there. Sorting out this mess will be a big challenge.

 

[seeing_octarine]

I saw that Bravo/Charlie edit, Ack! I saw it! You're not fast enough to fool me! I'm not crazy at all!

Seriously, been waiting for this. It's been too long since my last Recoil fix.

 

[Klerg]

This story is why I finally migrated to QQ, since I just had to vote for it to come as often as possible. This story is gold.

 

[Prince Charon]

Well done. Under the circumstances, Joanne probably didn't need to mess with the scene, but she had no reason to know that.

 

[Ack]

Well done. Under the circumstances, Joanne probably didn't need to mess with the scene, but she had no reason to know that.

Click to shrink...

She didn't need to, but she wanted to beat him into a fine pulp. Very cathartic.

 

[tenchi96]

Great chapter, great story.
This was very action packed, and very well written update. Lisa is wonderful, as always.

...and they still are not aware that the compound is rigged to blow...

 

[Ack]

Great chapter, great story.
This was very action packed, and very well written update. Lisa is wonderful, as always.

...and they still are not aware that the compound is rigged to blow...

Click to shrink...

Oh, Lisa's aware. She just knows that it won't.

 

[tenchi96]

Oh, Lisa's aware. She just knows that it won't.

Click to shrink...

Oh, so Lange did not yet activate the countdown - that's good to know.

I also think that the changing points of view worked really well here.
And Piggot -whom I really like in this story- probably torpedoed her career, which should leave her open to a later recruitment by Taylor.