The Slippery Slope [Worm AU]

The Slippery Slope

Part Nine: Out of Control

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

I was sitting on my bed, looking out the window, when Dad knocked on the bedroom door. Without turning my head, I called out, “Come in.”

I heard the door open, and looked around. Dad looked a little frazzled around the edges, but he had an energy to him that had been missing for quite some time. He indicated the cases I had filled. “Everything packed?”

I patted the mattress, which had been stripped bare. “Gonna need to wash my sheets at some point, but sure.” The words were light, but my tone wavered between forced cheer and pure unhappiness.

Stepping past the cases, he cleared his throat. “It's going to be better than you think, Taylor. It's a new town, a new beginning. We can start fresh, without all the old baggage hanging off us.”

I shook my head, letting some of my frustration show on my face. “What if I wanted some of that baggage? I was happy with Peter, for the first time in basically forever. You never did anything when I was miserable, but when I find some friends who are actually willing to stand up for me, you leave town to get me away from them.”

There was a frozen moment when I realised exactly how bitchy that sounded. I wanted to take it back, but the words wouldn't come. I didn't mean that wouldn't work, because I had meant it.

And then the time was past. “Taylor, I'm sorry.” Dad's voice was heavy, but I could hear the anger he was trying to conceal. “You're just going to have to trust me on this. Once you get a little older and get some perspective on this, you'll realise that I did the right thing, getting you away from the Empire before you got too deep into it.”

“And in the meantime, I get no say. Because I'm just a kid.”

He sat down on the bed beside me. “Taylor, I really hate to say this, because you're damn smart. Smarter than most people your age. But the fact is … you are a kid. You don't have the age or experience to truly look at what's happening and see how they're manipulating you to like them. I've seen it a hundred times before. Nearly fell for it a few times myself.”

I threw up my hands. “Dad, everyone manipulates everyone to make them like them! It's not something that starts after you leave school! Peter actually wanted to know me, and he spent time being nice to me. Am I supposed to reject him because of that? Because maybe he thought I'd be a nice person to talk to? Or because I was being bullied, and he wanted to stop that? I mean, fucking wow, if you reject everyone who spends time trying to get you to like them, you're gonna be real fucking lonely!”

He grimaced. “I didn't mean it like that. I meant it with the gangs. They make people feel good so they'll join. Now, I know you hadn't joined, but this 'friend to the Empire' thing was just the first step. Next, there would've been subtle pressure and hints that if you were 'really' their friend, you'd commit yourself more to it. And the next thing you know, you're wearing the colours and chanting the chants.”

I stopped and thought about that for a moment. Had there been pressure for me to join? Had Peter hinted at any time that I wasn't really good enough for him if I was just a Friend to the Empire?

No.

Dad was looking at me expectantly. I shook my head. “No, Dad, you're wrong. They weren't like that. They were just … there for me. I know you can only think the worst of them, but they weren't pressuring me to do anything at all.”

He looked unhappy. “I'm sorry to say, Taylor, but they were actually pressuring you. Making you think you were special to them when you were really just another recruit. Want me to prove it? Do you think they would've treated you the same if you'd been Asian? Or black?”

“But I'm not Asian or black!” I couldn't believe he'd even gone there. “If I was, I wouldn't have even been getting bullied!”

“Not by Emma and her friends, maybe,” he said gently. “But what about by the Empire?”

“You're wrong,” I said stubbornly. “They might pass a few remarks, but they don't hardly ever go after Asians or blacks in the school, unless they're ABB, and there's no fucking way in hell that I'd ever join them.”

His lips thinned. “That's another thing I want to talk to you about, Taylor. You're starting to swear more than I'm comfortable with. I think they're a bad influence on you in that way, too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, at least I'm not saying nigger or chink or spic all the time. You've gotta be happy about that, right?”

From the look on his face, I had hit exactly the wrong note. Jeez, what does he want from me?

He sighed. “I'm going to go put your cases in the car. We've got about half an hour before sundown. I want to be on the road by then.”

“Whatever,” I grunted, turning back to the window. Crossing my arms on the windowsill, I rested my chin on them. It's just not fair.

<><>​

My bedroom window faced west, with a great view of Captain's Hill. I hadn't paid attention to it for years, but now I found myself actually studying it for the first time in basically forever, taking in the details. I'm gonna miss this.

Who was I kidding? It wasn't Captain's Hill that I was going to miss. It was Peter and the others. My boyfriend and my other friends. Yeah, they were racists, but that didn't matter. Okay, so if I was being brutally honest with myself, me being associated with them might've had a little tiny bit to do with the ABB coming after me, but Peter had saved me, right? He'd been there when I needed him. So had George, Jenna, Bronson and the others. Which was a hell of a lot more than I could say about anyone else in my life, Dad included.

Life was just so goddamn unfair, sometimes.

Even as I heard Dad grunt, heaving the suitcases into the trunk of the car, I considered ducking out the back door and calling Peter to come pick me up. But I shot down that plan almost as fast as I came up with it. Dad would come looking for me, and he knew that I was associated with the Empire. Knowing him, he'd go to either Mr Ferguson, or try to contact Kaiser himself. At best, he'd raise a fuss which would be the exact opposite of me slipping away quietly. At worst … I wasn't thrilled with Dad right now, but he was still my Dad, and I didn't want to see him hurt or killed.

With a sigh, I resumed my study of Captain's Hill. Why the fuck are there no good options in my life any more?

<><>​

All too soon, I heard Dad's familiar tread on the stairs. “Taylor,” he called. “Time to go. Let's hit the road, kiddo.”

I didn't want to go. I did not want to go. But I was all out of viable alternatives. At least Peter will be able to visit. Dad can't stop him from coming to Boston.

Wiping away something that wasn't a tear, because I wasn't going to cry, I heaved myself to my feet and swung my backpack on to my shoulder. He met me at my bedroom door and glanced at the pack. “We can put that in the trunk too.”

“No.” I'd packed it myself. It held things that I considered essential right now. Tissues, just in case I got a runny nose because of pollen or something (because I wasn't going to cry), an emergency change of clothes, a few of my favourite books, and the phone Peter had given me, stashed away in a side pocket. That last one was something that I definitively did not want Dad finding, ever. “I'm good. I'll carry it in the car.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “If you say so. Let's go.”

I followed him downstairs and out the back door, which he locked – he'd already done the front, I figured – and around the corner of the house to the car. At the passenger-side door, I paused. “I, uh, might need to go. Before we go.” It wasn't an escape attempt or anything. Just an excuse to spend a little more time in the house. In Brockton Bay.

He shook his head. “I already had the water turned off. If you do need to go, just let me know on the way out of town. We can stop at a gas station.” His eye fell on my backpack. “But you'll be leaving that in the car.”

“Dad!” I protested. “I wasn't going to run off on you!” Despite the fact that I had considered the idea several times, I still felt a little affronted. After all, I'd decided not to, hadn't I?

He gave me a 'Dad' look, the type that tries to convey the message I was a kid too, once. So don't try to pull that on me. “Get in the car, Taylor. We've got a ways to go before we hit Boston.”

I got in the car.

<><>​

I brooded in the passenger seat as Dad carefully reversed down the driveway. At least I didn't feel like I was going to cry any more, because I was too busy feeling indignant that Dad had thought I might actually try to duck out on him. Okay, so I'd probably do it if I was sure he wouldn't get hurt, but that was beyond the point.

Looking out my window as Dad paused at the end of the driveway, I saw a car coming. That wasn't unusual; cars drove down our street all the time. But this guy was slowing down, despite the fact that Dad had stopped to let him go past. Then I saw the open window, and the arm coming out. Last of all, I saw the colours.

“Dad!” I screamed. “It's the ABB! They're here!”

To give him his credit, he never hesitated for an instant. Still in reverse, he slammed his foot down on the gas. Gravel sprayed everywhere as he rocketed the car out of the driveway and into the street. The ABB car was coming up on my right; we shot past its nose with inches to spare. In the process, I got a really close look at the front end of their car, the startled faces behind the windshield, but most importantly, the gun that the guy in the passenger seat was holding.

Rubber screeched on asphalt as Dad swung us in a turn that left us on the other side of the road, facing the opposite way to the ABB car. The driver of that car must have been surprised by Dad's sudden move. As it was, he flinched and swerved, putting two wheels up on the curb and wiping out a series of trash cans.

“Guns!” I yelled, my brain finally catching up with what I'd seen.

Dad didn't answer, but the engine roared and the tyres did their best to leave black marks on the road as we took off. I began to heave a tiny sigh of relief, looking back over my shoulder; by the time those guys got turned around, we'd be long gone.

But then we swerved violently, slewing across the road. I grabbed for a handhold as another car shot by on the right. This time, I only caught a glimpse, but I was pretty sure that I'd seen more colours and more guns.

Oh, shit. The ABB really does have it in for me me.

“Taylor,” grunted Dad as he wrestled the car back on to the correct side of the street. “My phone's in the overnight bag. Call the cops.” His hands were occupied, but he jerked his head toward the back seat.

I had a better idea. Yanking open the side pocket to my backpack, I pulled my phone out of it.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed. “Where'd you get that from?”

“Peter gave it to me.” I tapped in the code to wake the phone up.

“You never told me about that!”

“You never asked!” Peter's number was speed dial 1; I hit that, and held the phone to my ear.

“When we get out of this, young lady, you and I are going to have a long talk.”

Seriously, his priorities needed work. “Okay, Dad. Now, shush!” The phone was ringing, and I didn't want to miss Peter.

Pops sounded behind the car. Are they shooting at us? I yelped as the rear window shattered, spraying bits of glass into the back seat. Fuck. They're definitely shooting at us.

“Hello?” Peter sounded unreasonably relaxed. “What's up, Taylor?”

“Peter!” I gasped, flinching as more pops sounded, and something hit the car with a resounding clang. “We need help! The ABB are chasing us and shooting at us!”

“Christ! Okay, on my way. Where are you?” I heard the roar of an engine in the background.

Oh, thank God. He's already in his truck.

I stared at a street sign as it whipped past, then hung on for a corner. The old car fishtailed slightly, but Dad had it well in hand. “Uh, we've just turned down Landau Street from my house.”

“Jenna, hit the GPS,” I heard him say. “Where can we intercept? Bronson, call my dad. Call everyone.”

“Please hurry,” I begged. I let out a little scream as a couple of bullets whipped past my head to punch holes in the windshield. Fortunately, it didn't shatter as far as Dad's side, so he could still see. Mostly.

“It's okay,” he assured me. “We're gonna get you out of this. You just need to stay ahead of them. Can you put the phone on speaker?”

“Oh, uh, okay,” I blurted. Fumbling with the handset, I finally pressed the right button. “You're on speaker.”

“Mr Hebert, this is Peter Ferguson,” he said.

Dad gritted his teeth and swerved the car around a slow-moving sedan; a couple of bullets hit the back somewhere. The noise of the engine was loud in my ears. “Yeah, I get that,” he half-shouted. “This is your fault. What are you gonna do about it?”

“You're right, and I'm sorry. You're heading south on Landau? Make a left at Ronan.”

Ronan Avenue made a T-intersection across the southern end of Landau Street. It was coming up fast, a situation with which I was uncomfortably aware. “And after that?” Dad's voice was clipped.

“Right on to Hammerhead. We'll be there. Reinforcements on the way.” Peter's voice was calm and assured. He sounded so confident about the outcome that I actually felt myself relaxing slightly. Peter's in charge. He knows what to do.

“Got it.” Dad didn't have time for any more than that. Cars were passing through the intersection ahead of us, but we had neither the time nor the inclination to slow down. He jammed the heel of his hand down on the horn button and swung the car as far over to the right as he could. All I could see was a blur of picket fences and startled pedestrians.

At the last moment, he yanked on the wheel, swerving across three lanes to aim at a driveway just before the intersection. More clangs sounded, and Dad's window shattered inward, spraying him with tiny cubes of safety glass. I grabbed a handhold just in time to prevent my head from banging into the roof of the car. There was a tremendous crunch from the front suspension and the car nearly launched itself into the air. Then we cut across the corner of the intersection with the engine screaming like a banshee.

There was a hedge and a fence in the way. Or rather, there had been a hedge and a fence. We went through the former like a combine harvester and the latter like a bulldozer; leaves and palings went everywhere. Dad grunted and swung the wheel a little; a split second later, a telegraph pole took off the mirror on my side of the vehicle. Launching off the curb, we caromed off of the corner of a parked car and bounced on to the road, tyres squealing wildly as our back end swung outward. Spinning the wheel like a rally driver, Dad corrected the skid and accelerated into the straightaway.

“Are you still there?” Peter sounded concerned. “Taylor, what was that?”

“Corner at Ronan,” I managed. “Dad took a shortcut.” A bullet took a chunk out of my headrest; I actually heard it go whap past my head, before adding another hole to the windshield. I let out an involuntary scream.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

“Bullet,” I gasped. “Came really close.”

“Just hang on. We're coming to you.”

“Yeah, I know.” I saw the corner to Hammerhead Street coming up. “Dad, we gotta turn down here.”

He grunted painfully and began to turn the wheel with both hands. That was when I saw the blood covering his left hand. “Dad!” I yelled. “Peter, Dad's been hit! He's bleeding!”

“How bad is it?”

“I don't know! I can't see! Dad!”

From being hunched over the wheel, Dad slumped sideways against the door. His hands began to slip off the wheel. Frantically, I lunged across the space between us and grabbed the wheel, knowing that the tacky feeling was from my father's blood and not being able to do anything about it.

“PETER!” I screamed, knowing that he wouldn't be able to do anything about it either. “HELP!”

We had drifted on to the wrong side of the road. Fortunately, there wasn't much in the way of traffic; unfortunately, we were barrelling down the wrong side of the road against said traffic. I desperately yanked the wheel around and got us back on the right side of the road, but then we were heading for the curb and some parked cars.

I didn't have my license; I'd never even been in the driver's seat of a car. There were three pedals down on the floor, and Dad's foot was still jammed on what I figured was the accelerator. One of the other two was the brake, but I had no idea which one it was, or even how to reach it.

I couldn't stop the car or even slow us down. I had the vague idea that changing to a lower gear would reduce our speed, but that wasn't something I could experiment with at the moment. So I did everything else that I could think of. I pulled the wheel over toward myself as fast as I could to turn us away from the parked car, causing our back end to swing around and the tyres to squeal in protest. We bounced off of the other car anyway, and I yanked the handbrake on. At least I knew where that was, and what it did.

That was when everything went to hell.

The first thing that happened was a horrible grinding noise came from under the car and the engine stalled. Then we were spinning around, totally out of control, a horrible screeching noise coming from the tyres. I was pulled back toward my seat by the force of the spin, losing my grip on the steering wheel.

And the third thing? The third thing was when the car flipped. I felt it start to go, and I hung on for dear life. I watched in horror as Dad began to tumble out of his seat; too late, I recalled his habit of stopping at the end of the driveway and then putting his seat-belt on.

“Dad!” I screamed, reaching over to grab him. I got got my arms around his waist just as the car hit the ground again. It didn't matter that I was holding on as tightly as I could, he was jerked free of my grip like it was nothing.

The car rolled over a few more times, or few dozen more. I wasn't sure. I tried to keep hold of Dad, to cushion him from the worst of the impacts. Not that I succeeded very often. There seemed to be blood all over him; by the time we stopped rolling, it was all over me, too.

I was bruised and battered, and my nose was bleeding. My thoughts were muzzy and confused, and for the longest time, I couldn't make sense of what was around me, or why Dad was lying on the roof of the car. Slowly, I pieced it together. The car was upside down. He hadn't been wearing his seatbelt.

“Dad,” I mumbled. He didn't respond. “Dad!” I said again, more loudly. Still no response.

I had no idea how badly he was hurt, or if he was even alive, but I had to get to him. Feebly, I felt for my seat-belt release and triggered it. In retrospect, this was a bad idea; I could easily have broken my own neck when I fell out of my seat.

Fortunately, I didn't, although my shoulder hurt where I had landed on it. My glasses hadn't even been dislodged from my face, although they were a little awry. I reached out to him. While I didn't know first aid and had no idea how to take a pulse, I put my hand flat on his chest. A moment later, I felt it rise slightly, then drop. He was still breathing, at least. Dad was alive.

I had to get him out of the car. While I wasn't sure if I should be moving someone who'd been in a car accident, and I'd read that cars exploding after a crash was mostly Hollywood, I didn't want to assume that it wasn't going to explode anyway, or blow up, or whatever. So I turned from where I was kneeling under my seat, and tried to open the door. It didn't want to open. I tried harder. It still didn't want to open.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “Okay. Door won't open. How do we get out?”

That was when I looked at the car window on Dad's side, which wasn't there any more.

<><>​

After a few moments of painful crawling, including climbing over my unconscious father, I managed to get out through his window. Turning back, I started dragging him out as well. It wasn't easy, and the little bits of glass that kept falling down out of the door didn't help in the slightest.

I had him about halfway out of the window, sobbing from the exertion, when I heard a vehicle brake to a halt behind me. Oh, thank God. Peter's here. I didn't stop hauling on Dad's shoulders. Dad had been hurt before the crash, and I was pretty sure that he was still bleeding. I needed to get him out to where I could maybe do something about it. Peter's truck, as I recalled, had a first aid kit in it. Bronson knows first aid. Hope began to stir in my heart at last.

“Well now, what do we have here?”

The voice wasn't Peter's. It didn't belong to anyone I knew in the Empire. Maybe it's someone else he knows? Without pausing in my efforts, I looked over my shoulder, and instantly regretted it. Four of them stood there, with another four walking over from another car. All of them were around my age, or a little older, wearing ABB colours.

Carefully, I lowered Dad's shoulders to the ground. I didn't even know how I was going to do this, but I wasn't going to leave Dad. Peter was depending on me to stand strong until he got there. I couldn't let either one of them down.

Standing up, I faced them. “What do you want?”

The guy I figured was in charge of the first group – he was bigger and taller than the rest – walked straight up to me. I saw the punch coming at the last second, but it was far to late for me to do anything about it by then. His fist hammered into my stomach, and I collapsed to my knees, coughing and gagging. Pain slashed through my scalp as he twisted his fingers through my hair and hauled me to my feet. All I could do was wheeze helplessly, my body trying to double over so as to relieve the pain in my gut. Two of his buddies came up beside him and grabbed my arms, holding me firmly. My shoulders hurt where they were twisting my arms back, but it was still better than having my hair pulled out by the roots.

“Funny girl,” he sneered into my face, and spat at me. It landed on my cheek; I wanted to reach up to wipe it off, but I couldn't. Even as I struggled uselessly, he slapped me across the face. My ears rang, and I reeled. My glasses were knocked askew again, but I didn't lose them, for which I was grateful.

My nose started bleeding all over again, and tears came to my eyes. I coughed and gasped, trying to get my breath back. He just looked at me, sneering.

“What we want, funny girl, is you.” His voice was contemptuous. “By the time we're finished with you, the Empire's gonna kick you to the curb.” One of his compatriots, a girl, giggled in a way that scared the life out of me.

I forced air into my lungs. “Dad … leave him alone … nothing to do with this.” I wanted to explain more, to point out that Dad had been literally going to take me out of town to keep me away from Peter, but I didn't get the chance. My head rang as he slapped me again, this time on the other side of my face. My glasses were roughly jolted back into position, an outcome I was fairly certain he hadn't intended. Nor had he intended to slap me where he'd spat on me; he grimaced as he wiped his hand off on his jeans.

“Yeah, Lee,” said one of the ABB guys. “What do we do with the old guy?”

Lee shrugged. “Put Empire marks on the car, then torch it.”

“No!” I screamed. “No! Please, don't!” I wrenched at the arms holding me, putting my shoulders under almost unbearable strain, but to no avail. “Leave him alone! He's not Empire!”

That got me a sneer from Lee. “Yeah, but you are, funny girl. Lung wants you alive, so he dies.”

“Yeah, but how alive does Lung want her?” asked one of the others. He cupped his crotch suggestively. “Plenty of room between healthy and dead.”

Lee smiled; the expression made my blood run cold. “You know, I -”

I had no idea how Peter did it, but one moment all was quiet and the next, his truck blasted through the middle of the group of ABB punks. No engine noise, no lights, nothing. He came so close to me that I felt the wind of the passing vehicle; Lee, on the other hand, crunched heavily into the bullbar and was flung away from me. Brakes squealed and the truck jolted to a halt in the middle of the street; Peter leaped out of the driver's side, while Jenna and Bronson got out on the other.

Muted pops, and entirely un-muted screams, told me where Jenna and Bronson were mopping up the demoralised ABB teenagers. Peter, on the other hand, strode toward where I was being held by Lee's friends. “Taylor,” he said flatly. It was both a greeting and a direction. His right hand was behind his back, while his left hand made a vertical patting gesture; I knew what he wanted me to do.

“Hey, man,” blurted one of the ABB. “Back off or we'll cut -”

Even as his switchblade snicked open, I was already doing what Peter told me; letting my legs go limp, I collapsed to my knees. My shoulders nearly dislocated on the spot, but I didn't care about that. Peter brought his right hand around from behind his back with a pistol in it. Levelling the firearm, he fired once, shifted aim, and fired again. Both the guys holding me let go; I heard them collapsing to the ground.

I tried to climb to my feet, but between the car crash, the exertion, and the physical abuse, my joints were in a state approximating water. Peter was there before I could perform an embarrassing face-plant into the street; with one hand he helped me up, then shifted position so that his shoulder was under mine, supporting me. I felt the warmth of his closeness, the strength of his muscles, and wanted to burst into tears from sheer relief. Peter's here, I thought again. This time, however, I knew it to be true. Everything's going to be okay.

“Taylor,” he said again, this time much more warmly. His gun went away somewhere, and he smoothed back my hair from my face. I soaked up the sensation of his fingertips brushing my cheek. “Are you all right? Where are you hurt?”

“I – I'm fine,” I stammered. “You got here just in time. It's Dad. He's hurt. He won't wake up.”

“Oh, shit.” He looked down at where Dad was still sprawled halfway out of his car window. Turning his head, he raised his voice. “Bronson! Jenna! Get here, now!”

Once I felt that I could stand on my own, he knelt down beside where Dad lay. He reached down to take Dad's pulse in a gesture that I recognised from any number of movies and TV shows. “Okay, he's still alive,” he noted. “Heartbeat's a bit fast and a bit faint. You said he was hit? How bad?”

I took a couple of staggering steps and leaned against the car, upside down as it was. “I – I don't know. He's bleeding, I think, from his left side.”

“Okay, right.” He looked around as Bronson and Jenna approached. “Bronson, gonna need your help to get Taylor's dad out of the car. He needs first aid. Jenna, grab the first aid kit, then get Taylor settled in the truck.”

Bronson just nodded and went down on one knee beside the car; Jenna dashed over to the truck and started digging out the first-aid kit. I vaguely hoped that they wouldn't need to use my pads any more, because I had no idea where my backpack was.

“Okay,” Bronson muttered. “A little bit further. Watch his arm.” A pause. “Got a bullet hole. Putting pressure on it. Okay, now lift and move.”

I looked at the side of the car, and for the first time I realised that there were holes in it. A bullet must have gone through and hit Dad. I didn't know they could do that. It appeared that Hollywood had lied to me again.

“Okay, got the kit.” Jenna hustled over with the large plastic box, which she placed near Bronson; the burly teen delved into it immediately, muttering something about 'bleeding'. “Come on, Taylor, you look like you're about to fall over. Let's get you settled down.”

“Dad …” I protested feebly. I wanted to watch, to make sure he was going to be okay.

“It's all right,” she assured me, divining what I meant. With her arm under my shoulders, she easily supported my weight, guiding me toward the truck. “You'll be able to see what's happening, and we've got Vic- shit, Peter, look out! Grenade!”

A dark-cloaked figure wearing a demonic mask had appeared about three yards away and tossed something toward us. Even as he collapsed into white ash, Jenna lunged toward the truck, half-carrying me with her. I couldn't see what was happening with Dad and Peter and Bronson; before my brain could really catch up, the grenade went off. The explosion was oddly muffled; Jenna screamed “Bronson!” and shoved me to the ground. Then she pulled out her pistol and fired several shots at something out of my line of sight.

I was vaguely aware of bellowing engines and glaring headlights as I lay on the ground. The dark figure – Oni Lee, I gathered at long last – appeared about two yards behind Jenna. He fired into her back before I was able to shout a warning. She grunted and fell sideways, her pistol clattering on to the asphalt. More shots sounded from the other side of the truck even as the ABB assassin collapsed into ash once more; I heard Peter cry out in pain.

Trying to keep myself as low as possible, I crawled up next to Jenna. I didn't know what good I could do, but I wasn't going to do nothing.

“Jenna,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice down despite the persistent ringing in my ears. “Are you alive?” Which rated among the ten stupidest questions in history, I decided immediately. In any case, she didn't answer. Cautiously, I ran my hand over her back, finding the bullet-hole almost immediately; at least, I assumed that was what it was due to the wet warmth under my hand. With hardly any understanding of what I was doing, I pressed on the spot with the heel of my hand, hoping that I could slow the bleeding and give her a slightly better chance at living through this.

Any chance above zero is a good chance, right now.

Raising my head slightly, I cautiously looked around. Dad was most of the way out of the car, and he seemed to have a white bandage on his side. Peter was lying beside him, blood staining the front of his shirt. He was scrabbling weakly for his pistol, which lay just out of his grasp. Bronson was a few yards away from Peter. He was face-down on the asphalt, and even I knew what the dark spreading pool around his body meant. He threw himself on the grenade to save the rest of us.

Peter's eyes met mine, and he paused in his reach for the pistol. His lips formed words that I could read even across the gulf that separated us. Stay. Down.

I bit my lip. What he was advocating was the safest course of action, but I didn't want to be a coward, again, and leave Peter and Dad to the mercy of the ABB. They'll die. I'll have to watch them die, and live with that for the rest of my life.

Of course, there was the faint hope that the ABB would just, well, leave them alone. Maybe once everyone's down, they'll take their men and go. I was lying to myself – I knew I was lying to myself – but I didn't want to give in to utter despair.

Peter's efforts to regain the pistol redoubled as a lone figure approached him. I couldn't see the person properly against the headlights, but he was moving confidently. Almost strutting. Peter finally managed to get a proper grasp on the firearm and half-rolled to bring his arm up, but he was too late. A foot rose and then fell on to his forearm; bone cracked. Peter cried out feebly, the gun sliding from his hand.

The man turned, and I saw the metal mask that covered his face. Then the light fell on the tattoos that covered his torso. Tattoos of dragons.

This was Lung.

I knew what he'd done. We'd covered it in World Issues. He was one of a very few capes who could boast of facing an Endbringer in close combat and living to tell the tale. Unfortunately, he wasn't a hero; far from it. Lung had unified the Asian gangs (or, to put it another way, he'd killed the bosses and co-opted the rest) under one banner, and made the Azn Bad Boyz into a name to be reckoned with. But not in a good way; under his rule, the ABB dealt in human trafficking and drug smuggling with equal gusto. I knew that falling into his hands was a very bad idea.

He spoke, uttering three words. The mask and his accent conspired with my still-ringing ears to defeat understanding, until he spoke again, raising his voice.

“Where is she?”

I didn't need to be a genius to know exactly who 'she' was. Me. Lung was after me.

Peter gasped something, and Lung casually kicked him in the face. His head snapped back and he went limp, blood running from his nose, as Lung stood over him.

“Girl,” Lung called out. He really had a very impressive voice. “Come out now, or I kill your father and your lover. Stay in hiding, and I kill them both, then find you.”

A small part of my mind fastened on to the total irrelevancy about Peter, wanting to correct Lung in his misconception. The rest of my mind squashed it, trying to figure out a way out of this. I shifted slightly, and my hand brushed something hard and metallic; Jenna's pistol.

Can I? I had never been trained with firearms. But I'd seen too many movies and TV shows to not know the basics of how one aimed and fired a pistol. I knew it was ready to be fired; Jenna had been using it for just that purpose, not five minutes ago.

Do I dare? If I missed, then I would be in just as bad a position as before. I was pretty sure that I couldn't make Lung more pissed off with me than he had been before. And what if I actually managed to …

… to kill him?

Would the rest of the gang back off?

Would they turn tail and run, or avenge their dead boss?

All I knew was that if I didn't try, I'd never know.

“Girl -” he called out, but I was already moving. The pistol fitted neatly into my hand, as if it had been designed for it. Well, it had. I had zero confidence that I could hold it steady against the kick-back, so I added my other hand, making it slightly more awkward than the other one. I was still working out which finger to put on the trigger as I lined the thing in his general direction, and -

BANG

It went off in my hands, before I was properly ready or braced for it. The kick jolted my arms, but I didn't drop it. The flare had partially blinded me, and I blinked my eyes clear; I couldn't hear anything at all. Lung still stood there … but there was a trickle of red on his shoulder.

Holy shit, did I hit him?

As he turned toward me, I jerked the trigger again. This time, I missed. He started walking toward me; I fired again and again. By the time I realised that there was nothing happening when I pulled the trigger, there were two more trickles of red on his torso.

The good news? He was officially distracted from Peter and Dad.

The bad news? It didn't affect him at fucking all.

Belatedly, I dropped the pistol and tried to scramble backward, with some idea of maybe crawling under the truck, but he was there before I could do anything like that. Standing over me, he leaned down and picked me up by the scruff of the neck, like someone grabbing an alley cat. That about covered my level of threat toward him.

Lifting me effortlessly off the ground, he looked me in the face. His mask moved, like he was saying something. I couldn't hear a thing. He tilted his head and his mask moved again. All I heard was the roaring of abused eardrums; I wondered if I'd get permanent hearing loss out of this. Then I wondered if I'd live long enough to have to worry about permanent hearing loss.

He carried me back over toward where Peter lay next to Dad. He pointed at them while saying something, then very clearly ran his fingertip across his throat. I didn't need to be able to hear to understand that one; even though he had me, he was going to kill them anyway.

“No!” I shouted; it sounded flat in my own head. “No! You've got me! Leave them alone!”

His chest began to shake, then he tilted his head back. It took me a moment to realise that he was laughing. Laughing at me, at my plight. At my helplessness. I knew exactly what he was thinking, though he probably wasn't putting it into words.

Nobody can help you now.

He carried me in that same humiliating way toward one of the cars that had pulled up nearby. I didn't have a chance to escape, given that my feet were six inches off the ground the whole way. At some sort of command from him, one of the goons standing there popped the trunk. There were at least a dozen guys there, maybe more. They were all leering at me in a way that would've made me want to take a dozen showers if I just saw them on the street corner. As it was, I wanted to curl up and die.

The trunk lid gaped open, and he tossed me in. Again, like an unwanted alley cat. The lid slammed down.

I was alone. In the darkness. Nobody could help me. Nobody was coming to save me. Everyone I loved and trusted and depended on was lying out there on the road, either dead or about to die. And once Lung was finished with them … he'd come for me.

Bone-deep despair welled up inside me. I stopped fighting it.

<><>​

I opened my eyes. Did I pass out? It was still dark. My ears were still ringing. If I did, it wasn't for long. I could smell the musty-carpet stink of the inside of the trunk. But something was different. Very different indeed.

I now knew the car, inside and out. Every part of it was totally familiar to me, and how those parts interacted with every other part. Reaching out, I could feel the other cars, even the overturned one, though that had a few broken parts. Small machines danced through the air or lay on the ground; with a minor act of concentration, I identified them as pistols, with a few machine-guns here and there. Even tinier ones wandered back and forth. They were … switchblades, I thought.

Each and every one, a machine. Within my range, they were at my beck and call.

I took positive control over the car that I was trapped in. I didn't want to be trapped in it any more.

The trunk popped open.

I sat up.

My turn.



End of Part Nine

Part Ten