It Gets Worse [Worm AU Fanfic] Complete

It Gets Worse
The Timeline

January 3
Taylor Hebert is locked in her locker with highly unpleasant materials. She triggers with powers.

Larry Calhoun tries to arrest Frederickson but fails. Frederickson is incapacitated. The case against The Russian falls through.

Taylor speaks to Detective Larry Calhoun about her ordeal, and who caused it.

Mary Worthington gives Katarina Aramis a cold. She passes it on to her husband James.

Joe Pullman decides to hold a Chicken Festival.


January 4
Undercover police officers are placed in Winslow.

A dozen caterpillars make their chrysalises in a pianola in Carlsbad, California.


January 5
James Aramis, stuck at home with a cold, is inspired by a Western to set up a new exhibition in the Forsberg Gallery, with the theme of old-time artisanship.

Joe Pullman gets permission from Roy Christner to hold the Chicken Festival.


January 6
The Russian discovers that he's incredibly lucky by killing six attackers, each with a single shot.


January 7
L33t builds the Weird Shit O Meter to determine if he's really afflicted with bad luck.


January 9
L33t discovers that the WSoM works.


January 10
Taylor returns to school. Emma, Sophia and Madison immediately begin plotting against her.
Some of their friends try to get her in dodge-ball, but this backfires on them.
Sophia tries to grab her clothes while she's showering after, but she's dropped the soap and Sophia slips on it.
Madison tries to dump pencil shavings on her in World Affairs, but the boy in front drops his pencil and Madison slips on it.
Emma, Madison and Sophia try to get her with water-balloons. Emma drops a balloon and Sophia steps in the puddle. The soap on her shoe makes her slip over, and she trips and falls on the other two. The water balloons soak all three of them.


January 11
Emma, Sophia and Madison trap Taylor in the bathroom and try to soak her with juice. The toilet seats they're standing on come off at the worst possible moment, causing them to soak themselves and get stuck. Sophia slips in spilled juice and falls over, letting Taylor out of the cubicle.

At the end of school, Sophia has several boys chase Taylor with duct tape. She goes along as well. They trip and end up wrapping themselves up in the duct tape. Other students soon see this and pictures are taken. Some random guy steals Sophia's phone.
When Sophia is released, she finds out that one of the other guys was prodding her with something that wasn't a pocket knife. She beats crap out of him.

Taylor goes home and thinks about this, coming to the conclusion that she's a cape.

Sophia goes to Director Piggot in an attempt to hang Master crimes on Taylor. She is thwarted in the following ways:
Phone call
Wrong number
Deputy Director interrupt
Email
Endbringer sirens (false alarm)
Broken pencil
Faulty pen (out of ink)
Another faulty pen (nib came off)
Piggot's own pen (came apart)
Aegis interrupt (came through the window and put Sophia through the wall)

As Piggot is getting the idea something is going on, Danny and Taylor show up to talk about it.
Emily listens to their story, tests the hypothesis, then tells Taylor she's definitely a cape. She decides not to invite Taylor into the Wards when a bug flies into her mouth.

When they leave, she calls Armsmaster and has him start an investigation into Shadow Stalker.

Danny leaves Taylor at home and goes to work. He finds some irregularities and ends up putting a Lee Adamson (E88 mole) on paid leave until he can investigate more closely.

Piggot and Armsmaster investigate Shadow Stalker's locker to no avail.

Danny gets a threatening visit from a stranger, regarding Adamson.

Piggot has Armsmaster check Sophia's phone for location data.

Uber and L33t break into Winslow and harvest the luck energy left behind by Taylor.


January 12
A storm system in Florida causes airline food to spoil.

Armsmaster finds a location that Sophia has visited quite a bit.

Taylor has a good day at school.

Block & Tackle Party Supplies has problems sourcing helium (due to the rain) for the Chicken Festival, so they go with hydrogen.

American Airlines 732 has problems with blue ice; between passenger stomach upsets and a crack in the outer hatch, a large chunk has built up underneath.

Panacea heals Sophia.

Danny finds his tyres have been slashed, so he's late to pick up Taylor.

Taylor is kidnapped by Lee Adamson and Hookwolf.

The Tennessee Iron Works Foundry is contracted to make nails to make tables for the Forsberg exhibition. The batch is flawed due to a short-circuit caused by a water leak.

Sophia makes plans to sneak out of home and go after Taylor.

Taylor snarks off to Kaiser and the others, while Kaiser tries to contact Danny.

Kaiser is in the middle of threatening Taylor via Hookwolf when the blue ice breaks off of American 732 and smashes through the roof of the building, taking out both villains. All the other villains on site are injured or disabled. Taylor takes Kaiser's phone and gets pictures. Cricket attempts to kill her and is hit by a bus. Adamson drives her home then leaves the state.

In the aftermath of this, Victor and Othala are arrested at home and Krieg leaves town. Kaiser, Hookwolf, Fenja, Menja, Stormtiger and Cricket are captured.

Shadow Stalker tries to access her stash, but is trapped and arrested by Armsmaster.

PHO explodes over the pictures.

Emily briefs the PRT. Coil gets ideas.

Emily visits Taylor (offscreen) and buys Kaiser's phone.


January 13
The storm system hits Brockton Bay. Lightning spikes Coil's computers, revealing them to the PRT computers. Coil sets a thug to harm Danny as a test for Taylor. The thug is struck by lightning, breaking his collarbone. Coil is also electrocuted (not fatally) and breaks his collarbone.
Piggot speaks to Calvert in the sickbay. The results are inconclusive.

The Tennessee Iron Works Foundry ships nails and anvils to Brockton Bay. The nails are used to make several large tables.

Francis Garibaldi's delivery truck falls into a sinkhole.

Don Hammett, Director of Public Works, talks to Roy Christner about fixing the roads. They're due to start work on the 17th.

An RV in Huntington, West Virginia, is struck by lightning. It's sold to Merv's Second-Hand Cars & trucks. It has faulty GPS.


January 14
One of the twelve chrysalises in the player piano in the Forsberg gallery hatches. It flutters out and rests in a blacksmith's forge.

Coil decides to leave town. He's in his base when a leak develops in his base. He's also walking past the Forsberg Gallery when they're putting the anvils in place upstairs.

The leak in Coil's base escalates into a full self-destruct situation. He drops the timeline.

The driver of the forklift carrying the forge is distracted when the butterfly flutters out into his face, and he swerves to hit the table holding the anvils.

The table breaks because of the faulty nails, and all nine anvils smash out through the window and fall around Coil. He goes to the PRT building and turns himself in.

The Slaughterhouse Nine steals the RV from Merv's Second-Hand Cars & Trucks and drives northeast, in the assumption that they're going southwest.

L33t harvests luck energy from the anvil circle. The WSoM discharges a massive amount of good luck into him, burning out in the process. He hurries home and begins to Tinker.



January 15
Jack Slash wakes up to find that they're just outside Brockton Bay.

Don Hammett finds road damage on the road south of Brockton Bay and arranges repairs, and for a section to be blocked off due to a detour. He also arranges for Dockworkers to take over the roadworks on Monday. The cut-off section includes the rest area where the Nine are.

The Merchants hear that the Dockworkers have a big contract and try to gouge money out of them. They get beaten up and thrown in the harbour.

L33t builds a good luck gun and a bad luck gun.

Skidmark calls Uber and L33t and tries to get them to help attack the Dockworkers, with the intent to kill Danny Hebert. Uber turns him down.

L33t doses the Merchants with bad luck. Squealer's work on the ejection system of her tank is ruined.

Jack sends Shatterbird to see why there's no traffic on the road. Crawler eats a park bench, which gives him gas.

Uber and L33t go up Captain's Hill. They see Shatterbird and L33t hits her with bad luck. He then hits the rest of the Nine with bad luck.

Shatterbird is struck by lightning and killed. This is recorded by a security camera.

Siberian pushes the RV (out of fuel) into Brockton Bay. Jack gets a threatening message over the radio.

Palanquin suffers a water leak which throws out the security system. She calls in tradesmen to fix it, and sends Labyrinth on a walk with Newter and Gregor so she doesn't get upset.

Crawler farts and Burnscar accidentally ignites it, blowing her off the overpass. She falls into a garbage truck, from which she is rescued by Labyrinth, Newter and Gregor. They bring her back to Palanquin.

Uber finds the footage of Crawler's fart and the aftermath. He shows L33t.

Taylor and Danny decide to go to the Chicken Festival.

The Russian, now calling himself Russian Roulette, shows off in a Merchant bar. Skidmark takes him back to their lair as a potential recruit. He kills them all, including Squealer (her tank blows up). He then takes over the Merchants. By some fluke over the next day or two, he finds out that Taylor is the luckiest girl in Brockton Bay and decides to go after her.

Rachel Lindt stands on the soap in the shower and twists her ankle. This means she can't walk her dogs.


January 16
Jack sends out Crawler, Mannequin, Siberian and Hatchet Face to see what they can find out.

L33t discovers the stored footage of Shatterbird's death. They throw a dart at the map to determine where they're gonna go.

Purity, Crusader, Alabaster and Rune meet at Crusader's place to figure what to do next. They decide to go hero, except Alabaster disagrees. There's a fight, and he's subdued. They sleep through the day, then Rune frees Alabaster and flees with him. They run into the Nine and Alabaster is killed giving Rune a chance to escape.

Crusader kills Mannequin, all three work to kill Hatchet Face and Crawler. Uber and L33t show up just in time to kill/trap Siberian, as Ghostbusters.

Brian volunteers to walk Brutus for Rachel. The dog is doing so well, he takes the lead off. Brutus chases a rat behind a dumpster next to a paint store and gets stuck. Victoria and Amy Dallon show up, and Vicky shows off by picking up the dumpster and juggling it. She gets paint all over her. Amy finds this hilarious.

Vicky Dallon cuts her hair short with the intention of getting Amy to regrow it for her. Amy refuses.

Taylor and Danny encounter a very confused William Manton on the Boardwalk. They turn him over to the authorities to go to a mental ward.


January 17
Chicken Festival.

Roadworks.

Undersiders scout Lung's casino and are spotted. He gives chase.

Coil calls the Undersiders to be Taylor's friends. He tells them to go to the Fesival and find her.

Lung falls in a roadworks truck and gets covered in tar, chases the Undersiders to the Festival and gets covered in feathers. Then he's carried off by balloons. Oni Lee tries to help him, but a balloon filled with hydrogen explodes and kills him. Lung is trapped up to his neck in concrete in the sinkhole. Miss Militia captures him.

Taylor makes new friends (and gets a chicken) and takes them to the Boardwalk. She is interrupted by Russian Roulette, whose gun promptly falls apart. Grue and Rachel take apart his minions while her chicken menaces Russian Roulette.

Jack Slash decides to go to the Paleo Cafe for their late afternoon meal.
Glory Girl, after her haircut, takes Amy to the Paleo Cafe.
Taylor and the ex-Undersiders show up in a bus near the Forsberg Gallery, across the road from the Paleo Cafe. Taylor decides she needs to go to the bathroom.

Amy recognises Bonesaw and arranges for Jack Slash to have gastric distress. He goes to the bathroom. Amy subdues Bonesaw (for the most part) and they leave the cafe, along with the patrons.

Taylor is taken hostage by Jack Slash, who walks under a falling piano. Butterflies cover Taylor before flying away.

Eidolon arrives to assist with the completion of Bonesaw's subdual. He leaves with Panacea to go see first Accord and then Blasto, to try to solve world hunger. Accord has a plan for that, and much more.

Glory Girl gets shat on by a bird when she tries to make moves on Brian.

Saint and the Dragonslayers set out on a roadtrip to locate an abandoned Tinker base.

When Amy gets home, she kisses Vicky, to her confusion and Eric's amusement.


January 18
Amy is now resigned to Vicky not being interested. She goes with Eidolon to continue their work.

Legend is annoyed at remarkably low firing-range scores for the New York Wards, so he arranges for an open-air firing test.

L33t tries to rejigger the luck packs, and zaps himself with the remaining luck.

Saint and the Dragonslayers arrive at the Tinker base, which belonged to String Theory. They find a REALLY BIG gun, with "F-Driver" painted on the side. Saint accidentally activates it.

The Simurgh begins to giggle.

Alexandria starts criss-crossing the local area to find out what Simurgh is reacting to.

Looking for a signal that he's still lucky, L33t hears Alexandria breaking the sound barrier and thinks it's thunder. He begins to Tinker.

Taylor hears the sonic boom, then Lisa gives Emma a 'reason you suck' speech. Emma tries to hit Taylor with a dessert, and Regent causes her to splat herself with it. Madison slinks away, while Emma goes viral on every phone there. Taylor: best day ever.

L33t builds portal guns with a switch that looks like a safety but instead puts random portals out there.

Wards are on a barge outside the harbour. Flechette throws a chunk of timber. It vanishes into a portal that nobody sees because it's behind a target.

Saint accidentally puts the F-Driver on to 'Fuck you' mode, which overloads the gun, fires it (into another portal) and then blows the whole thing up, killing everyone there.

Scion is distracted by the Simurgh laughing and giving him the finger. While he's trying to figure this out, he's hit in the back by a piece of Sting-empowered wood from Flechette. His body pops.

His real body is then targeted by the F-Driver beam that comes out of another portal and comprehensively destroys him (because L33t is waving the portal gun around at random) before it cuts off. He's locked away in his own little pocket dimension until he dies shortly after.

(Nobody actually sees this happen).


Cauldron has a meeting. Number Man gets dropped on top of Contessa. Contessa has a panic attack.

Dragon meets Alexandria over the crater. One piece of debris has String Theory's logo on it. Case closed.


25 January
A leg of ham is accidentally delivered to Jamie Nightingale, just as she's putting in a lasagne aimed at feeding her for several days.

Eidolon and Panacea drop in a few minutes later, and she invites them for dinner. Amy has a brainwave, and uses the leg of ham as biomass to replace Jamie's leg. Realising that this is all Taylor's power at work, she leaves Jamie and Eidolon getting to know each other (much) better.

She goes to the NY Protectorate base and meets Flechette, of the Wards. Flechette catches her checking her out, and returns the favour. Amy realises that Taylor is setting her up as well as Eidolon.


26 January
Jamie and David wake up next to each other, and very quickly get used to this idea.

Amy, having gotten to know Lily a lot better, decides that she wants to be in the NY Wards with her. Lily likes this idea.

On return to Brockton Bay, Amy offers to join the Wards. Piggot decides to set it up, after doing due diligence.

Eidolon, much happier, goes on with his projects.

Butcher hears about Taylor and decides to go see how lucky she really is. She gathers her whole team, plus fifty followers.

Danny Hebert lays down the law to Roy Christner about not blocking him on reviving Lord's Port or the ferry.


27 Jan-2 Feb
Butcher's crew travels across America toward Brockton Bay. On the way, they suffer:
Flat tyres
Wheels falling off
Flash floods
Exploding engines
Fights
People accidentally shooting each other
People deliberately shooting each other
Bees in the cars
Venomous snakes in the cars
An African honey badger in one car
The Protectorate
The PRT
The cops

Vex and Spree are entering Brockton Bay when they drive into a L33t portal and end up in the Florida Everglades. Spree reports that Vex was eaten by an alligator, shortly before he himself is grabbed by the Fallen. He eventually decides to join them, after hearing what happened to Butcher.


2 February
Eidolon is over North Africa, near the testing ground for the food plants, when both Ash Beast and Behemoth threaten the area. Behemoth kills Ash Beast, then waves at Eidolon and digs himself back underground. Eidolon is flummoxed.

Taylor buys Lisa really expensive chocolates for telling off Emma. They walk into a gaming store and Taylor's the one-millionth customer so she gets the store copy of a still on pre-order video game. She gives it to Regent, who offers to splatter as many of her enemies with dessert as she wishes.

Amy signs the papers to join the Wards. She meets Taylor on the way to get her stuff from her house, and thanks her for letting her meet someone. Lisa teases her, because Lisa.

After Amy drives away, Butcher and Animos (all that's left of the Teeth) threaten Taylor. Leviathan blows Butcher sky-high on a manhole cover, then Simurgh snatches him up and takes him away. The cover lands on Animos, taking him out. Leviathan pops his head up, winks at Taylor, then ducks down into the manhole and pulls the cover over it again.


3 Feb- 2 March
Behemoth destroys the Fallen.
The Simurgh deprograms Heartbreaker's slaves. She also unchains Dragon.

Leviathan crushes all the ships in the Boat Graveyard into cubes overnight and stacks them neatly out of the way.

Danny Hebert's plans are well under way. Food plant production is working well. Taylor meets Lily and Eidolon. Rachel's dog shelter is working well. Chick Norris is getting bigger by the day.

Canary's trial falls through when Simurgh begins to show up as a hero. She is found guilty on negligent use of a parahuman ability, ordered to pay costs, and banned from performing for six months.


3 March 2011-2 March 2012
Contessa has taken up drinking.
Cauldron decides to pack up business and rehabilitate the Case 53s.

David and Jamie are a very happy couple, with no idea that they were manipulated into place.

Amy and Lily are utterly adorable together (Amy's not telling).

Lord's Port reopens (mid-January). Taylor and Brian go on a date to celebrate, and keep on dating.

Lisa invites Taylor and Brian to Canary's first new concert, with the opening song 'Butterfly'.


Just the beginning ...

 

It Gets Worse

Part Sixteen: Buildup

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: This chapter contains passages which may have triggers related to blood and gore, depression, self-harm and suicidal thoughts.]
[A/N 3: Taylor does not appear in this chapter, for reasons which will become obvious. She will show up next chapter though.]



April 17, 2006
New York City
Sgt Herb Rosenstein

The police cruiser rolled slowly down the back streets of Manhattan. In the driver's seat was Sergeant Herb Rosenstein; solidly built, greying at the temples and a past master in surviving the mean streets of the Big Apple. Beside him was Jamie Nightingale, fresh out of the academy and ready to be inculcated with the real skills required for the job. Of average height with short-cut auburn hair, she was almost painfully eager to please. He only vaguely recalled the same state in himself, some thirty years previously. Slightly more aggravating was a blatantly obvious case of cape-worship. In Rosenstein's opinion, cops had no business dealing with superheroes. That was the PRT's job, and they were welcome to it. Most capes, in his experience, were self-important idiots in skintight spandex.

There was a bright purple flash on the side of the road ahead. Of course, there's always the exception. He began to apply the brakes.

“What was that?” asked Nightingale, almost at the same time. Before the first word was out of her mouth, the flash had faded, leaving a man in a similarly purple costume in its place. “Hey, it's a cape!” Her obvious comment didn't surprise Rosenstein; she'd made at least one in any given minute since they started the patrol. At least she was willing to communicate, he mused. Some rookies just sat there like stuffed dummies. Nightingale actually wanted to learn how to do the job, which was a distinct point in her favour.

“You wanted to meet a cape, you got your wish, kid.” Rosenstein slowed the car and pulled to a halt. This was a one-way street, so his door was next to the sidewalk. His window buzzed down as the cape strolled over to where the cruiser sat at the curb. “Hey, Indigo,” he said casually. “What's happening?”

Indigo Jones, small-time superhero and occasional pain in the butt, shrugged lightly. His costume was basically shades of purple in waves from head to toe, while purple-tinted goggles hid his eyes. Around his waist was cinched a fanny-pack; Rosenstein had always wondered where he found one in purple. “Not much, Herb,” he replied. “Caught a mugger two blocks that way. Called it in, one of your guys picked him up half an hour ago. Right now, I'm looking for a couple homeless guys.”

While Indigo's costume covered every inch of his skin, Herb had long since picked his accent as being African-American. Not that Herb gave a shit about the guy's skin colour. Indigo was one of the good guys, even if he was an incurable smartass on occasion. “Why?” asked Herb. “What've they done?”

“Not what they done,” Indigo said, leaning on the car. “It's what they ain't done. They always show up at the soup kitchen over on Fifth Avenue for breakfast. They ain't there, so the guy runnin' it asked me to come see what's goin' on.”

Rosenstein nodded. “Good idea. They might be sick or something.” He tilted his head. “Oh, by the way. Indigo, this is my new rookie. Her name's Nightingale. Nightingale, meet Indigo Jones. Don't let the costume fool you. He's actually a decent human being.”

Leaning down, Indigo looked in through the window. “Oh, hey. Didn't see you there before. How you doing, Nightingale? This crusty old codger showin' you the ropes okay?”

“Watch it, Indigo,” Rosenstein said gruffly. “I ain't so old that I can't beat your scrawny ass, y'know.”

“Have to catch me first, old man.” Indigo chuckled and slapped the roof of the cruiser as he stepped away from the vehicle. “Welp, this ain't findin' 'em. See ya 'round, Rosenstein. Nice meetin' ya, Nightingale.” He touched two fingers to his forehead in a vague semblance of a salute. A purple whirlpool swirled into being in the pavement beneath his feet, and he dropped into it. Across the street, a purple flash marked Indigo's reappearance. With a wave, he disappeared into an alleyway.

“ … wow,” breathed Nightingale. “That was a cape.” She stared at Herb, her eyes wide. “You never told me you knew a cape!”

“I don't know him,” Rosenstein said irritably, hitting the indicator lever. “Not to get beers with or anything. We just see each other around a bit. He works his patch and I got my beat, and sometimes we run into each other.” Nobody was coming up behind them and the light was green, so he pulled out into the street and drove through the intersection.

“But—” objected Nightingale, then paused as the car jolted slightly. From underneath, there came a loud clank. “What was that?”

“Manhole cover,” Rosenstein said casually. “If they get shifted slightly, driving over them drops them back into place.” He hadn't seen the cover himself, but that wasn't unusual. The jolt and clang were enough to tell him what had happened.

“Yeah, but what shifted it?” asked Nightingale. She turned her body to look out through the rear window of the cruiser, then screamed, “Look out!”

“Wha—” began Rosenstein, even as Nightingale threw herself as far forward as she could with the seatbelt in the way, her arms coming up to cover her head. His eyes flicked up to the rear-vision mirror …

<><>​

Rookie Patrolman Jamie Nightingale

Rosenstein never got the whole word out. Or, more accurately, he broke off to yell “Shit!” and wrenched the wheel sideways, but it was far too late by then. The manhole cover came in through the rear window in a cataclysm of shattering safety glass. It ripped chunks out of both of their seats and took the windshield with it on the way out. Jamie felt a tremendous blow to her left shoulder that would later require three separate surgeries to put right, but she wasn't paying much attention to that, as arterial blood from Rosenstein's severed right arm was spraying all over her.

The cruiser swerved, partly from Rosenstein's abortive evasion and partly due to loss of control—the manhole cover had also taken a chunk of the steering wheel with it—and rammed a street light. Jamie felt the airbag smash her in the face. As she was already leaning forward, the impact was even harsher than normal. She blacked out.

<><>​

Frank Johnson
AKA: Indigo Jones, Independent Superhero

Frank heard the crash and spun around. “Shit!” he exclaimed, double-timing it to the entrance of the alleyway. A fender-bender that loud, without even the screech of brakes to precede it, meant that someone had hit the scenery pretty damn hard. His powers weren't great for getting people out of bent vehicles, but he knew first aid, and at a pinch he could get someone to the hospital faster than the average ambulance.

When he got there, however, he was greeted by a sight he'd never expected—or wanted—to behold. A mass of tendrils so fine as to almost form a haze in the early morning sunlight was just emerging from an open manhole in the middle of the nearby intersection. Rosenstein's police cruiser, its rear window smashed inward, had swerved into a light pole. Smoke, or maybe steam, was now rising from its front end. Frank couldn't see if Rosenstein and his rookie partner were alive—the angle was all wrong—but from the way the tentacle-thing was homing in on the cruiser, 'dead' was soon going to be the order of the day.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Frank wasn't a crime-busting cape. He could take a mugger by surprise, but he generally did things like get cats out of trees and find lost kids in Central Park. He certainly didn't consider himself a match for terrifying monsters like Behemoth or even Garotte, whom he was sure had just shown up in New York. But Rosenstein was all right for a badge, and the rookie had been kinda cute, so Frank decided to break the rule of a lifetime. He actually went toward a cape battle.

He wasn't going to be stupid about it, of course. No sense in trying to fist-fight something that could pull his arms and legs off like a bored asshole with a fly. So he snatched up two garbage can lids, picked a location, and activated his power. The Swirl formed under his feet and he dropped into it. An instant later, he arrived at his destination; the roof of a building right on the intersection. As he stepped forward, he saw that Garotte had already used its multitudinous tentacles to engulf the rear of the car, which was even now creaking and groaning as it was steadily crushed to a fraction of its original size.

He took a deep breath. Here goes nothin'. “Hey!” he yelled. “Up here, you ugly-ass motherfucker!” With all of his strength, he hurled one of the lids down toward the mass of deceptively filmy tendrils. Every single one of them froze for just a second, then suddenly the arcing lid stopped in mid-air and crumpled into a ball. He gulped; the thing had tendrils he hadn't seen!

The blobby mass in the middle of the haze of hair-fine tentacles turned to face him for the first time. He barely made out a distressed-looking female face, before it was racing toward him. Just as he activated his power, a whole series of tendrils slapped on to the edge of the building. With an undignified yelp, he tossed the second lid into the air, then let the Swirl take him. Tendrils hissed through the air over his head and he felt a sting on his cheek, but then he was safe in the place between going and coming back.

He dropped out of mid-air to land next to the police cruiser. Up above, he heard the second lid clang on to the rooftop, followed by the distinctive crunch of metal being compacted far beyond its normal limits. Okay, I haven't got much time here. Taking hold of the car door handle—thankfully, the front of the car hadn't been compacted yet—he eased it open. While he had no reason to suspect that Garotte had super-hearing, he didn't want to tempt fate.

Inside was a vision of carnage that nearly made him puke up his last meal. With the skin-tight bodysuit that he was wearing, which covered his entire face along with the rest of his body, that would've been a really bad idea. Gritting his teeth, he managed to swallow the nausea back down again.

Both Rosenstein and Nightingale were slumped in their seats. The windshield was just gone, along with chunks out of both seats, a large part of the steering wheel, some of the dashboard, and most of Rosenstein's right arm. Gore was still pumping from the stump, most of which seemed to have ended up on Nightingale.

For a moment, he thought they were both dead, then Rosenstein stirred. His head turned as he focused on Frank. The guy was tough. He was literally bleeding out through a traumatic wound, and he was still moving. “Indigo,” he rasped. “Get … Nightingale … outta here.” His left hand fumbled for the wound and clamped over it. “I'll … be fine.”

“Right. Right right right.” Grimacing inside the suit—blood was an absolute bitch to clean out of spandex—Frank leaned into the car and released Nightingale's seatbelt. Get her to safety, come back for Rosenstein. He didn't care how much the crusty old bastard was gonna yell at him; he was coming back. Hooking his hands under her arms, he began to lug her out of the car to where he could form the Swirl under both of them. She wasn't big for a woman, but nor was he strong for a man. And then, as her full weight came on to her shoulders, she went from moving feebly to full awake. Her eyes opened wide, and she screamed piercingly.

FUUUUUCCCCKKKKK! Indigo didn't need to look up at the roof to know that Garotte would've heard the sound. Bracing himself, he heaved; Nightingale popped out of the car like a cork from a bottle. He fell on to his back, with her on top of him. His eyes tracked upward, and—fuuucckkk me!—there was the haze of hair-fine tendrils, descending on the car like the wrath of a particularly angry deity. Not even bothering to try to get up, he formed the Swirl under the both of them. They fell into it; or rather, he fell into it. She fell most of the way, then was yanked upward again, right when they were in the tricky section between 'falling into the Swirl' and 'popping back into the world'. Looking down the length of her body, he saw that a couple of the tentacles had latched on to Nightingale's left leg.

Normally, he was anything but cavalier about closing the Swirl. Careful experimentation had shown that anything protruding from it would be sheared off when he closed the effect and went all the way through, so he always made sure to wait as long as possible before closing it. Just in case a leg or arm was still on the other side, so to speak. But now, with shit going sideways, he didn't have the time for caution. He cut the Swirl and fell through to the other side.

They landed on grimy concrete; he'd aimed as far down the block as he could get. This time, he wasn't ready for Nightingale's weight, and the impact drove the breath from his lungs. But then a warm wetness sprayed over his legs, and he forced himself to action.

Rolling to the side, he laid Nightingale on to her back. She looked to be in shock, which wasn't surprising. Between being covered with blood and … oh, shit. Garotte yanked her leg back out of the Swirl. Half of it below the left knee was just gone, with a widening pool of blood forming under the severed section. A couple of lengths of hair-fine tendril also lay there twitching, but he didn't care about that.

'Getting Nightingale out of here' had suddenly become 'getting Nightingale to proper medical attention'. He looked down the block, toward where sirens and screams were already arising. It seemed Garotte was truly rampaging now. Did I do that when I cut off the tentacles? Crap.

There was no time for self-recrimination. Nightingale didn't have the luxury. Okay, step one. Stop the bleeding. This was going to require a tourniquet. Fortunately, he came prepared. Reaching back to his fanny-pack, he opened it up and pulled out the roll of zip-ties he carried everywhere. They had a million uses, but right now he was only interested in one of them. Moving as fast as he could, he separated one of the zip-ties from the bundle and threaded it around her leg. She was twitching and shaking now, which was not a good sign. Sticking the end through the buckle, he yanked on it as hard as he could, then braced his hand on her leg and yanked even harder. To his relief, the bleeding cut almost all the way off, but he didn't like the size of the pool of blood under her, or how pale she was.

Fuucckk … Rosenstein. For all his good intentions, there was no way he was going to have the chance to rescue the veteran cop. Even if he could get in there, with no real way to tell where Garotte was before he Swirled right into the middle of the shit-fight, there was still the matter of Nightingale's own survival. Unless he delivered her right into the lap of a team of paramedics, she wasn't going to last half an hour. He was no expert, but that much blood outside a person meant nothing good. Sorry, man. You were good people. Now you don't get to yell at me for coming back for you. God dammit.

Kneeling up alongside Nightingale, he raised the stump of her leg as high as he could. It didn't bother him that his knees were soaked in her blood; the costume was a write-off anyway. Using his other hand to cushion her head against impact, he opened the Swirl under them. “Hang on, rookie,” he muttered. “It's gonna be a wild ride, but you'll be okay.”

His first transition was to the top of the tallest building he could see. The landing was a little rough, but he made sure not to bump her head or let her stump fall down. From there he took a sighting by eye to the nearest hospital he knew about. His range wasn't city-wide, but it was pretty good. There was a suitable rooftop about four blocks away. Sucking in a deep breath, he called up the Swirl.

The landing was particularly rough, and he found himself sucking in deep breaths of air. Normally, he could use his power to travel as far as he liked without any particular fatigue, but he rarely took passengers along, and even more rarely Swirled more than once in a row with a passenger.

Still, he figured he could pull off a few more before he had to call it quits. A quick check of Nightingale assured him that she was still breathing, but if anything her colour was even worse than before. He sighted in on his next destination, clenched his teeth, and called up the Swirl.

This time, it physically hurt going through. He felt as though every inch of his skin was being scraped off by a sadist with a potato peeler. When he got out the other end, his heart was hammering in his chest and he was fighting for breath like he'd just run the Boston Marathon with Behemoth hot on his heels. It was a measure of his fatigue that he didn't even grin at the unintentional pun.

But there was light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. The emergency room entrance for the Mount Sinai hospital complex was within sight. All he had to do was get to those glass doors. Security inside would spot him, and Nightingale would be in good hands thereafter. The trouble was, it was still a good three hundred yards away. The shape he was in at the moment, he'd probably tire himself out walking that far, let alone running. In any case, he wasn't about to leave Nightingale on her own. Even if he used the Swirl on his own, he wasn't at all sure he'd still be upright and aware when he got there. And by the time he recovered, she might well be dead.

He took a deep breath, then another. Clenching his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on his destination, then opened the Swirl.

It was even worse than the last time. The sadist with the potato peeler had swapped out the implement for a rusty razor-blade that had been dipped in lemon juice. Every muscle was spasming, and it was all he could do to fall sideways instead of on top of the unconscious police officer. As consciousness slipped away, he tasted blood in the back of his throat.

<><>​

January 5, 2011
Jamie Nightingale

Doctor Lansing leaned back in his chair, his hands loosely clasped before him. Jamie watched him a little sourly, anticipating almost to the word what he was going to say. “Who do you blame for the death of Sergeant Rosenstein?” he asked, enunciating the words carefully.

Mentally, Jamie paid out on her bet. “Garotte,” she replied flatly. “She threw the manhole cover that wrecked our car and took his arm off. I saw the medical report. He couldn't have lived more than five minutes with that injury, untreated.”

The subtle tilt of his head could have been passed off as natural, but she knew better. Lansing was a cold prick, but he was good at pretending to care. Or maybe he cared, but he pretended not to. Either way, Jamie didn't like him.

“So, not Indigo Jones, for failing to go back and save him?” Lansing pressed. “Or yourself, for not insisting that Jones save the sergeant before yourself? Or even for screaming when Jones jolted your broken shoulder?”

At one point or another, Jamie could have answered 'yes' to each of those questions. “No,” she said, just as flatly as before. “Jones risked his life to save mine. He couldn't have known I had a broken shoulder. And Rosenstein was conscious and I wasn't. Rosenstein had to know he was dying. He made the call.”

<><>​

That wasn't to say she hadn't been angry when she finally woke up in the hospital. She'd yelled and screamed and ranted and raved until they'd sedated her again. Blame had been thrown about freely; at Jones, at herself, even at Rosenstein for being such a self-sacrificing idiot. But between Jones' testimony and subsequent examination of the site, the final blame had been assigned to Garotte herself. To his intense embarrassment, Indigo Jones had gotten a commendation from the NYPD, as well as an offer to join the New York branch of the Protectorate. He'd accepted the first and declined the second. Rosenstein had received a posthumous medal, and Jamie … Jamie got a disability retirement package and a pension.

Jones, she conceded, had done the right thing. He hadn't been able to do everything, and all he'd really done was prevent her from dying long enough to get her to the hospital. But everything else felt … unfair. Why was she alive and Rosenstein dead? Why did things like this keep happening? What good were the superheroes, anyway? Her previous worldview had undergone a severe sea change, and not for the better. Capes were … just capes. They weren't gods walking the earth, and they certainly weren't infallible. Nor were they the solution to everything wrong in the world.

In the aftermath of the incident, Jamie had fallen into depression. She'd barely eaten, hardly taken care of herself, and refused to leave her apartment for days at a time. She even started cutting herself, weathering the sharp sting as she sliced the razor lightly across her wrists. Watching the blood trickle down her skin, wondering what it would be like to open a vein or an artery properly, to end the real pain.

But there was still a core of steel within her. It took her a while to reach it, but one evening when she was cleaning her pistol—as an ex-cop, she of course wanted a firearm handy at all times—she found herself meditatively placing the muzzle in her mouth, finger caressing the trigger. That scared her so badly that she threw the (unloaded) weapon across the apartment.

The next day, she signed up for therapy.

<><>​

At the same time, across town
James Griffin Middle School, New York City
Adrienne Pauling, English Teacher

Adrienne looked up as Patty Henderson pushed open the break room door and slumped down into the nearest chair with a sigh. “Shoot me now,” Patty groaned, closing her eyes and rolling her head on her neck. “Or get me coffee. One of the two."

"Quit being such a drama queen, Patty," Adrienne advised the pretty brunette with a grin. "Oh, wait. You can't. It's your job." Her grin widened as Patty gave her the bird without bothering to open her eyes first.

Adrienne taught English from fifth through seventh grade, and considered that she did it well. She also had a strong line in snark. Patty, as yet single, was the school's drama teacher. She was also Adrienne's best friend, not least because she'd helped Adrienne get through a particularly messy breakup the year before. This had contributed significantly to the snark.

"Ha frickin' ha." Patty let her head fall back as she slumped in the chair. "You'd be stressed too, if all your plans had just fallen through."

Adrienne sat down beside Patty and pushed the cup of coffee she'd just poured into Patty's hands. She could always make another for herself. "Spill. What's the big problem?"

"Thanks." The word was a sigh. "When I said my plans had fallen through, I meant it literally. You know how the grade sevens have been working on a presentation about the greatest Presidents in history? And how they had all their props and sets stored in the auditorium?”

“Ah.” Things clicked together in Adrienne's head. “The ceiling fell in on them?” It had made things quite interesting the previous day. Workmen had been called in to investigate why the lights weren't working in the auditorium, and one of them had put his foot in the wrong place. He hadn't plummeted all the way to the floor—a stray cord had wrapped around his ankle, pulling him up short—but a fifteen-foot square section of the ceiling over the stage had fallen in, in a bizarre kind of chain reaction. It was a one in a million accident, really.

“Yeah.” Patty took a sip of the coffee. “They were right under it. Everything's destroyed. Everything. It's like someone went after every set, every prop with a sledgehammer. I couldn't have done a better job if I'd wanted to wreck everything. And that's not the only thing.”

Adrienne felt her eyebrows raising. “Okay, what else happened?” This was, she decided, shaping up to be a girls' night out with ice cream afterward. Ice cream fixed everything.

Patty sighed. “You know that rain we had, night before last? Where the water got into the auditorium and shorted the lights so Principal Brinkley had to send the workmen up there in the first place?”

The rain had come in out of nowhere, and vanished off into Jersey afterward. It was just one of those things that happened in New York. “Yeah?” Adrienne had a feeling that things were only going to get worse.

“My office has a leak in the roof,” Patty said slowly. “There's also a leak in the ceiling. I had the script, the set directions, everything, all in a big zip-lock bag leaning up against my desk. The zip-lock wasn't quite closed, because I looked over the stuff when we got back from Christmas break. It dripped straight into the bag, and filled it up. No spillage whatsoever. I'm gonna need to be a major forensic investigator just to separate the pages and figure out what was written on each of them.” She let her head fall back with another groan. “Because I insisted that everything be written out in pen.”

“Well, crap.” Adrienne took this in. “Um. So, what are you gonna do now? They've got to put on a play. It's kind of part of their grading.” She considered the situation. “Though I can see Brinkley giving you a little leeway, given that they've got to fix the auditorium before you can even use it.”

“I have no idea.” Patty leaned forward and gave Adrienne a beseeching look. “I'm all out. I'll take anything you've got.”

“Hmm.” Adrienne went over and started her own cup of coffee. Leaning her butt against the counter, she swept the room with her gaze, seeking inspiration. There was an old dog-eared copy of the works of Shakespeare that Patty sometimes liked to read, but putting together a Shakespearean play right at short notice was probably far beyond the capabilities of the drama class. Up on the wall, a map of Manhattan had Central Park front and centre. Finally, her eye lit on the 'confiscated' bin, a repository of items taken from children in class. Wandering over, she inspected the contents. Just one thing lay there, an old Superman comic that someone had been reading yesterday when they really should've been paying attention to the fact that the teacher was standing behind them. She didn't understand why they even printed those things any more, with heroes like the Triumvirate around …

“Wait.” She was barely even aware that she had spoken the word out loud.

Patty looked around, cradling the cup of coffee in both hands. “What?”

The idea was niggling at her. Elements were trying to drop into place. Plucking the comic book from the bin, she leafed through it. As she'd thought, the plot was generic and easily followed; it could be repurposed using new protagonists with almost laughable ease. She tossed it on to the table. “Here's your new script. I'll help you rewrite it for the Triumvirate.”

Patty put down the coffee and took up the comic book. Slowly, she turned the pages. “I guess …” A calculating look crossed her face. “We've got costumes already, I'm sure.” She looked up at Adrienne. “But where are we going to put it on?”

“Central Park.” Adrienne grinned at Patty's confused expression. “What, you've never heard of Shakespeare in the Park? Well, we can have Triumvirate in the Park. We've got the script, you can have the kids rehearse in class, and we can put it on in Central Park. Voila. Am I a genius or am I a genius?”

Patty jumped up from the table and hugged Adrienne hard. “You're a genius,” she confirmed. Opening the comic book, she started scanning through it. “Okay,” she mused. “We have a singular hero up front. Who should we use? Legend?”

Adrienne shook her head. “Nah. He gets used everywhere. Let's make it Eidolon.”

<><>​

Jamie Nightingale

“You're saying that you don't blame yourself,” Lansing mused, “but I don't know if you're feeling it. After all, you wouldn't be the first person to learn what had to be said so you could parrot it back without meaning it.” He heaved a sigh. “Of course, if you're doing that, then I can't help you. You have to meet me halfway.”

“I'm trying,” Jamie said tiredly. “It's just that …” It's just that this all feels so fake. “It's just that … I have no idea where I'm going with my life. Or even if I have a life any more. I'm stuck. Nowhere to go, nothing I can do. Nobody wants a crippled rookie cop. I'm damaged.”

That got a rare and, if she was any judge, genuine smile out of him. “See, there's the honesty I was looking for.” The smile turned wry as he shook his head. “All this time, and I finally get some progress on my last day with you.”

Jamie blinked. “Wait, what now? Last day? What's going on? Have they pulled the funding for my therapy?” A sharp pang shot through her. As much as she disliked him, her therapy with Lansing was about her only real human contact, and she wasn't at all sure she wanted it to end.

Lansing shrugged. “Apparently they're handing out Fellowships at Cornell, and my name came up. So I'm in. Never expected it to happen. Sheer blind luck, if you ask me. But don't worry. I'm arranging for a replacement. You should like her.”

Jamie decided to keep an open mind. Lansing might be a cold prick, but he was a perceptive cold prick.

<><>​

January 6, 2011
Freda Perkins, Licensed Therapist

For the third time since moving her worldly chattels into the office, Freda got up and adjusted the nameplate on her desk. It was brand new, just like her, so to speak. She'd hoped to get coffee with Lansing and perhaps get some pointers on the patients she was taking over from him, but the man had been as brisk and impersonal in person as he'd been on the phone. Barely a dozen words had passed between them, most of them from her, before he'd hustled his way out the door.

Wrinkling her nose, she wiggled the laptop mouse to wake it up, then clicked on the folder marked PATIENT FILES. She'd been through them before, but the information had barely had time to sink in. The first few sessions, she feared, were going to involve a lot of probing to find out the sensitive spots of those people under her care.

There came a knock on the door, startling her severely. Jumping to her feet, Freda looked in the direction of the sound. No silhouette impinged on the frosted-glass window let into the door, which made her frown in puzzlement. “Uh … come in?” she said hesitantly. Then she took a breath—I'm the therapist here, not whoever's out there—and repeated herself, more confidently. “Come in!”

The door opened, then a woman rolled a wheelchair into the office. She held herself with a certain air of authority, or perhaps the remnants of one. A denim jacket lay folded on her lap. Her auburn hair was shoulder-length, held back with a scrunchie. One of her legs ended about halfway to the knee, which neatly explained as to why she was in a wheelchair. The word wheelchair threw up a large flag in her mind, and she grasped at the name that came up. “Uh, Ms … Nightingale?”

The woman rolled to a stop about halfway to the desk. “That's me. You're my new therapist?” Her eyes flicked from Freda to the nameplate. “Ms Perkins?”

“Call me Freda.” Walking out from behind the desk, Freda held out her hand. “If I can call you Jamie, that is?”

A wry smile crossed the face of Jamie Nightingale. She didn't look as though she'd done that very often, of late. “Sure, why not. Doctor Lansing always insisted on a strict doctor-patient relationship, and we never really got to know each other very much.” Her hand closed over Freda's, making the therapist absolutely aware that in any contest of strength, she would lose to the wheelchair-bound woman. “Why not change things up a bit?”

Freda nodded as she shook Jamie's hand. “I totally agree.” She moved off to the side where she'd had two comfortable armchairs set up so she could talk to her patients without the desk being in the way. The second one would, of course, be superfluous in the current situation. Unlocking the swivel on one of the chairs, she turned it so that she'd be able to face Jamie directly. “So tell me, what were you covering with Doctor Lansing, and was it helping?”

Jamie turned the chair rather expertly and rolled over to where Freda had taken a seat. “About whether I blamed myself for the death of my training officer,” she replied bluntly. “And to be honest, not very much.”

“Why do you say it wasn't helping very much?” asked Freda, as much to know for herself as to keep the conversation going.

“Because we'd been over it before, and I've pretty well figured out where I stand in that regard,” Jamie said. “Though he did say something about me finally being honest in our last session. I didn't think I'd been dishonest, to be perfectly frank.” She pursed her lips in remembered irritation.

Now they were getting somewhere. “Oh?” Freda made her tone light, almost disinterested. “Why did he say that?” She was sure this was in Lansing's notes somewhere, but she hadn't memorised them yet.

Apparently, this touched a nerve; Jamie's expression soured. “I just said something about how I felt useless. Damaged. Nobody needs a one-legged ex-rookie cop.”

Freda made a silent bet with herself that Jamie's self-assessment of 'damaged' was both accurate and covered more than her physical injuries. And of course her self-image would impact any job interview she went to.

“You know,” she said brightly, “this office is stuffy. Why don't we go out and get some air? Central Park's just down the block. I'm sure we can talk just as easily there as we can here.” She got up and took her coat from the stand in the corner. When she turned, Jamie was staring at her. “What?”

“Uh … I never went anywhere with Doctor Lansing,” Jamie said awkwardly. “Is this a thing? Do you guys even do this?”

Freda shrugged. “Well, it's not usual, but I have the feeling that you're uncomfortable talking about your problems in here. There's nothing to lose, right?”

Since she'd entered the office, Jamie had been by turns resigned, irritated and upset. There'd been the spark of interest when Freda had suggested the use of first names, but that had been only momentary. Now, the auburn-haired woman was actually engaging for the first time. “I guess not,” she said, then frowned. “Not fond of the idea of everyone walking past hearing what we're talking about, though,” she added.

“That's not really going to be an issue,” Freda told her with a smile. “Ninety-five percent of people in the park during the day are there to either be alone or be with someone. Nobody pays attention to what some random stranger is saying. Anyway, the wheelchair can work for you for once.”

Almost instinctively, Jamie looked down at her conveyance, then back up at Freda. “What do you mean, work for me?”

“Simple.” Freda shrugged her coat on and headed for the door. “Surely you've noticed that people look straight past you when you try to get their attention? Act like you're a little slow, just because you're unable to walk at the moment? Talk past you like you're part of the scenery?”

“Don't remind me,” Jamie said with a scowl as she followed Freda into the hallway. She took the neatly folded coat from her lap and began to put it on. “Happens all the time. Even with people who are supposed to be interviewing me for jobs I can actually do.”

Which, Freda supposed, would make the problem half their attitude, especially if they hadn't been informed she was in a wheelchair, and half hers if her current demeanour was anything to go by. In the meantime, however …

“My point exactly,” she said cheerfully. “If you're going to be ignored anyway, why not make use of it?” As they reached the elevator, she hit the call button.

Jamie's expression showed that she was actually startled this time. “I … never thought of it that way,” she admitted.

“Of course, we can work on the problem of you actually getting noticed when you want to be noticed,” Freda said helpfully. “But for now, why don't we just tackle one problem at a time?”

“Yeah.” Jamie's look at Freda held more respect than before. “That makes sense.” The elevator doors opened with a ding and she rolled inside. Freda stepped in after her.

As the elevator doors closed and it started downward, Freda breathed a silent sigh of relief. After the initial awkwardness, it seemed she was starting to build a rapport with Jamie Nightingale. Now, if only I can keep on making it work.

<><>​

January 11, 2011
Protectorate Base
Houston, TX

Eidolon scribbled his signature at the bottom of the last piece of paperwork and got up from his desk. Okay, that's done. Paperwork was an unwelcome but necessary part of being high up in the Protectorate. Time to get out and do some real work.

Opening the door into the outer office, he cleared his throat to get his secretary's attention. Sandra, a rather severe-looking blonde, looked around attentively. “Yes, sir?”

As always, he winced mentally at 'sir', but didn't make a fuss. “I'm just heading out for a while. Hold my calls.”

“Yes, sir. Uh, before you go?” She held up a sheet of paper.

There's always something. Sighing internally, he refrained from making a dash for safety. “Yes?”

Sandra put the paper down again. “The governor of Florida wants to meet with you regarding a public appearance. Something about opening a new capitol building in Tallahassee. Also, an English teacher in New York says her school's grade seven drama class is putting on a play in your honour, and she'd really appreciate it if you could attend.” She couldn't really see much of his face, but his mouth must have tightened, because she rushed on. “I wouldn't have mentioned it, but Director Costa-Brown did put out that directive about making a certain number of public appearances every month.”

That was very true. Which meant that Eidolon had to make a choice: listen to government officials drone on for a certain amount of time while he decided which power he was going to use to cut the ribbon; or listen to schoolchildren stumble through their lines and watch someone attempt to portray him as a hero, hopefully in not too cringeworthy a fashion.

“When?” he asked bluntly.

“They're both scheduled for Saturday the fifteenth,” she said, after briefly checking her computer screen. “The meeting about the capitol building opening at ten AM, and the play in Central Park at two PM.” There wasn't even the hint of irony in her voice as she added, “To be honest, sir, you could easily make it to both.” Which proved that she was either worse at reading him than he'd thought, terminally optimistic or just a better actor than he'd given her credit for.

“Put me down for the building opening,” he told her. It wasn't even a decision, not really. The government knew not to needlessly waste his time past the obvious ceremonies. A seventh-grade drama class would have no such understanding. And then there would be the inevitable autograph requests, and the awkward platitudes from the teachers who would be gushingly grateful that he even deigned to show up. Up to half a day wasted where he could instead be out there, doing what he did best.

He was a hero, possibly the greatest one one on Earth Bet (he didn't count Scion for obvious reasons). Everyone knew it. He didn't need his fans (he assumed they were legion) to remind him of this fact every hour of every day. With a warm feeling of justified virtue, he went back into his office and triggered his latest Mover power, a combination flight/teleport ability. A bright green flash lit up the room, replacing it an instant later with the broad vista of the south Texas sky.

<><>​

Friday, January 14, 2011
Tallahassee, Florida

The motorcade splashed through the rain-sodden streets. In the back seat of the limousine, Governor Kirk Lloyd leafed through paperwork. With a grunt of irritation as the heavy car wallowed through a particularly deep puddle, he looked up at his personal assistant. “What's the weather report for tomorrow? I don't want it to be pouring rain while we're trying to give speeches.”

“We can set up a marquee, sir,” the PA replied, already tapping at a tablet. “But I think … there's a sixty-five percent chance of fine weather, sir.”

“That's not a hundred percent,” Lloyd said. “Arrange for the marquee.” He went back to the papers.

The traffic lights which they were approaching looked perfectly normal to the naked eye. However, a flaw in the weatherproofing had finally failed, and was letting water into the mechanism. This led to a very subtle failure, with one major consequence. The traffic lights in both directions turned green at the same time. Worse, as the limousine started through the intersection, a squall of rain swept across the road, reducing visibility to mere yards. The driver instinctively slowed down, which slid Lloyd's briefcase off the seat on to the floor.

With a grimace of annoyance, he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward to retrieve the recalcitrant item. Just as his fingertips touched it, a heavily-laden garbage truck lumbered into the intersection from the side. While the truck's windshield wipers were slapping away at full speed, the rain was more than a match for them, and the driver didn't see the car until it was far too late.

The impact, although at a slower speed than most traffic accidents, still smashed the limo halfway across the road and put a huge dent in the side panelling. Lloyd was flung sideways, collided heavily with the door and slumped to the floor with a groan.

<><>​

Protectorate Base
Houston, TX
Eidolon's Office

“All right, I'll tell him.” Sandra Grant put down the phone, then dialled Eidolon's mobile. They'd tried using a Tinkertech radio link, but it had been problematic and prone to breakdown, while the cell network was established and had redundancies.

“Eidolon.” His voice was curt. It had a very pronounced 'I am working so this had better be important' tone to it.

“Sir, it's me.” She didn't need to introduce herself. “I just got word. Governor Lloyd is in the hospital with fractured ribs and a concussion. The meeting about the opening ceremony is going to be put back till next week.”

“Ah.” A moment later, the penny dropped. “Wait, so does that mean—”

“Yes, sir. The play in New York.”

He didn't answer for a few seconds, then she heard an aggravated sigh. “Fine. Email the details to my phone.”

This time, she smiled. “Yes, sir.” It might even do you some good.

<><>​

Saturday, January 15, 2011
Central Park
Jamie Nightingale

Jamie eyed the sky dubiously. She didn't like the look of some of the clouds up there. “Think it's gonna rain again?” Getting caught in the rain was irritating; getting caught in the rain in a wheelchair was a copper-plated bitch.

“I brought a collapsible umbrella,” Freda reminded her, indicating her oversized handbag. “Just in case. It should be big enough to cover us both.” She looked and sounded slightly smug, but Jamie decided she'd earned it.

“Good enough,” she conceded. “So … where were we?” As part of what was now ingrained habit, she looked around for anyone close enough to overhear, but nobody ever was.

Freda smiled. “We were discussing anti-depressants. I know you only had one serious suicidal phase, but that could come back.” Her expression turned serious. “How are you feeling, these days?”

Jamie considered the question for a few moments. “ … better,” she said in the end. “Between you and Doctor Lansing, I've got my head around the things that were bothering me the most. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to put a gun in my—what the hell's going on over there?” She stared at the tableau taking place about a hundred yards away, where a bunch of kids and a few adults were milling around the Naumberg Bandshell.

“Sorry?” Freda turned to look in the same direction. “Oh, nice. They're putting on a stage play. Let's go watch!”

“What?” Jamie stared at her. “Why? It's a kid's play, for crap's sake.” She could think of few things more dreary.

“And it's a social event.” Freda had hold of the handles of her wheelchair by now. “And as your therapist, I've just decided that it will do you good to attend.”

“But … crap.” Jamie sagged back in the chair. Freda's tone was one she was used to by now. That tone was not to be argued with. “I'm not gonna win this, am I?”

“Nope.” From the sounds of it, Freda was quite pleased with herself.

“Wait.” A sneaking suspicion intruded on Jamie's thoughts. “Did you do this deliberately?” Central Park was pretty big. To have stumbled on the play at just the right time was kind of a coincidence.

“Nope. Sheer luck. Cross my heart.”

As they got closer, Jamie could see that they were just setting up to start. Sheer luck my calloused hands, she thought. Sheer blind bad luck, you mean. Wrong time, wrong place. And then she saw the costumes on some of the kids. Oh shit, and it's about capes. What's the bet they save the world at least once? She was so sick of that narrative. Capes were good, but not that good. But Freda seemed so pleased to have caught it that she decided not to say anything. Besides, they were getting close to the audience now, and the last thing she wanted to do was air her dirty laundry in public.

Nobody appeared to be worried that they were sneaking in to the performance, so to speak. Freda parked her up at the back, next to the last row of folding chairs, and claimed a chair for herself. Then, with every evidence of pleased anticipation, she settled down to watch the show.

Glancing around, Jamie noted that only a few chairs were left empty. It looked like they'd estimated just right for the numbers watching, or perhaps they'd just been lucky. Anyway, it didn't matter to her. Freda had decided that she should endure an amateur production about capes, so endure it she would. After all, I've gone through worse.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she almost didn't hear the whoosh of air. But when a voice spoke beside her, she looked around.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

<><>​

Eidolon

David teleported into the sky above New York, then re-checked his phone for the precise details on where the play was being held. Central Park, Naumberg Bandshell. He'd had to look that one up, but now he knew where it was. Central Park had suffered from Behemoth's rampage back in '94, but the Bandshell had survived.

He had, he noted with satisfaction, timed it precisely. A visual enhancement, not unlike Legend's eyesight, told him that the audience was just now seating itself. The play was about to start, which meant it would be ending sooner rather than later.

Intellectually, he could understand Rebecca's directive. The public needed to feel that they could relate to their heroes, after all. Legend did it well, far better than he or Rebecca could manage, even with her vaunted Thinker genius at play. Oh well, time to play my part. So to speak.

Dropping straight down out of the sky, he landed directly behind the last row of seats. The closest free chair was next to a woman in a wheelchair. "Excuse me," he said politely. "Is this seat taken?"

The woman looked around and registered that he was standing there. But there was no dropped jaw and no evidence of fan-worship. "Nope," she said. "Knock yourself out." Then she turned her attention back to the stage. He waited for the classic double-take—some took longer than others to register who he was—but it never happened. This was a first for him; everyone had some sort of reaction. The impression he got was that she had no opinion regarding his existence, which was blatantly ridiculous.

Then the pretty blonde beside the woman in the wheelchair glanced around at him. If he'd been seeking a gratifying reaction, he got it from her. "Holy crap!" she hissed. "Jamie! It's Eidolon!"

"Well, yeah," the auburn haired woman replied. "I know." And even then she didn't look around at him.

"What do you mean, 'Well yeah, I know'?" demanded the blonde, echoing David's thoughts almost exactly. "It's Eidolon! He's only the most powerful Protectorate superhero ever!"

Jamie turned her head, but only to give him another glance, which missed being dismissive by the barest of margins. “Powerful, yeah. Superhero, no.”

“Excuse me?” At this point, David felt that it was his duty to speak up. “I assure you, miss, I am a superhero.” His pride pushed him to continue. “What makes you think you can dispute that?”

She sighed slightly—almost as if she were thinking, okay, now I have to deal with this idiot, though that couldn't be it—and turned her chair to face him more directly. As she did, her sleeve rode up to reveal very distinctive marks on her wrist. Though not new, they were the result of deliberately inflicted cuts, which spoke to severe depression on her part. Before he could properly re-evaluate her in this light, she spoke up.

“I dispute it,” she said bluntly, “because there's no such thing as a superhero. You're all soldiers. You wear clothing so we recognise you for what you are, and you're all armed with bigger weapons than I'd ever be able to carry. And you never save the world. You just maintain the status quo. Which is what a soldier does.” She shrugged. “I mean, I don't hold it against you. You're just doing what you can with what you've got. But I don't believe that capes are anything more than soldiers with uniforms that are a little bit fancier than normal.”

“What?” David shook his head. “No. You're wrong. The Protectorate is full of heroes. I'm a hero. I've saved thousands of lives.”

“Which is your job,” she said patiently, as if he were hard of thinking. “To maintain the status quo. Sure, you save lives. I bet all the 'heroes' in the Protectorate don't save as many lives per year as the firefighters, the cops, the paramedics and so forth. And I've never seen a cape ever do anything to actually fix the world.” She raised her eyebrows. “You ever done anything like that? Actually made the world a better place in some real, quantifiable way? Or do you just punch criminals and fix messes made by other powers?”

“Wait … no … what?” David tried not to retreat under the relentless questioning. I'm a hero. I know I am. “I fight Endbringers! They're—”

“—somehow related to powers,” Jamie broke in. “All of human history, and they show up ten years after Scion makes his appearance? After capes start spreading across the globe? That's not a coincidence. And even if it was, they've got powers, which makes it a powers mess that you're dealing with anyway.”

David couldn't argue with her on that front, so he switched tacks. “Okay, you're defining matters very closely, but granted. But you can't say I don't make the world a better place.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure you don't make the world a worse place,” Jamie conceded. “But that can be said of any soldier or any cop. We just don't have the power to do it. You do. What have you done, ever, that fixed an ongoing social or economic problem? Greening the deserts? Fixing the pollution problem? Fixing the energy problem? For that matter, where's our technological singularity? Moon bases and colonies on Mars?” She spread her hands. “Super-powers have been out there for thirty years and we're still waiting. How much longer?”

He tried not to wince at the mention of moon bases—the loss of Sphere and the subsequent rise of Mannequin was a sore point in the Protectorate as a whole—but she'd actually raised some very cogent questions. “Well, the problem with Tinkers is that for the most part, they're the only ones who can maintain their own equipment. So while we kind of had what some people called a tech boom, it really wasn't much of one. And if a Tinker did build a base on Mars, he'd be stuck there full-time making sure important components didn't fail.”

“So don't use Tinkers,” she pointed out. “We normals have actually solved about ninety-five percent of the problems associated with survival in just about any hostile environment you care to name. The big problem is actually getting us there, along with enough gear to survive.” She gave him a challenging glare. “So why haven't you, or some of your colleagues, used your superhuman powers to bootstrap a Mars mission that way? Or did nobody ever think of that?”

“I don't know,” he confessed. “But there are more issues at stake here than just 'getting a man on Mars'. Any mission has to be planned with the political situation in mind as well. And right now, politics is … messy.” He took a deep breath, fully aware of how the woman was sitting. It was the way he'd sat in his own wheelchair once upon a time, wanting the universe to stop screwing him around, but having no way of achieving that aim.

“Yeah, okay,” she conceded. “But how about all that other stuff? Food? Energy? Pollution? There's any amount of stuff you could be fixing. Right?”

“Again, politics comes into it,” he said with a grimace. “The African governments might object if we just went into that area and started messing with their ecosystems. Short answer is that we can fix some problems, just not all of them.”

“Name me five that don't involve supervillains,” she challenged him.

“Umm …”

“Uh huh. Thought so.”

<><>​

The play rolled on, but neither David nor Jamie noticed. He was used to people accepting his word on matters, but Jamie wanted to argue every point out, and she wasn't slow about calling him on bullshit. For her part, she'd introduced him to a whole new perspective that was as startling as it was unwelcome.

Have I really been doing what a hero does, or have I just been a soldier without ever knowing it?

Suddenly, he became aware that she was rolling her chair away.

“Wait, where are you going?” he asked.

“Play's over,” she said, pointing at where the audience was just starting to turn toward him. “Time for you to meet your adoring fans.”

“But we hadn't—”

“Come up with that list of five things? No, we hadn't.” She gave him a direct look. “Get back to me when you think of them.” With a grin that let him know she had him cornered, she rolled away across the grass.

<><>​

Monday, January 17
Brockton Bay
Jack Slash, Leader of the Slaughterhouse Two

“And they're not back yet?” Jack pulled his shirt on—it had been almost invisibly stitched back together, he noted—and looked queryingly at his Bonesaw. “How long has it been? And is there anything on the news?”

“They went out yesterday,” she said. “And I tried the bus radio until the battery died. No matter what channel I went on to, there was nothing out of the ordinary. I haven't seen smoke rising, and I haven't heard sirens.”

“Right,” he muttered. He hadn't gotten any presentiment that they might be considering such an abandonment, but that had been before his indisposition. And Shatterbird had been acting a little oddly before she went off and disappeared over Brockton Bay. “I think it's time to lie low and fly under the radar for the moment, until we find out what's happened. Between Crawler, Mannequin, Hatchet Face and Siberian, I literally can't imagine anyone who could take them out without wrecking half the city in the process. It would have to be a concerted effort by all the capes in the city, combined with a million-to-one stroke of bad luck.”

“What, like how Burnscar accidentally blew herself up?” asked Bonesaw innocently.

He shot her a suspicious look. “Not like that at all. That was an unfortunate incident arising from a perfectly understandable series of events. I'm talking more about … hmm …” He racked his brain, trying to determine a truly implausible scenario. “Say, if that idiot Tinker, L33t, built something that could take down the Siberian, and teamed up with … um, say, members of the Empire Eighty-Eight to defeat them while dressing like the Ghostbusters or something. I mean, that's ridiculously stupid and could never happen. What happened to Burnscar wasn't.”

“Oh, okay.” Bonesaw nodded. “That makes sense. So what's our next move?”

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. “Gathering information and finding out what did happen. We, my poppet, are going to dinner.”



End of Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

 

It Gets Worse

Part Seventeen: Loose Ends

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Monday, January 17, 2011
Paleo Platter Cafe
Amy Dallon

“Seriously, Ames, I have no idea why you haven't come here already,” Vicky said cheerfully as she pushed open the door to the cafe. A little bell jingled as it swung shut behind them. “It's a great way to stay healthy.” Her brand-new pixie cut, a result of having shorn her golden locks perilously close to the scalp, gave her an entirely different look.

Amy wondered how Vicky's fans were going to take it. She suspected there was going to be a rash of pixie cuts among the teenage cape fan section of the community. The funny thing was that, until Vicky went out as Glory Girl and people realised it was her, a lot of the attention that normally came her way was going to be absent. While Vicky's face was one of the most well-known in Brockton Bay, the drastic shortening of her hair changed her overall appearance enough that most people were looking straight past her. Even funnier was the fact that Vicky hadn't even noticed this yet. It was not dissimilar to the way many people ignored Amy once she took off the all-covering robes and facial scarf. Welcome to my world.

“Just never bothered, I guess,” Amy replied, aware that her sister was looking back at her for an answer. “I don't go out that much on my own, you know.” And I don't often go out in company, except when you set me up on your stupid double dates. Which don't come to places like this. But she'd never say the latter. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her sister's feelings.

“Well, you're in for a treat.” Vicky moved up to the counter and smiled at the male cashier, dropping effortlessly into harmless-flirt mode. “Hi there. Table for two, please. We'll have your regular menu. No allergies.” She treated him to a beaming smile, but kept her aura in check. For this, Amy was grateful; she didn't want to go through the embarrassing spectacle of the server staff drooling over her sister. Again.

Still, mundane flirting was bad enough. Here we go again. Amy stepped to the side to get out of the way of anyone else coming in, moving over to where the next two customers were waiting to be seated. The place actually looked fairly busy at the moment, but it looked like a couple of tables were about to open up.

The customers in front of them were a clean-shaven man in his mid to late thirties and a girl with brunette ringlets who looked to be about twelve or thirteen. For a moment, Amy wondered if she'd actually met the man before, as there was something oddly familiar about him. After a moment, she shrugged and dismissed the thought. Unless the guy was one of the heroes she'd healed over the years, it was almost certain that he just resembled someone she knew. And if he was a hero, she didn't want to accidentally out him.

The girl was studying a menu laid out on the counter intently, her nose wrinkling occasionally. Amy suspected she didn't make a habit of eating at paleo places very much either. Still, it was nice of the dad to take his kid to a cafe like this. Mark had done that for her and Vicky a few times, but rarely enough that it was a special occasion every time.

Amy glanced up idly as one of the servers approached the father and daughter in front of her. “Mr Cutter? Your table's over here, sir.”

The man nodded and gave the server a charming smile. “Thank you, miss. Come along, poppet.” He headed in the direction of the empty table. At the counter, the brunette girl turned to follow him, her hand swinging out and brushing momentarily against Amy's. It was a totally accidental contact, one which had to happen a dozen times a day to any one person. Most people didn't even notice it happening, though to Amy it was always somewhat irritating, as it gave her a complete body-snapshot of the person, detailing everything significant about their body and state of health.

In this case, her irritation was overwhelmed by the discovery that the ringleted brunette was a parahuman, and a very disturbing one indeed.

With hooded eyes, she watched the girl giggle as she caught up to her father and took his hand in hers. Normally, it would've been something she tried to put out of her mind, as she had no desire to out any independent capes in the city. But not only was the girl a parahuman, she was also absolutely loaded with implants and reservoirs containing lethal diseases and toxins … and her hair was normally blonde in colour. Added to the niggling familiarity of the father's face and the surname he'd used, this meant …

A lot of jigsaw-puzzle pieces clicked together at once. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck. There was only one pair of parahumans anywhere who fitted that description. That's Bonesaw and Jack Slash.

She must have managed to keep her first panicked reaction under control, because only Vicky looked at her oddly. “Ames? Is something the matter?” Trust Vicky, Miss Oblivious 2011 herself, to pick out her terror on the one occasion where she wanted the internal screaming to stay internal where it belonged. If I say it out loud, there'll be a panic, and people will die. This is the absolute worst place for something like this to happen. Probably why they picked it.

“Uh, no, I'm fine.” Need to buy time, figure out what to do. She did her best to look and sound fine, but Vicky's bullshit-meter was obviously working at full strength today.

Her sister looked at her critically. “Nice try, Ames. That isn't gonna fly. Something's up. What is it?” She reached out and shook Amy's shoulder lightly. “C'mon. It's me. You can tell me.”

Amy focused past her, trying to figure out what to do next. If she just walked over and immobilised Jack Slash, Bonesaw would probably unleash half a dozen lethal airborne viruses before Amy could get to her. And that was assuming Amy did get to her; some of the implants Bonesaw had built into herself were ridiculous.

Likewise, if she locked down Bonesaw, Jack Slash would almost certainly produce a knife and start killing everyone, starting with herself. Even immobilising Bonesaw was unlikely to be as easy as it sounded, given that the junior-age Tinker had apparently rearranged bits of her own nervous system to make such a thing harder. Seriously, who even did that?

“Order for Cutter.”

The words, spoken by someone behind the counter, grabbed her attention and hung on. Even as the plan unfolded behind her eyes, she grabbed Vicky by the arm. “No time for that now,” she said quietly. “I need you to distract that server.” With her head, she indicated the teenage boy who was just then moving to accept the tray of food at the far end of the counter. “It's really important. Life or death.”

For a long moment, she thought her sister was going to refuse, or demand details. Either one would waste time that nobody in the cafe could spare; this plan had just one chance of going through. Even worse, she couldn't simply demand more forcefully, because that had a strong chance of drawing the attention of the two notorious supervillains. Right now, though the sheer fluke of Vicky needing a haircut, neither one of them was being recognised. Anonymity, publicly decried by New Wave, was just what they needed right now.

After a searching glance at her face, Vicky seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, but once we're done, I wanna know why.” Turning, she led the way to the teenage boy who had just accepted the tray. “Hi,” she said, turning her flirt mode all the way up.

He gulped, for which Amy didn't blame him. Being flirted at by Vicky was akin to being caught in a hurricane. Things were going to get interesting, and nobody but Vicky knew where it was going to end up. “H-hi,” he stammered. “Can I help you?”

“I really hope so,” Vicky breathed, leaning in close. “Can you show me where the bathroom is?”

Unseen by the server, given that his entire attention was focused on Vicky, Amy stepped in next to the both of them. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she licked her finger.

<><>​

Taylor

“So what are we doing here again?” I asked as we stepped off of the bus. I looked across the road and down the street a little at the imposing glass-clad edifice of the Forsberg Gallery. Just across the road, a bell jingled cheerily as the door swung shut on a cafe I'd never seen before. A brightly-coloured sign advertised it as 'The Paleo Platter'.

“You keep saying how normal you are,” Lisa explained. “I want to show you just how bullshit your powers are.” She pointed at a series of dark lumps in the pavement just outside the Forsberg, encircled by brightly-coloured tape. “That, over there, is what terrified a psychopathic monster into becoming a good guy.”

Even though I'd seen the anvils on the news, I was definitely interested in taking a closer look. However, right then, the snacks I'd had and the steady movement of the bus ride had combined to produce a little pressure that was starting to draw my attention. “That's pretty cool,” I said. “But I kinda need to go to the bathroom right now.” I indicated the cafe across the road. “Can you wait a bit for me?”

“Ew,” Alec said, deadpan. “I did not need that image.” Deliberately, he turned his back and began to browse the nearest window, which happened to hold a selection of ladies' shoes. I couldn't tell if his interest was real or feigned.

Brian caught my eye and grimaced. “Don't take it personally,” he said quietly. “It's just the way he is.”

“I'd already figured that out,” I said dryly. It seemed he'd gotten over being splattered by his ice-cream cone. Which I was actually okay with. I preferred that he be naturally obnoxious than artificially polite. “I'll be back in a moment.” Taking Chick Norris from where he was riding on my shoulder, I held him out to Rachel. “Could you please watch him for me? He likes you.”

“Sure,” grunted the auburn-haired girl, accepting my tiny companion with exaggerated care. He cheeped at her, causing a tiny smile to cross her face.

As I started out across the street, I heard Alec's voice again. “I'm surprised you aren't going with her. Aren't you girls supposed to go to the bathroom in packs?” There was the sound of a light thwack, as someone got smacked. “Ow! Why did you do that?”

“Because we don't need to go.” Lisa's voice was patient. “And you're disrespecting her again.”

I didn't hear any more, because I was pushing open the door to the cafe. The bell swung with the movement, barely tinkling as I closed it. For a moment I thought of asking someone where the bathrooms were, then I saw the door with a bathroom sign on it. The server was busy at the far end of the counter, talking to two girls about my age. Before he could notice me and ask if I was going to be ordering anything, I pushed open the door and ducked into the corridor.

<><>​

New York Public Library
Eidolon

David stood on the roof of the imposing building. Below, Fifth Avenue was busy with traffic, but he didn't see it. His mind was awhirl with unfamiliar thoughts and worries, all placed there by the auburn-haired woman with the wounded soul. That she was wounded, he had no doubt; he had seen the symptoms. Once upon a time, he'd shared the symptoms.

If it had been anyone else, in any other place, he would've dismissed her words and passed off her concerns as sour grapes. After all, the envy shown toward him as the world's most powerful cape was real and palpable. He'd experienced it before, from both capes and unpowered people.

If she'd shown any of the same, he would've known how to handle it, but she hadn't. Instead of if I had your powers, I'd be doing a better job with them, it was you have power. Why are you wasting it?

He'd tried to push back on her argument that he was no hero, by changing the focus of what she was saying. Police and other first responders also wore uniforms, he'd pointed out. Did that mean she thought they weren't heroes?

Her expression had expressed plainly that he wasn't seeing what she was driving at. Of course first responders were heroes. They routinely went into danger that could actually kill them as a matter of course, without powers as a backup. Capes, on the other hand, took on perilous situations like that because it was easy for them.

Now, he couldn't get her final challenge out of his head. A list of five ways you've changed the world for the better, that didn't involve cleaning up messes caused by powers. It was a simple enough demand, one that he had never envisaged having to meet. In fact, he couldn't meet it. Which meant he'd just have to start the list now. The trouble was, he had no idea how to accomplish this. Which was patently ridiculous. He was Eidolon. He'd—

“Halt, evildoer! Surrender at once and I will refrain from beating you senseless!”

The bright, laughing tone was exceedingly familiar to David. Hearing quick running footsteps on the rooftop behind him, he turned to face the speaker, but he was too slow. His hood was yanked down over his mask, then there was a brief pressure atop his head. Just as if someone had vaulted over him, using his head as a rest on the way. Only one person he knew was brave enough, or foolhardy enough, to use that move on him.

“Mouse Protector,” he stated firmly, turning once more while pulling his hood up again. “This is not the time.” He didn't even bother asking what she was doing in Manhattan. Since she'd left the Wards and declined to continue with the Protectorate, she'd been a free spirit, moving where the whim took her. Mostly she was based in Boston, but that was more a statistical matter than an established fact.

“Pfft,” she said, lounging on the sloped stone parapet, one hand propping up her head with its mouse-eared helmet and the other posed elaborately on her hip. “It's never the time with you, Eidolon. Always looking for the next baddie to beat up, and heaven forfend they might not be up to your elevated standards.” She twisted agilely and flipped off of her temporary resting place, pulling a perfect landing before him. “So, tall, dark and brooding, what's got you up here glaring at the building like you want to launch it into orbit? And if you are gonna launch it into orbit, can I watch?”

With an aggravated sigh, he released the breath he'd inhaled to tell her off. Shouting at Mouse Protector did little except raise the blood pressure and incite her to ever higher levels of attention-seeking behaviour. “I'm not launching anything into orbit,” he said carefully. “I just came here to find the answer to a problem.”

“Ooooh, a quest!” Stepping in close, she put her arm around his neck. “What's up? Who can I beat senseless to prove a point?” A pause, considering. “Or a wedgie. Wedgies work well, too. Last time I fought Ravager, I hung her underwear over the nearest flagpole. While she was still wearing it. She was still trying to get down when the PRT rolled up and arrested her.” She gave a happy sigh. “Good times.”

David winced. There was a reason nobody (except Ravager) wanted to fight Mouse Protector. She was so camp and cheesy about it (the word was deliberately chosen) that being beaten by her added a whole extra layer of humiliation over and above the method she used to defeat said villain.

Ravager was a special case, of course. Certain capes had their nemeses, the ones who would keep coming back after them no matter how many times they were defeated or thwarted. There were several theories about this, though David tended toward the one regarding comic books and social expectations. Either way, Ravager was definitely up there in the 'obsessive pursuit' stakes. She'd been captured by Mouse Protector several times, but she couldn't seem to resist coming back for yet another shot at the ridiculously costumed hero. David was reasonably sure that Ravager was getting close to her three strikes, where she'd go into the Birdcage and Mouse Protector would no longer have to worry about her.

In any case, he had other things on his mind. “No, I'm not trying to figure out how to beat someone,” he said. “This is different. I'm trying to figure out how to change the world. To fix a problem that hasn't got anything to do with powers.”

She performed an overly dramatic double-take at him, as if he'd just suggested that she dress in a tutu and sing a duet with Behemoth. “Wait, you what again now?”

He sighed internally. The concept had been hard for him to grasp as well, but now that he was used to it, it seemed obvious to him. Have I been wasting my power all this time, in the world's biggest dick-measuring contest? Jamie hadn't quite used that term, but he suspected she'd approve of it. “I want to fix things that aren't related to powers,” he reiterated. “I just don't know where to start. Which was why I'm at the library. I figured that I could do some research …”

He trailed off, because she was now laughing so hard that she had to lean against him. He'd seen her laugh before, on the few times he'd seen her in action against villains. Then, she'd actually let loose her mirth while doing something else, such as dancing around the miscreants (a favourite term of hers) with her sword in play. Now, she was just letting out full-bodied cackles. He wasn't sure, but tears may have been running out of her eyes.

“What?” he asked irritably as she gradually regained control of herself. “It's not funny.”

“Hell yes, it's funny,” she said with a giggle. “You thought you had to research what's wrong with the world?”

His irritation grew. “Well, I know there are problems,” he said defensively. “I just don't know where to start. Which one is the greatest?”

“Riiight,” she drawled, rolling her eyes. “Same ol' Eidolon. Always gotta throw yourself at the biggest, baddest opposition. Can't ever lower yourself to face the little guy, because only the big one's worthy of you.”

David felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. “ … fuck,” he muttered. “You're right. I was doing it all over again. And because I couldn't make up my mind …”

“You weren't doing anything at all,” she finished helpfully. “Way to solve them problems, buddy boy. Want my advice?”

Before he could even think twice about the incongruity of someone like him seeking advice from someone like Mouse Protector, he nodded. “Please?”

A smile spread across her face. “I thought you'd never ask. So, pin back those ears and listen, 'cause Mama Mousey has some ideas to drop into them.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “First, we compile a list …”

<><>​

Brockton Bay
Paleo Platter Cafe
Amy Dallon

“Um, um, um, over there, miss,” stammered the server, nodding toward the door marked BATHROOMS, just as it swung shut behind someone. He never saw Amy brush her finger over the top of the food on the larger plate, then dipping momentarily into the bowl of soup. To her satisfaction, the soup was only a little warmer than body temperature; the highly modified e. coli she'd deposited there would find it a fertile breeding ground. As soon as she'd done this, she dropped her hand below the level of the tray.

“Thank you so much,” cooed Vicky. If this had been a cartoon, Amy wouldn't have been surprised to see steam shooting out the poor boy's ears. Still, she didn't want him dropping the tray and undoing all of her hard work, so she took Vicky by the arm and tugged her back slightly. Vicky took that as the hint it was supposed to be, and stepped back out of his way.

“You're welcome,” the boy replied with a slightly dazed smile. “But I, uh, gotta take this tray …”

“That's all right,” purred Vicky. “Thanks again.” She bestowed another dazzling smile on him—Amy tried, and mostly succeeded, to not feel jealous—then turned away, ostensibly to go to the bathroom. Amy turned with her, ensuring to keep her back to the table with the two supervillains. This caused a spot between her shoulder-blades to itch just on sheer principle, but the last thing she wanted was for either one of them to recognise her as Panacea.

“Okay,” murmured Vicky as they made their way back to where they'd been waiting, “what's going on? I know you did something, but what?”

“Give it a few moments,” Amy whispered back. “I'll let you know everything. But right now, things have got to look perfectly normal.” She knew this was out of character for her, and that Vicky had to be bursting with questions. Fortunately, her sister obviously decided to not let her normal curiosity run rampant just this time.

Picking up the same menu that Bonesaw had handled, she brushed her fingertips over the areas where the murderous bio-Tinker had held it. All she found were the normal run of micro-organisms left behind from skin contact. Nothing nasty or virulent met her senses, which quieted her worries just a little. She's not spreading diseases just for the hell of it. Good.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the man she'd tentatively identified as Jack Slash took a spoonful of his soup. While she was ninety to ninety-five percent sure it was him, there was still that last niggling doubt, which was why she hadn't laced the food with something immediately fatal. Nor did she want Bonesaw getting suspicious and spraying the place with plague vectors. She was good, but there was only so much she could do when someone was deliberately spreading diseases.

On the second spoonful, his expression twitched, and she tensed. If he'd made them, things were going to go sideways very fast indeed. But he never so much as looked their way. Instead, he frowned slightly as if noticing something amiss but not knowing what it was.

The third spoonful was his undoing. He'd just taken the spoon from his mouth when the first cramps hit. This particular strain of e. coli had never been found in nature; where the first symptoms of food poisoning generally took more time than this to manifest, she'd supercharged their reproductive cycle and virulence. She'd also installed a genetic marker that would cause the entire strain to die out in half an hour, because gifting all of Brockton Bay with explosive diarrhoea would almost certainly bring her unwanted notice.

She could almost admire his fortitude. He stood, holding himself upright and tall, before making his way between the tables toward the bathrooms. His gut had to be a frenzied breeding ground of the things, doing their best to make him evacuate everything between his oesophagus and his rectum and yet there he was, strolling along as if nothing much were the matter with him.

Just as the door closed behind him, the server came back to them. “Excuse me,” the boy said diffidently. “Your table is just over here.”

Amy followed him along to the designated table, finding to her relief that it wasn't far from where Bonesaw was sitting. The girl was eating fastidiously, one small bite at a time. She was an incredibly neat diner, with the food arranged on her plate with almost military precision. To her relief, Amy noted that Bonesaw hadn't tried to steal any of Jack Slash's food. Which, now that Amy came to think of it, was only a common sense precaution. The upside was that she could now carry out the second part of her plan.

As Vicky sat and the server went back to the counter, Amy casually wandered over to where Bonesaw was eating. “Excuse me,” she said. “But we're out of salt. Could I please borrow yours?”

Bonesaw looked up at her. Even though she'd made the previous contact, Amy found herself almost doubting the veracity of her own powers. Surely this was just an innocent twelve year old, just as she appeared to be.

“Of course,” the girl said politely, reaching for the salt. The movement didn't quite complete itself as she paid attention to Amy for the first time. Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. You're—”

Amy lunged forward. At the same time, Bonesaw shoved against the table, throwing herself backward out of the chair. At full extension, as Amy fell over the table, spreading food far and wide, her reaching fingertip touched Bonesaw's for just a fraction of a second.

That was long enough. She didn't have time to do anything really fancy, so she temporarily stunned Bonesaw's voluntary nervous system. Falling out of the chair, Bonesaw flopped helplessly on the floor. Winded, Amy started to lift herself off the table, fully aware that she was wearing some of the food she'd treated. In point of fact, she was right then almost as potent a biohazard as Bonesaw.

And then Vicky was there, helping her up. “You okay there, Ames? What the hell's going on? Why did you attack that girl?”

“Bone … saw,” wheezed Amy. “Bonesaw. She's Bonesaw. The other guy … the other guy is Jack Slash.” She did her best to inhale, then she looked down at her clothing. It was going to need some serious laundering. Also, disinfecting. I'll do that when I can think straight.

Vicky stared at her. “You are seriously shitting me.” She gestured down at where Bonesaw was glaring up at Amy with an unnerving amount of hatred. “Are you certain?”

“Sure I'm certain,” Amy said. “She's loaded down with enough diseases to depopulate the entire East Coast.” Now that she felt she was capable of standing on her own, she bent down to grab the younger girl's arm. Her movement was only just in time. Just as she made contact, she felt Bonesaw's nervous system stutter into action again, a good thirty seconds ahead of what Amy would've expected. What the hell has she done to herself that she can recover so quickly? Razor claws emerged from under Bonesaw's fingernails, each one coated with a different virulent disease. Amy identified the signal to retract them and sent it, then had to contend with a different impulse racing through Bonesaw's body from her brain, trying to send the apparently innocent girl into a berserker frenzy. Incredibly, even though she shut it down, the impulse still seemed to get through; the girl convulsed and tried to surge to her feet.

What the fuck is going on here? Amy manually deadened Bonesaw's major muscle groups, but the girl had so damn many, and now it seemed that the disease reservoirs were preparing to open and dump their lethal cargo into the air.

Amy had long ago sworn to never affect someone's brain. It was, to her, a step too far. So she'd made it her touchstone; the brain was sacrosanct. But here she had someone whose body was refusing to play by the rules. Locked into her own skull, Bonesaw had flipped over into a grotesque version of fight-or-flight, and she'd chosen fight. Worse, she was somehow transmitting signals to her body without the use of her nervous system. Amy had to watch her every second to shut down whatever new way her body tried to get free.

Some, she knew, would've had no compunction in killing the girl outright. Others, Vicky included, would have gone straight to shutting down Bonesaw's brain, rules or no rules. But while she knew that this was intellectually the best move to make, she was damned if she was going to let some supervillain force her to break her own rules and take one more step to becoming one herself.

Manually, she locked down the disease reservoirs, grimacing as they tried to open themselves, but her overrides held at least for the moment.

“Vicky,” she said tightly. “The guy who just went into the bathroom is Jack Slash. No, don't go after him,” she added hastily. With her free hand, she waved off the server who was only now belatedly coming over to see what had happened. “Stay back. It's not safe.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, coming closer anyway. “What happened? What's wrong with that girl?”

“Stay back, she said,” Vicky snapped, intervening herself between Amy and the boy. Rising into the air slightly, until it was obvious that she was flying, she raised her voice just a little. “If I can have your attention, please? I'm Glory Girl, from New Wave. This is a supervillain situation. Please leave the cafe in a calm and orderly fashion. This is for your own safety. Please leave the cafe in a calm and orderly fashion. This is a supervillain situation.”

Wonder of wonders, it worked. Vicky was good at talking to people, as Amy already knew. By the time she finished speaking, people were already rising and filing out of the cafe. If they hurried just a little, that was understandable. But nobody panicked and (more importantly) there was no eruption of a vengeful Jack Slash from the bathrooms with knife in hand, looking for blood. She herself was busy with putting out the ongoing series of brushfires that Bonesaw had triggered within her body. It seemed that her entire spine could detach and wriggle off on its own if it had to, taking her brain with it. Amy only got the barest warning that this was going to happen, and shut down that nerve impulse, as well. How is she even doing that?

Hoisting Bonesaw to her feet, Amy half-carried, half-dragged her toward the door, being very careful not to lose contact with the supervillain's skin. Another crazy impulse from the brain set the sweat glands to producing something not far removed from batrachotoxin. Amy managed to shut that down as well, for the most part, but she was going to be very careful about where she came into contact with the girl. And she couldn't hand her over to anyone at all.

“What are we doing now?” asked Vicky, her gaze intently on the bathroom door. She tensed as it opened, but it was only two women. They blinked at the scene, but obeyed Vicky's hand gestures and headed out the door. “Do I go in there?” Her hands closed into fists. “He can't hurt me with his knives, and I can punch him through as many walls as I need to, until he gives up.”

“Don't underestimate him,” Amy said flatly. “If he's got one-tenth of the prep work in him that Bonesaw's carrying, there's no telling what he can do. We're gonna back off. Call the PRT. They can surround the place and shoot him right in the head when he sticks it up.” She dragged Bonesaw out the door. “And this one can go into high-end containment until I can safely decontaminate her.”

“Okay, sure, I guess.” Vicky gave Bonesaw a dubious look, but didn't touch her. “Is she really giving you that much trouble? And what did you do to Jack Slash?”

Amy grimaced. “Remember the time you fought Hookwolf, and he just kept reforming and coming back at you? Her entire body's like that. And as for Jack Slash, I gave him an extreme case of food poisoning.”

Despite herself, Vicky let out a chuckle. “Well, it certainly got him out of the way.” Carefully, she closed the outer door of the cafe. “Okay, those two were the last. Customers out the door match plates on tables. Let's get back out of the way and I'll make that call.”

<><>​

Taylor

It took me longer than I'd expected to get a stall. There were only two of them, and they were both occupied when I got in there. Both women finished at almost exactly the same time. I picked a stall, locked the door, and proceeded to do what I needed to do.

The pressure had been greater than I'd realised, and the relief was heavenly. I was able to lean back and relax for the first time since the Chicken Festival, though that particular event had been no great problem for me. The fried-egg sandwiches in particular had been quite nice, and it was where I'd acquired Chick Norris.

Since then, things had just gotten sillier with Russian Roulette's abortive attack. In his broken babbling after the fact, he'd revealed that his power had 'told' him somehow about me. Something about two or three torn-out news articles coming together to spell my name and where I was going to be. Lisa had seemed to make sense of it, but I couldn't keep track of his ramblings.

Still, no harm had come to me or my new friends. Alec, in particular, had taken great pleasure in making the ex-Merchant minions slap themselves in the face or headbutt each other. Brian had been more professional about it, subduing and securing them, while Lisa had produced a small pistol and covered the secured ones. Rachel and her dogs had ensured that none of them got away; she didn't even need to make them grow. Growl, yes. Grow, no.

My musings were interrupted by heartfelt moaning and groaning from the other side of the wall that formed the side of my cubicle. If I was not much mistaken, that was the male bathrooms in there. It sounded like someone was having a less than pleasant time. I hoped that they would soon get over whatever was plaguing them.

Finishing up, I washed my hands and wiped them dry. Just as I opened the door, I heard the one from the male bathrooms open as well.

<><>​

Jack Slash

There were many unpleasant experiences a man could go through. Jack had undergone quite a few of them. In his opinion, the last ten minutes ranked fairly high on the scale. Fortunately (for a given definition of 'fortunate') he hadn't had much to eat before he started on the soup, so that when the spasms hit, they were almost all directed downward rather than upward.

As he staggered off the toilet pedestal, he felt as though some unkind deity had taken hold of his gastrointestinal system and wrung it like a wet cloth. Every last ounce of past and present food had been squeezed from him in a series of muscular convulsions that had taken the concept of 'peristalsis' and turned it up past eleven. He wasn't totally certain, as he performed the requisite cleaning actions, that some part of his lower intestines hadn't ended up in the bowl with the rest of the expelled material. The cramps had certainly been energetic enough.

Splashing water over his face, he checked to see what he looked like. 'Death warmed over' was an apt description, given the pallor of his skin and the hollowness of his eyesockets right about then. But at least he wasn't doing his best to emulate a fire hose with a certain orifice any more, even though said orifice was certainly going to be burning for the next day or so. Whatever the hell had been wrong with his food, it had no doubt passed through him by now.

The cold impact of water with his face brought him back to a certain level of alertness, and he essayed a smile in the mirror as he dried his hands. Still a charming bastard, he decided complacently. From long habit, he checked the knives sheathed on each forearm and down the back of his neck. Everything was still there. While he didn't think it was going to be necessary to slaughter everyone in the cafe, there was no sense in not being prepared. Of course, whoever had prepared his food was going to have to die, just on general principle. But that could wait until later.

As he pulled open the door into the corridor, a girl stepped from the ladies' bathroom just down the way and headed out in front of him. He seemed to recall that she'd gone in while he and Bonesaw had been waiting for the server to stop flirting with those two girls and bring them their meal. She stopped when she reached the doorway into the cafe itself, looking from side to side. As he caught up with her, he heard her ask, “Uh, where's everyone gone?”

The question put his instincts into high gear. His normal level of paranoia, exacerbated by being in this city when he'd never intended to come here in the first place, notched up a few levels. Stepping forward, he looked over her shoulder to where the cafe was, indeed, empty. There wasn't even the ever-present clatter of dishes being washed in the back. The acrid stink of meat burning on the grill clinched it for him. Patrons and staff alike had evacuated the cafe … his Bonesaw with them.

His eyes went to the table where they'd been sitting, then narrowed as he saw the disarrayed crockery, the fallen chair, and the food smeared everywhere. It was obvious what had happened; someone had identified them and taken advantage of his unfortunate situation. Bonesaw must have been taken by surprise and disabled very quickly indeed, given the lack of bodies or blood in the room.

“Okay, this is new. What's going on?” asked the girl. Of greater than average height for a teen, she had long black curly hair and round-lensed glasses. She seemed to be more curious than frightened.

“What's going on, my little one, is that you're going to be on the news.” Jack grabbed her around the upper arms and shoulders with his left arm. When he flexed his wrist in a certain way, the knife attached to his right forearm slid down into his hand.

He didn't add that her newsworthiness would be as the latest victim of Jack Slash. That sort of thing tended to make people fight. But she wouldn't die right now. That would happen later, once the forces of law and order had let him go in the vain hope that she'd be released unharmed. The only people the Nine didn't kill out of hand were those whom they recruited, and even that wasn't a guarantee.

This was, he realised belatedly, just what he needed. All he had to do was force the return of Bonesaw and get the attention of the media, and his missing team members would be able to zero in on him. The capes would come after him of course, but no cape had ever been able to tag him, and none ever would. He was just that good. And in the meantime he had a hostage, which meant the cops and PRT would be forced to hold their fire.

“Ah,” she said as he tucked the knife up under her jaw. She seemed preternaturally calm, or perhaps that was barely restrained panic. “I see. Are you anyone special?”

“You could say so,” he gritted, irritated by the inference that he might be merely mundane. That was a word he'd worked hard to ensure would never be used to describe him. “I'm Jack Slash, leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine. Perhaps you've heard of me?”

“Actually, I have,” she said, still far too calm for his liking. Then she frowned. “I thought you'd be taller. And what happened to your beard?”

The memory of Crawler's unfortunate effusion intersecting with Burnscar's flame caused him to grind his teeth for a moment. “I'm in disguise,” he lied. “And the rest of the Nine is quite nearby, so you're best off not attempting to escape. I'm a patient man, but Hatchet Face can be quite … testy. Open the door, if you please.”

Reaching out, she pulled the door open obediently enough, and they shuffled out into the late afternoon sun. He was half-expecting police or PRT to already be on site, but there was a distinct lack of either one. Instead, on the other side of the road, the former patrons of the cafe were spread out into a crowd, all watching him. With them were some teens who he was certain hadn't been in the cafe. Why his attention was drawn to them, he wasn't sure. One, for some unknown reason, was holding a baby chick and had several dogs around her feet.

However, he didn't care about either adolescents, canines or poultry. He did care about Bonesaw, or at least he liked to think he did. She'd been his creation from the very beginning, turning a naïve little girl in the first flush of her power from a would-be miracle surgeon into a murderous munchkin with a body count rivalling his own.

“Where is she?” he shouted. “Where's Bonesaw?”

“Here.” The voice came from off to the side. He turned his head, then shuffled the girl around slightly. She neither struggled nor resisted, which made his efforts easier while at the same time puzzling him slightly. Was she just submissive by nature? Did she want to die? Or was she that extreme rarity, a Nine groupie?

His Bonesaw hung limply, like a marionette with the strings cut, in the hands of a frizzy-haired brunette some five yards down the sidewalk. Her body twitched from time to time, but she never truly woke up. Beside the brunette was a blonde with a pixie cut and street clothes, hovering about three feet off the ground. “Surrender,” the blonde stated flatly, and he felt the stirrings of fear. “You can't get away.”

“On the contrary … Glory Girl,” Jack said, making an educated guess. The blonde didn't contradict him, so he figured he was on the money. Which would make the brunette Panacea, which was probably why Bonesaw wasn't decimating the neighbourhood. The bio-Tinker had waxed lyrical on the possibilities to be explored if they were to capture and recruit New Wave's PR golden girl. “I will most certainly get away. Also, you two will hand over Bonesaw and then back off, or I will cut this girl's throat.”

“No, you won't.” It was the girl in his arms. “I'm the only reason Glory Girl isn't taking your head off your shoulders right now. She's right, you know. You have lost. You lost the moment you entered the city.” She turned her head to look up at him. “And you really lost the moment you threatened my life.”

The fear ramped up dramatically, washing through his body. His eye unerringly found Glory Girl, and he waved the knife in her direction. “Quit it, girl,” he warned her. “I've heard of your aura. Keep it up and your sister's going to have a second mouth under her jaw.” He considered doing just that, but refrained for two reasons. The first was that turning the tables on them and capturing Panacea for Bonesaw to play with would be amazingly cathartic. Secondly, he was reasonably sure that doing this would drive Glory Girl into an insane rage which Jack might not survive, even with the hostage he had. In fact, he wasn't even sure about this particular hostage but decided to hold on to her anyway, despite her ominous warnings. Or perhaps because of them; he was never one to do what he was told. In any case, a hostage in the hand was worth two in the crowd.

The fear died away, and he allowed himself a triumphant grin. There was still an undercurrent of it, but not as bad as it had been before.

Looking around, he decided where he needed to go next. This cafe was a poky little place, barely noticeable by anyone. But the art gallery next door was definitely a landmark. Once the news started reporting on his location, any members of his team who were paying attention could home in on him and then the fun would really start. With that in mind, he started dragging the teenage girl down the sidewalk in the direction of the gallery. Once I get inside, we can play cat and mouse all day long.

Bonesaw, he decided, could keep a little longer. Right now, he could tell that the New Wave girls were not open to doing the swap—and Glory Girl really could take his head off if he killed his current hostage—but all that he required was that Panacea drop her guard for even a second. That could wait till the others showed.

<><>​

Vicky

“I think I've got a shot at taking him,” muttered Vicky, glaring at the supervillain as he guided his hostage toward the frontage of the Forsberg Gallery. The trouble was, the girl was so tall that she went a long way toward blocking Vicky's view of the man holding her. “Think I should take it?”

“Not right now,” observed a new voice. Vicky looked around to see a blonde with her hair in a complicated French braid watching the action. Her expression was almost dispassionate, but Vicky caught the hint of a grin dancing across her face. “In fact, don't bother at all. He's got no idea how badly he's just stuck his dick in the meat-grinder. Plus, your sister's got her hands full with Bonesaw. She can't deal with more wounded right now.”

Vicky stared at the newcomer. “What the hell?” she demanded. “Who are you, and what do you mean?”

The girl's grin grew into a full-on smirk. She offered her hand. “Tattletale, at your service,” she said politely. “Ex-villain, current minion and gal-pal to the most awesome cape ever.” She nodded toward the teenage girl currently being held hostage by Jack Slash. “Her.”

That got her a double blink from both Vicky and Amy. “Okay,” Vicky decided after a moment. “You're gonna have to explain that to me.”

Tattletale's smirk intensified. The levels of smugness rolling off of her, Vicky figured, would be just about visible from space. “You might be wondering why the number of villains around town has dropped off so dramatically in the last few days …”

<><>​

Assault

“Console to all units. We have a report from Glory Girl that Jack Slash and Bonesaw have been spotted in the Paleo Platter Cafe, next to the Forsberg Gallery. Bonesaw is in custody, Jack Slash is not. Attend immediately and render all assistance, over.”

Adrenaline spiked through Ethan's brain. Eyeing the building he was currently on a ballistic arc toward, he recalculated his jump to change directions. “Assault, here. We're about one minute away. En route, over.”

“Battery, here. En route with Assault, over.” As he kicked off the building, he saw the silver-blue blur of his wife blazing down the street to the next corner.

He'd never fought Jack Slash before, but the guy was reportedly a challenge. He was really good at ducking and dodging, and not being there when the blow landed. That was fine. Ethan was pretty good at that sort of thing, too.

“Console to Assault and Battery. Other units are inbound, but won't be on site for another fifteen minutes. Take all due care, over.”

Despite his earlier bravado, Ethan nodded seriously. Alone he might be, but Jack Slash was no pushover. He'd proven that many times over the years. “Roger that, Console. Assault, out.”

<><>​

Forsberg Gallery
Seventeenth Floor
James Aramis

“Now, I expect you to take extra care with this,” James fretted. He watched as the workman carefully ratcheted the tie-down strap on the player piano. It had come all the way from Carlsbad, California in pristine condition. If he had anything to do it, it would return there in the same shape. Rather than holding it down on the forks, the strap was there to restrain the piano from sliding off them. Thus, it was attached to the front of the forklift at both ends, with thick padding to prevent the pianola from being scratched by the metal frame.

“I got this, sir,” grunted the forklift driver, tucking in the end of the strap with easy competence. He plucked the strap once, and nodded to himself as it thrummed briefly. “See? Ain't nothin' to worry about.”

I thought that once before. But James Aramis was a man who had learned to delegate to the competent, and the forklift driver certainly seemed to know his job. He moved back to the mandated safe distance as the stocky man climbed on board the electric forklift. Once he was clear, the man turned the switch that started it. Almost silently, it thrummed to life. Raising the forks along with their precious cargo was a little more noisy, but only by a matter of degree.

He studied the whole operation with anxious eyes. Ever since the anvil debacle three days previously, he'd become almost paranoid about moving exhibits into place and back into storage. Nothing untoward had happened since that fateful day. Moreover, Director Piggot of the PRT had personally telephoned him and assured him that this was a cape-related incident and thus fully covered by insurance. But still, he didn't like that it had happened at all. James Aramis was a man of habit and routine, and he hated that something so drastically out of the ordinary had occurred in his gallery.

As the forklift turned in a slow circle, its wide soft tyres squeaking almost inaudibly on the marble flooring, James took note of a detail that had heretofore escaped his notice.

Player pianos were called such because perforated paper rolls could be attached to a mechanism within the body of the piano. Via ingenious mechanisms, pedals scrolled the paper from one roll to another and also worked air-pumps that drew air in through the holes that had been punched in the paper. These allowed the piano to play popular tunes that might be entirely unknown to the operator of the pianola, which made the instrument far more versatile than a standard piano, if more complicated.

To use the paper rolls, however, a sliding panel had to be opened in the front of the piano. During the exhibition, of course, the panel had been kept open so that the operation of the piano could be demonstrated to the public at large. For those used to songs that had been digitised and could easily be accessed via a smartphone or computer, the idea of music being recorded on a paper roll and played back by sitting on a stool and pedalling was almost beyond comprehension.

What James saw now, however, was that the sliding panel hadn't been closed all the way. Or perhaps it had been closed, and for some reason had been reopened by a handspan or so. It posed no danger to the pianola like that. In fact, the whole thing could be packed away and transported back to Carlsbad with that panel open. But it felt sloppy to James to leave it like that.

“The panel is open!” he called as the forklift trundled past him on the way to the freight elevator. “You're going to need to close it!”

“Panel?” asked the forklift driver, turning his head to look back at James. “What panel?” He was only travelling at a steady walking pace, but to James' disquiet, he was nearing the spot where the anvils had gone out the window. The glass had been replaced, but he'd been in a hurry and regular laminated glass had been harder to source in a hurry, so he'd had a sheet of standard glass installed, and had a rope barrier set up so that nobody was even inclined to lean against it. Come Friday, he'd have a proper window ready to install over the weekend.

“The panel on the front of the piano!” James called, trotting after the man. “It's—look out!”

His sudden exclamation was due to a mass of butterflies which had suddenly appeared where no butterfly should be. Not just one or two, or even three. There were maybe a dozen of these, pouring over the top of the piano and swarming back toward the man driving the forklift.

“Look out for wha—fuck!” yelled the man, suddenly finding himself blinded by flashing blue and black wings. If he'd been facing ahead from the beginning, he may have been all right, but the action of turning translated to his hands when he was startled, and the forklift swerved.

Straight toward the window.

<><>​

Taylor

“So where are we going?” I asked as Jack Slash and I moved crabwise down the sidewalk, so as to use me as a human shield against anyone trying to attack him. The last time this had happened, I'd been a little more apprehensive about what was going on. However, given what had happened to Kaiser and Hookwolf, I was reasonably sanguine about the outcome of this particular hostage situation. Assuming, of course, nobody got killed trying to rescue me. I watched as Lisa spoke to Glory Girl and Panacea, almost certainly passing on that little bit of wisdom.

Off to the side, I could see Brian and the others. The big guy's shoulders were hunching, like he wanted to launch himself at Jack Slash, but we both knew he wouldn't get anywhere near close enough. Alec was watching narrowly, as if considering making the villain drop his knife. That could have possibilities, I figured, but I didn't imagine for a second that Jack Slash would only ever have one knife on his person. And finally, Rachel was just watching; Chick Norris on her upturned palm and a look of patient expectation on her face. I got the impression that she didn't know what was going to happen to Jack Slash, but whatever it was, she was going to enjoy the show.

“Into the Forsberg Gallery,” he said shortly. He sounded irritated at my question, but keeping it from me wasn't exactly going to happen. With his knife hovering around my throat, I was there for the duration.

“Oh, okay.” I glanced down and to the side. “Watch the anvils.”

“What?” He looked down himself, where he'd been just about to trip over the nearest one. Up close, they were even more impressive than they'd been on TV; eight anvils of varying size, spaced around the circumference of a circle about five feet across. Around them was strung the 'parahuman incident' tape that the PRT liked to put up. In this case, it was probably more to prevent people from falling over the anvils than from any lingering power effect. “What the fuck? Is this some kind of public sculpture?”

“So to speak,” I agreed with a grin I couldn't hide. “Turns out that one of our local supervillains annoyed the wrong cape, and that's what happened.” This might not have sounded as impressive as my power decided to make Coil its bitch, but I'd already given the idiot holding me one warning. He wasn't getting any more.

“This goddamn city,” he muttered. He was keeping relatively close to the wall and the tape was in the way, so he moved the knife from my throat briefly. A quick wrist motion and the tape was parted in two places. I was kind of impressed. Not by the fact that he had cut the tape, but that he'd put himself directly at ground zero of a previous supervillain's downfall.

Just as we got to the middle of the circle, a weird siren became audible. I tilted my head, wondering where I'd heard it before. Jack Slash tensed, moving me around so that I was between himself and whoever was coming.

In the event, 'whoever' turned out to be a decrepit sedan with the Ghostbusters logo painted on the side, complete with the flashing lights on top. It chuntered down the street and screeched to a halt not far from us. The engine cut out, and two men jumped out. One was tall and muscular, while the other one was distinctly weedy. I recognised Uber and L33t from a show of theirs I'd briefly looked at. However, they were wearing jumpsuits from the same movie as the car. If I wasn't much mistaken, they were also hefting proton rifles.

“Halt, evildoer!” shouted Uber. “The Siberian has been trapped and your comrades vanquished! Release your hostage and surrender, or face our wrath!” He and L33t aimed their guns at us, but didn't fire. I wasn't sure what they were supposed to do, but I figured whatever it was had to be nonlethal. At least, I was pretty sure it was nonlethal. L33t had a reputation for things going wrong with his inventions.

While I was off on that tangent, Jack was obviously paying more attention to what they were saying. “Wait, what the hell?” he demanded. “You trapped the Siberian? Wearing Ghostbuster costumes?”

I wasn't quite sure what relevance that had, but I heard the noise from above just as he spoke. It was kind of a tinkling crash. That gave me an idea of what was going to happen next.

<><>​

James Aramis

With a sense of dreadful inevitability, James watched as the forklift went straight through the rope barrier and shattered the window with the tines of its forks. It came to a halt as the driver stamped on the brakes, but then a large chunk of the glass swung down, its razor-sharp edge hitting the restraining strap in just the right place to sever it cleanly. The forklift was tilted slightly forward with the sudden stop, and James got there just in time to see the piano begin to slide off the forks. This, of course, unbalanced the forklift farther forward. As it did so, the butterflies flitted out and perched on top of the piano, which then slid off the forks and disappeared out of sight.

For the second time in his life, James Aramis swore.

“Motherfucker.”

<><>​

Taylor

The shards of glass landed all around us, except for one that pierced Jack Slash's arm in just the right place to cause him to loosen his grip on me. Reflexively, I took half a step forward. He, on the other hand, looked straight up. I heard him open his mouth to utter the syllable, “F—” before his voice was cut off by a thunderous crash. Debris spun out in all directions past me, brushing my hair, my arms and my legs. Something small bounced harmlessly off the top of my shoulder, but that was it.

When I looked around, nearly every person in the crowd was staring at me, open-mouthed. The exceptions were Lisa and Rachel; the former was even more smug than normal, and the latter just looked satisfied. I had no idea how many people were filming the incident, but I couldn't resist. Bending forward with Jack Slash's knife in my hand—I had no idea how that even got there—I gave them a deep bow, hands out to the side. As I straightened up, a flock of blue-and-black butterflies settled down over me, perching on my hands, my arms and my head. One even landed on the tip of the knife I was holding. I held that pose for just a moment as the one on my forehead slowly opened and closed its wings, then the butterflies flitted away and vanished in the late afternoon sunlight.

As spontaneous applause broke out, I strolled away from the wreckage of the piano (several piano keys lying around gave me my clue) and of Jack Slash, toward Lisa and Brian. However, I was interrupted by Uber and L33t.

“Holy—” blurted the well-built muscular guy, staring at me.

“—shit!” finished his weedy buddy.

“You're the lucky girl!” they exclaimed at the same time.

I tilted my head. “Yeah, I guess so,” I conceded. “Nice costumes. What do those guns do?”

But my question fell on deaf ears. L33t fell to his knees before me, and before I could even raise my eyebrows, Uber had done the same.

“We're not worthy!” they chanted, actually prostrating themselves before me. “We're not worthy!”

“Wait, what the heck?” I asked, taking a step back. “Guys, no. No cults.”

“No, this isn't a cult thing,” Uber explained, getting to his feet and helping his buddy up. “We're just … well, L33t built luck guns and we've been using them to take out the bad guys. And we've been using your luck energy to do it with.”

“'Luck' energy?” I asked, intrigued. “Luck guns? That actually sounds kinda … cool. I guess.” Though how they'd been using my luck energy to do it, I had no idea. Might've been nice to ask me first, I added silently.

“If you're the lucky girl, then what you can do is ten times what we can do,” babbled L33t. “But sure … holy crap.” He showed his gun to Uber. “Dude, check it! It was on fifty-eight percent and now it's on a hundred!”

Uber blinked at his own readout. “Mine just ticked over to a hundred and twenty percent. Is it supposed to do that?” He stared at me with wide eyes. “Should we even be this close to her?”

“Shit!” exclaimed L33t, as his backpack began emitting a high-pitched whine. “They're overloading! Too much luck energy!”

“Shut them down!” Uber shouted, tearing the proton pack off his back. It, too, was whining audibly, although the whine was coming out as the Ghostbusters theme tune. The trouble was, it was louder than I suspected it really needed to be.

“I can't!” L33t grabbed both packs and, with strength I was pretty sure he hadn't known he was capable of, hurled them a dozen yards down the sidewalk, rifles trailing behind them. A moment later, there was a pop and a shower of sparks from both of them, then black smoke trailed upward from each pack.

“Oh, wow,” I said in dismay. “Uh, sorry? I didn't mean to do that.” L33t, staring stricken at the still-smoking packs, whimpered audibly. I patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You can rebuild them, right?”

“Um, nope,” Uber said gravely. “Normally he can only build one of anything, and he can't repair it when it breaks. He had to mainline on luck energy just to build those things.”

“Guys, chillax,” Lisa interjected. I jumped slightly, as I hadn't even heard her come up behind me. “Taylor's power is totally not under her control, but it is working to some sort of plan. You guys were part of that plan, which is why you were allowed to build your luck guns and have fun taking out the Nine, but now that part's done. You get to take your pay and go back to doing what you did before.”

“Yeah, but that'll be boring,” groaned L33t. “And they're still dragging their heels on giving us the reward for the Siberian. Even after Purity and Crusader and Rune all swore blind that I did it.”

“Well, I can probably help with that,” I decided. “How exactly did you kill the Siberian with a luck gun, anyway? It's not like she could trip over a banana peel and break her neck or something.”

“Ghost trap,” Uber explained laconically. “It was the damnedest thing. Just sucked her right in.”

Well, that definitely made sense with the theme they had going, but I wasn't even going to ask how L33t had built a 'ghost trap' to contain the Siberian.

“I'll talk to the Director,” I decided. “She seems to like me.”

“Incoming!” I looked around at the call. With a thud, a familiar red-costumed parahuman landed about five yards away. As far as I could tell, he'd come off of one of the rooftops opposite. Rolling to his feet, he held out his hand. “Hey there, remember me from the Chicken Festival? I'm totally a huge fan of your work. Assault, at your service. And this is—”

A blue and silver blur resolved itself into a woman standing next to Assault. “—Battery,” she said, cutting him off. “I can introduce myself, you know.” She gave me a friendly nod. "Hello again."

“Oh, wow,” I said, looking from one to the other. Tentatively, I shook Assault's hand, then Battery's. “It's an honour to meet you two. Again, I mean. I mean, I see you guys on the news, but I never think I'd actually get to meet you.” Fully aware that I'd started to babble, I shut up.

Assault snickered, a sound echoed by Lisa. “Oh, man,” he chuckled. “You have no idea. I mean, really, no idea.”

I looked from one to the other, wondering what the joke was. “Someone needs to fill me in, then,” I said, starting to feel annoyed.

Battery stepped forward. “You have an active fan club in the PRT and Protectorate bases, Miss Hebert,” she explained. “Half the capes and a number of the PRT personnel who are in the loop to know about you are following your exploits with great interest.”

“What about the Director?” I asked. “I mean, she was nice enough to me when I spoke to her.”

Assault snorted. “When news of whatever you've done next comes in, she doesn't even query it. I think she's torn between irritation about just how bullshit your powers are—”

“I know, right?” Lisa said.

With a broad grin, Assault gave her a high five. “And relief that you're actually a nice kid who doesn't mean us any harm. Also, she warns us about twice a day to never do anything that might possibly be taken as a threat to you or your father.”

Lisa grinned. “I'm guessing that came in after, well, this?” She indicated the nearest anvil.

Battery smirked in return. “Got it in one.”

“I'm glad you guys are having fun,” interjected yet another voice, “but I need a hand here.”

I looked around from the byplay to see Glory Girl and Panacea approaching us. The latter still had hold of the girl I understood to be Bonesaw, though I couldn't really see it. I supposed it was the change in hair colour and the lack of a bloodstained apron. “Um, okay?” I replied. “What's the matter?”

Panacea gritted her teeth. “Bonesaw has re-engineered herself to be very hard to keep on a leash. Every time I try to shut her nervous system down, it starts working again anyway. And if I try to concentrate on that, she's got reservoirs of disease that will auto-release into the atmosphere. And if I try to concentrate on that, her body's in berserker mode right now.”

“Just kill her then.” That was Rachel. “End the problem.”

Panacea shook her head. “Maybe I could've done that in the beginning, but all of those safeguards are set up so if life signs cease, the diseases release anyway. The ultimate deadman switch.”

“Allow me to help, then.” We all looked up as Eidolon drifted down from above. I was beyond surprise, though I did restrain myself from letting out a little bit of a fangirl squee. He wasn't Alexandria, but he was still pretty cool.

Landing beside Panacea, Eidolon surveyed Bonesaw closely. “I see.” His hand flared briefly with a golden light. “I've just dissolved the artificial neurons she was using. Does that help?”

“Does it!” Panacea grinned for the first time. “Got you, you little cow. Artificial neurons. Son of a bitch. No wonder I couldn't stop you from reactivating stuff. Okay, that's shut down, and that, and that, and that … and that … and off you go to dreamland.” With the last word spoken, Bonesaw slumped in her arms and began to snore softly. Panacea looked up at Eidolon. “Thank you. That was getting a little fraught there, for a while.”

He smiled slightly. “You're welcome. As it happens, I was already looking for you. It's just lucky I turned up in time to assist.” He turned toward Lisa, who had burst out laughing and was leaning against me for support. I could see the joke, but it was obviously a lot funnier to her than to me. “Did I say something amusing?” he asked, sounding a little puzzled.

“Uh, a little,” I said, self-consciously. “I've kind of got a good-luck power. It's kind of … strong. And it acts without my conscious knowledge.”

“I … see,” he replied, and just from the tone of his voice I was absolutely certain he was raising an eyebrow. “And does this have anything to do with the knife in your hand or the rubble behind you?”

“Both,” I admitted. “Jack Slash took me hostage, then a piano fell on him.”

“And where were you when the piano fell on him?” he asked, sounding like he wasn't quite certain he wanted to hear the answer.

“Right next to him,” I said truthfully. “I said I was lucky.”

“I … see,” he murmured. “That's very interesting. And I would like to talk to you about it in much greater detail, but I was actually here to see Panacea. So if you'll excuse me?”

“Sure,” I said with a shrug, hiding a grin at Panacea's squeak of “Me?” I turned toward Lisa as Brian moved up alongside us. Rachel came up on the other side.

“Don't ever do that again,” Brian told me, his voice intense. “I was terrified for you the whole time.”

“Hey, I was safe,” I reminded him. “I was a lot more scared when I was kidnapped by the Empire and Kaiser told Hookwolf to make me scream.”

“Okay, I hadn't heard this one,” Alec put in from behind Rachel. “What happened then?”

I shrugged. “A ton of blue ice landed on them. I'm pretty sure I posted the photos online.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened. “Oh, that was you? How the fuck … no, never mind. I'm sure the explanation will be just as bullshit.”

“Pretty sure it's what got Coil's attention,” Lisa noted, nodding toward the mixed pile of anvils, piano bits and Jack Slash. Mercifully, no part of the deceased supervillain could actually be seen. She grinned at me. “I've noticed this about your power. It never does one thing when it could be doing three things at once.”

Abruptly, a blue glow surrounded Eidolon and Panacea, and they vanished. Glory Girl, left behind, looked around aimlessly then began to rise into the air.

“Hey, Gee-Gee,” Lisa called. “What's happening?”

For a few moments, it seemed that the teen superhero—I had to say, the pixie cut looked good on her—was going to ignore her, but then she drifted back down to us. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “Eidolon needs my sister for some project or other.” She nodded toward where the Protectorate heroes were securing Bonesaw. “Assault and Battery are taking that one to hand over to the PRT.” She eyed Brian, Rachel and Alec suspiciously. “Are all of you villains too?”

“They're ex-villains,” I corrected her firmly. Without looking, I held out my hand to Rachel and she handed Chick Norris over. The little chick cheeped at me as I cupped my hand around him. “They're with me now.” I pointed at them in turn. “Cool best friend. Asshole best friend. Tough best friend. Hunky best friend.”

Glory Girl's shoulders sagged slightly as I pointed out Brian. “Ah,” she said. “Damn.”

I looked at Lisa, unsure of what was going on here. She smirked. “Oh, you've got to hear this one.”

The blonde superhero shook her head, a look of sudden worry crossing her face. “No, no, she doesn't.”

Lisa nodded, her eyes bright. “Yes, yes, she does. See, Brian was taking one of Rachel's dogs for a walk …”



End of Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen