It Gets Worse [Worm AU Fanfic] Complete

It Gets Worse

Part Ten: Draggin' Ass



[A/N: This chapter has been beta-read, and considerably improved upon, by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Monday, January 3, 2011

CHICKEN

IT'S NOT JUST FOR DINNER

Capping the marker pen, Joe Pullman sat back and looked at the mock ad he'd just sketched out. “No,” he muttered. “It's not enough.”

As the head of one of the largest poultry concerns in New England, he was trying to work out a way of educating his fellow Americans about the fact that allowing a chicken to lay eggs instead of being slaughtered for its meat would supply far more than its own body weight in nutrition over its lifetime. Everywhere he went, fast-food places offered a dozen varieties of chicken burger or deep-fried wings or two-for-one drumsticks, while about one in ten offered any sort of egg as part of a meal. They eat eggs for breakfast and chicken all day long.

He leaned forward again and put the sheet of paper down on the coffee table, weighing down the top half with a folded paper bearing a headline about the decline of American horse racing; specifically, the Grand National. They're not the only ones. He stared again at his bold words, trying to see them with the eye of a consumer and work out what would make people want to buy eggs instead of chicken. The wording's wrong. I've got to put it some other way.

Grace, his wife of twenty years, entered the room with another newspaper in her hand. “Hon,” she said. “Can we go to the Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year? They say it might be shutting down in the next few years, and I want to see it at least once.”

He looked up at her, a smile crossing his lips. “You just want to see the shirtless street dancers.” His tone robbed the words of any sting.

“And you don't want to see the topless women?” She sat on the sofa beside him and put her arm around him.

“Pretty sure that's a myth.” He leaned into her. “But I'll make you a deal. If I can pull off some sort of ad deal that brings eggs back into the public eye, we'll go to Mardi Gras.”

“Deal!” she said immediately. As she tossed her paper toward the coffee table, a random gust of air caught it, flipping it over in midair. Having read the paper earlier that morning, he knew that the headline read 'Mardi Gras Festival Declining', but the way she'd folded it, the first two words ended up on the underside as it landed on top of Joe's mock ad.

Joe stared at the table. The upper paper had the word 'National', then there was the word 'Chicken' in his own writing. Finally, on Grace's paper, was the word 'Festival'.

“National Chicken Festival,” he said out loud. “Grace, you're a genius.”

“I'm what again now?” she asked.

He grabbed her and kissed her. “We're going to Mardi Gras!”

“Woohoo!” Unsure what had brought this on, she nevertheless whooped and kissed him back. “You're the best, honey!”

Another thought struck him, and he picked up the phone. “I've gotta make some calls.”

“Don't be too long.” Grace got up from the couch. “I'll be in the bedroom. Come find me when you've finished your calls. We'll have a Mardi Gras of our own.” She sashayed out of the room, casting her best impression of a sultry gaze behind her.

He gulped and stabbed numbers on the phone. He'd make the calls short.

<><>​

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Mayor Roy Christner pushed his reading glasses up his nose and peered at the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he looked up at the group of people standing uncertainly before his desk. “So … a chicken festival.” He kept his voice non-committal.

“That's right, your honour,” Joe Pullman said. “We represent poultry interests across the state. People aren't buying as many eggs as they used to. Too much pre-digested fast food. We want to show people that, far from being just one meal, a chicken can supply eggs over and over again. So we want to portray chickens as being a supplier of food rather than the food itself. Alive, rather than dead. When was the last time you saw a live chicken?”

“Right, right, I get it.” Roy glanced down at the paper again, and made some mental calculations. “All right, then. How long will you need to get set up?”

Pullman turned to the rest of the group; they whispered together briefly. Then he turned back. “A week, maybe a week and a half,” he said.

Roy nodded and checked his calendar. “All right. You can have Monday the seventeenth. Start setting up Sunday evening, be cleaned up and gone by Tuesday morning.” He made a note on his desk pad. “Is that satisfactory?” His tone said It had better be.

“That's perfect,” Pullman said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He stepped forward and extended his hand; Roy stood and shook it. “This means a lot to us.”

Roy tilted his head as the group moved toward the door. “Just one thing.”

“Yes?” Pullman turned back.

“Uh … I've never heard of this 'chicken festival' before. How long has it been going on?”

“Oh,” said Pullman with a grin. “Me and my Grace had the idea yesterday morning. It just happened. Thanks again, sir. You won't regret this.”

Roy watched the door close behind them. I hope not. Slowly, he sat down again. Chicken festivals. What next?

<><>​

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

“Bro, we got us a problem.”

Harry Block, part owner of Block & Tackle Party Hire & Supply, frowned at his brother in law. “Elias, I do not like it when you say that.”

Elias Tackle shrugged. “Sorry, dude. But a problem is what we got.” Fifteen years younger, his easy-going attitude was somewhat grating on Harry. He never seemed to be able to bring himself to care about anything important, though he did carry out his duties reasonably well. Harry handled the money side of things, while Elias took care of inventory. And, if Harry was truthful with himself, Elias was a positive genius when it came to locating the best inventory at the lowest prices.

“What is the problem?” Harry peered at Elias over his glasses.

“It's the Chicken Festival thing.” Elias showed Harry a sheet of paper. “We can't source enough helium to fill all their balloons. Not from our regular suppliers, anyway. That rain belt's been disrupting things so they won't be able to get enough to the city in time.”

“Elias.” Harry sighed heavily. “It is your job to find what we need to have, or tell me that we can't do a job. Are you telling me that we can't do the job?” His tone indicated disappointment.

Elias tilted his head slightly. “Actually … you know what, bro? Forget I said anything. I got this.”

“Is this going to cost us more money?” Harry was somewhat leery of anything that cost more than it should.

“Nope.” Elias grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I gotta go make some calls, but don't sweat it. We got this.”

“If you say so, Elias.” Harry went back to the bookwork. For a moment, he wondered if he should ask more questions, but then a notation popped up on his computer about an unpaid bill.

By the time he dealt with that, he'd forgotten all about the conversation with Elias.

<><>​

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Brockton Bay was not the best city in which to have a sudden influx of heavy rainfall. The water table, never very low to start with, was known to rise almost to street level if too much water went into the storm drain system at once. This put a lot of strain on the system, which was outmoded and in need of upgrading as it was. The overstretched and underfunded city council had, unsurprisingly, settled for merely fixing visible problems, year after year. This allowed more subtle problems, such as ongoing leaks and weakening of pipes, to worsen from neglect. In years of low rainfall, there wasn't much of a problem, as the system could handle it. However, the current downpour had stretched its diminished capabilities. Rainwater had leaked from the pipes and leached into the surrounding soil, some of which was unfortunately prone to being washed away. This could, as some people would find out, have the effect of leading to subsidence. Or worse.

Francis Garibaldi did not have the limitations of the stormwater system on his mind as he went about his morning deliveries. A tall, stout man with a permanent five o'clock shadow and male pattern baldness, Francis was the sole delivery driver for the eponymously named Garibaldi's Bakery. Unfortunately, while he worked for the bakery, he did not happen to have a stake in the business.

Garibaldi's was owned and managed by Francis' cousin Paul, who had reached his current level of success by never letting go of a dollar that he didn't have to. This was why Francis was employed as a driver rather than a full partner. It was also the reason that the delivery truck was in such poor shape. Despite its rather shaky brakes and faltering engine, Paul chose to keep it on the road rather than buy a replacement or even pay for anything more than the most superficial of repairs. But that was Cousin Paul all over.

Francis grumbled to himself as he drove. Grumbling was his main hobby these days; it cost nothing and made him feel good. Chief among his subjects was his cousin and employer. Paul might be five years older than Francis, but that shouldn't give him the right to lord it over his own flesh and blood, docking his pay for every late delivery. By rights, Francis should be allowed to buy into the business and have his own say on how it was run. But of course, Paul would never allow that.

The truck was another major point of contention. Francis had argued with Paul more than once on the subject. Its tyres were worn almost to the point of baldness, while the aforementioned brakes and engine needed a gentle hand so as not to fail at any given point during the day. The truck was so decrepit that if the police took an interest in it, they would almost certainly declare it un-roadworthy. The question—and the only reason why he wasn't flagging down the first police car he saw—was whether he'd be penalised for being the one caught driving the rattling death-trap in the first place. Which was why he chose to drive through the back streets on his deliveries, rather than take the main roads.

This particular back street was one which had been underwater for a day or so after the rain. In fact, there was still water standing in the gutters at some places. Ignoring that, he concentrated on picking his way between the pot-holes, as the suspension of the truck also needed work. Any sort of bump was likely to put his tailbone up between his shoulderblades. As the car in front passed a particular spot, water seemed to well into the pot-holes from beneath, as if a sponge had been squeezed. But he didn't notice, as he was both concentrating on his driving and relieving his stress by ranting about penny-pinching cousins and dilapidated trucks.

Thus, it was rather a surprise when the worn and cracked asphalt began to give way under his front wheels. Water, and rather a lot of it, appeared as if from nowhere and swirled across the street, getting deeper by the second. If the truck's brakes had been less worn, Francis may have stopped and reversed in time. On the other hand, had the engine had been in better condition, he might have accelerated across the crumbling section of street before it collapsed altogether. Unfortunately for him, neither one happened. What did happen was the brakes juddered as he tried to apply them, then the engine coughed asthmatically as he attempted to power forward. Francis let out a not particularly manly scream as the truck tilted head-first into the rapidly-widening hole in the road. Water covered the windshield and began to pour in through the gap in the partly-open window, soaking his left shoulder and pants. It was freezing cold, and it reeked of dead things.

Fumbling hastily with his seat belt, Francis looked around for a way out. The doors were both under water by now. He recalled reading about how it was impossible to open a car door against the water pressure unless the vehicle was also full of water. Fuck that. The cab was already half-full of water, and he strained back against the seat until the belt clasp finally came undone. It was pitch dark in the front of the truck by now, and he was starting to feel disoriented, with the water rising up to his chest. It didn't help that his ears felt funny with the air pressure.

The inspection hatch. It was an idea born of desperation, but he latched on to it like … well, like a drowning man. The hatch was a small opening into the rear of the truck to allow the driver to check on the load without getting out of the vehicle. It wasn't designed for people to climb through, especially not people as heavily-built as Francis, but he didn't care. Bracing his feet on the dashboard, he scrabbled at the hatch. By the time he got it open, the stinking floodwaters had risen to his chest once more. He stuck his arms through first to narrow his profile, then tried to climb through himself. At first, he was impeded by loaves of bread and other examples of the baker's art, as they were equally intent on joining him in the cab. Grimly, he pushed them aside and tried again to wedge himself through the hatch. By dint of straining, some lost skin, and an adrenaline rush born of sheer blind terror, he managed it … barely. As he pulled his legs out of the hatch, the floodwaters began to encroach into the rear of the truck. It was hot and stuffy in the back of the truck, and his eardrums felt as though they were trying to meet in the middle of his head. But he knew he couldn't give up. Escape was directly over his head; he just had to reach it.

The racks and shelves on either side of the truck had never been intended as a ladder. This didn't bother Francis in the slightest, as he had long since discarded all ideas that didn't involve survival as a key point. As he scrambled upward, he felt metal bending under him. He couldn't see what he was doing so he had to literally play it by touch, feeling blindly upward for the next handhold. When a brace snapped under his foot, he blindly grabbed for whatever was there, dangling agonisingly by his arms until he managed to get another foothold. His foot splashed in water, spurring him upward once more. The air pressure was almost intolerable by now.

It came almost as a surprise to reach the door at the back of the truck. This close, he could hear hissing all the way around the seal as air forced its way out. Panting harshly from his exertions, he took a firm grip on the nearest rack and ran his free hand over the inside of the door until he found the latch. Without pausing for an instant, he twisted it to open the door. Despite being aware of the oppressive atmosphere within the truck, he was unprepared for what happened next. The door flew open at the blast of released pressure, nearly taking his fingers with it, and he was blown out through the opening like a cork from a bottle. Landing with a bone-rattling thump on the broad rear of the truck, he lay there for a moment. The air out here was cool, though just as permeated by the stink of the freshly-released floodwaters, and he sucked it in greedily. After a few moments, he sat up and looked around.

The back of the truck was about level with the surrounding roadway; that is, about a foot above the water level. The rear door stood open, with water lapping inside to the same depth. Loaves and croissants floated forlornly within, now undoubtedly ruined by their soaking. Francis decided that he couldn't give a shit about the bread. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. However, unless the truck chose to keep sinking, he was going to sit right here for a little while longer, if that was okay with the universe. He had, he decided, earned a rest.

About ten minutes later, a car slowed to a halt with a squeak of brakes. Francis looked around to see that the vehicle had stopped well short of the sinkhole. A wise decision, in his estimation. Not speaking, not even caring enough to get up, he watched as the driver got out and cautiously approached. The man looked at the truck, then at the dirty water lapping alongside the sunken vehicle, then finally at Francis himself. As he opened his mouth, Francis had a sudden flash of insight as to what was coming next. Don't say it. Just don't.

But the newcomer was apparently unable to read minds. “So, uh, buddy,” he said diffidently. “Stuck in a sinkhole, huh?”

Francis looked sourly at him. “Nope,” he said. “I was havin' a swim an' this truck just plain popped up outta nowhere.” It was mean of him, he knew, but the look on the guy's face was absolutely worth it.

<><>​

Thursday Afternoon, January 13, 2011

“A sinkhole.” Roy Christner refrained from rubbing at his forehead with his fingertips, but only just barely. “The whole street, you say?”

“Near enough,” Don Hammett, the Director of Public Works, stated with dour satisfaction. “It ate a whole goddamn delivery truck. So now can we get some funds to fix it? It's been a thorn in our sides for years.”

“That depends on how much money you want,” Roy hedged. “I don't want to empty the discretionary budget over this, Don.” After all, he had several months to go before the end of the financial year, and anything could happen in that time. Especially in Brockton Bay.

“Let me see.” Don put on a thoughtful expression, although Roy was almost certain the public works man had already calculated the costs down to a cent before ever walking into his office. “We're gonna have to drain the hole, dump in enough gravel to fill it, then cap it off with concrete. Oh, and I'll need a tar truck as well.” As he spoke, he ticked his points off on his fingers.

“What?” Roy thought he felt a headache coming on. “You can't possibly put asphalt over it until the concrete sets, right?”

“Yeah, no, that's true.” Don tapped his clipboard. “But I've got half a dozen other damaged road sections in the general vicinity. May as well knock 'em all out at the same time.”

“When exactly were you planning on doing this?” asked Roy suspiciously. “I know you can't get everything together before Saturday night.”

“Well, your Chicken Festival is on Monday.” Hammett almost managed to sound reasonable. “I figured that you wouldn't want us getting in their way, so I was going to authorise a couple of crews to do Sunday shifts and get it all out of the way before the crowds start gathering.”

Roy nearly burst a blood vessel on the spot. “What? Like hell! There's no way I'm gonna let you charge me triple time and a half to get some basic roadworks done. You'll do it on Monday. Standard rates.”

“Yeah, well, this means that my road crews'll be out and about while the Festival's going on,” Hammett pointed out. “You sure you want that?”

“We'll survive,” Roy said, trying not to sound sulky. “Unless you're gonna tell me that the street the Festival is on also needs repairs?” His glare said you'd better not.

“No, no, I already checked,” Don assured him hastily. “That one's actually been done recently. It's got no problems at all.”

“Good,” Roy said bluntly. “So long as you can cover the rest of them, we'll be fine.”

Don threw him a mock salute. “You're the boss.”

As the door shut behind the man, Roy groaned and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. At least someone thinks that around here.

<><>​

Monday, January 17, 2011
Coil's Base

“ … and that's the last of the details on my mercenaries,” Calvert said with a grimace. “I've just sent them to your inbox.” He now felt that he knew the truth of the saying 'pound of flesh closest to the heart'. Passing off his mercenaries to the PRT was the definitive statement of surrender. Without them, he only owned as much power as the PRT permitted him to have.

“I'm opening the message now,” Director Piggot said. “I see that you've tagged the names of the ones who are in the country illegally. That's good.” Somehow, even her professional tone managed to sound smugly satisfied. This wasn't surprising. If our positions were reversed, I'd be gloating for all I was worth.

“Yes,” he confirmed unhappily. “I've also marked out the ones who have active arrest warrants in the United States.” He didn't want to do this, but he suspected that Taylor Hebert would want him to, and he couldn't bank on her power ignoring it. The image of anvils falling all about him still caused him to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

“So I see. I'll be going through these and deciding which ones we want to pick up.” Piggot's voice was brisk. “So, what are your plans for making Butterfly's life better?”

“I, uh, I was thinking that I know nothing about her,” he said diffidently. “So I was going to have some people I know befriend her and find out her likes and dislikes, and work from there.” Tattletale would be the best bet for that, he decided. They were around the same age, and probably had things in common. What that might be, he had no idea, but he was sure they'd find out.

“The subtle approach. Good, I like it. You can be sure that I'll be watching. From a safe distance, of course.” She was smiling now, he could tell. Her enjoyment of his predicament was as grating as it was obvious, and as unsurprising.

“Of course.” He bit the words off. “One more thing. Do you happen to know of her current whereabouts?” Though he was tempted to make a comment to the effect that if the PRT had allowed him to keep his mercenaries, he'd be able to keep tabs on Taylor all by himself, he restrained himself. Antagonising Piggot, with the vice-grip she had on his short and curlies, could only end badly for himself.

There was no answer for a second, but he heard the rattle of computer keys. Then she came back on the line. “She's apparently attending the National Chicken Festival with her father. Good luck. I'll talk to you again later.”

As he put the phone down again, he was gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt. Piggot had to be loving this, and he couldn't do a thing about it, and … graaaah! Unfortunately, he had learned the hard way that he couldn't even work off his tensions in a 'safe' timeline. He couldn't guarantee that Butterfly's power wouldn't cause him to close the wrong timeline at the wrong time, just to fuck him over.

He took a deep breath and placed his hands flat on the desk. The tensing and twitching gradually eased off as the urge to strangle something faded away. He was almost tempted to take out his pistol and put the barrel in his mouth, but for the certain knowledge that Butterfly would do something to screw even that up. And if he survived, he'd still be expected to keep helping out Taylor Hebert.

Okay, time to get to it. He picked up his phone and dialled Tattletale's number. If anyone can figure out how to get on the good side of a near-omnipotent teenage girl, it's her. The phone rang several times, and his frown deepened a notch each time. She'd better not be ignoring me …

Then the phone was answered. “Hello?” Tattletale seemed to be breathing hard, and there was wind rushing past the phone.

“Listen carefully,” he said without preamble. “I'm about to send you a photo of a person. You are to become that person's very best friend. This is not a scam. You must never harbour any ill-will toward this person. Do you understand?” Internally, he cringed at the certain knowledge that Tattletale would quickly divine his catastrophic mishaps regarding Butterfly. With any luck, she would fall off the damn dog laughing.

“Uh, boss, slight problem. You know how we were casing that casino of Lung's for a future job?”

He frowned. That didn't sound good. “Yes?”

<><>​

Rooftops
Tattletale

Lisa hung on to Judas as he leaped across the gap between two buildings. “Well, he caught us at it!” she yelled. “Sheer bad luck! Wrong time, wrong place! And now he's chasing us!” Lung roared from behind them, and she glanced over her shoulder. The metallic form, wreathed in a heat haze, seemed to be catching up.

There was a ping from her phone, and an icon popped up to show she'd received an image. “Find that person,” Coil said, barely audible over the thunderous panting of the dog she was riding. “Her name is Taylor Hebert. She'll be at the Chicken Festival. She'll help you.”

“But this is fucking LUNG!” screamed Lisa. Unbidden, her thumb tapped the icon to reveal a picture … of a lanky-looking teenage girl with long curly hair and glasses. “What the fuck's she gonna do against him?”

“The same thing she did to Kaiser and Hookwolf.” His voice was firm. “Now stop wasting time and go find her. And just remember—be very polite.”

The call ended, leaving Lisa's mind awhirl. She'd heard of what had happened to Kaiser and Hookwolf; after all, who hadn't? This girl did that? The part of her mind that was always analysing what was going on told her that yes, Coil was telling the truth. Also that he'd had a close encounter with Taylor Hebert's power himself, and come off a distant last. He's serious. He wants me to be her best friend. He's terrified of her. He thinks she can beat Lung. He thinks she can beat Lung without even trying.

“Guys!” she yelled. “New plan!” She pointed off to the side, where a couple of festively—if oddly-shaped—balloons could just be seen above the rooftops. “We're going to the Festival!”

“What?” bellowed Grue, who was astride Angelica with Regent behind him. “Lead Lung to a bunch of innocents? Are you nuts?”

“Trust me, I've got a plan!” Lisa called back. “We've gotta get over there now!” She pointed again at the balloons, then nearly lost her balance and grabbed for a bone spur.

Rachel, at least, appeared to believe her. The stocky auburn girl turned Brutus and urged him at the gap that separated the building from the ones across the street. Judas, whom Lisa was riding, turned to follow, almost causing Lisa to fall. She flailed for a hold, and realised that one hand just wasn't going to cut it. At this juncture, she had the option of retaining the phone or grabbing on with both hands. She tried to do both, and felt the phone slip from her hand. Grabbing on more securely just before Judas launched himself across the gap, she looked back to see her phone come to rest just short of the guttering. Crap. I liked that phone, too. At that moment, a gust of hot air buoyed the stench of boiling tar to her nostrils. Clinging to her handholds, she looked down. Below, a public works truck was applying tar to some serious cracks in the road. She had no desire to fall into the open-topped truck, so she gripped Judas even more tightly and braced for the landing.

Unfortunately, the shift in balance had impaired Judas' takeoff, and she realised that she wasn't going to make the edge of the roof. Closing her eyes, she hung on for her life. The impact was crushing, but she didn't let go, even though the edge of the bone spur felt like it was slicing through her fingers. Judas dug in with his claws and clambered up the side of the building, kicking brickwork free to smash on the pavement below and causing the roadwork crew to dive for cover.

As the massive dog reached the edge of the roof and scrambled over, Lisa saw that the other three members of the team were waiting for her further up the roof. Behind her, with a scrape of claws on tiles, Lung arrived on the opposite building. He roared in triumph and flung himself forward, obviously intending to leap across the same gap and attack in full force. Lisa knew that she couldn't get away, but she urged Judas forward anyway. Scrabbling at the roof tiles, the massive dog gave it his all. Lisa looked over her shoulder, in time to see Lung reach the edge of the far roof – and just as he made a ferocious bound to cross the distance, his foot flew out from under him. With mounting astonishment she identified a tiny glinting speck, arcing into the far distance, as her phone. He stood on it. What are the odds?

The loss of traction was Lung's undoing. Far from the powerful leap she expected, his slip forced him to take a header into the street below. She waited for the sound of metal impacting asphalt, but instead was treated to a tremendous, if gloopy, splash. A single tendril of tar rose up above the roof edge, and splattered on the tiles. Are you fucking kidding me? He fell in the tar truck! A bubble of laughter rose up in her chest, but she suppressed it. That's not gonna stop him. “Guys!” she yelled. “We gotta go!”

A roar from behind her punctuated her words and by the time she reached the others, they were already moving. “We still going to the Festival?” asked Grue.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Lisa stated definitively. “We gotta find a girl called Taylor Hebert. She is now officially our best friend.” Because if she did that—and I'm pretty sure she did—I love her style.

“Hey, did Lung really just fall in the tar?” Regent's voice held more glee than she'd heard from him in some time.

“Yeah,” Lisa said again, laughing out loud. “But less talk, more running. Lung's gonna be seriously pissed.”

“He was already pissed,” Grue pointed out, accurately. “He wanted to kill us before this.”

“More pissed,” Lisa clarified. “Much, much more pissed.”

The figure that leaped on to the rooftop behind them managed to verify her words far more thorougly than any amount of normal explanation. Lung was now black from head to toe with runny, sticky tar, covering his shiny silver scales. On a normal person the tar would've been cooling and hardening, but thanks to Lung's internal combustion, it was becoming even more liquid, leaving splattery footsteps behind as he ran. If his incoherent roar was anything to go by, he was angry enough to chase them across the country and back again to get his revenge.

“We need to go faster,” Grue agreed. “Definitely faster.”

“Faster is good.” Regent's tone managed to combine fear and amusement at the same time.

Rachel gave a sharp whistle, and the three dogs increased their pace. Not that they needed the encouragement.

<><>​

National Chicken Festival
Brockton Bay
Taylor

The sandwich smelled of fried egg, which wasn't a surprise, as that was the main ingredient. I sniffed at it, decided that it was worth a try, and took a tentative bite. Flavour filled my mouth. “Damn.” I looked at it with surprise and respect.

“Good?” asked Dad, then took a bite of his. As I had, he gave his sandwich a second look, then took another bite.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “A lot better than I expected, actually.” I took a second bite of mine, savouring the taste. “This is actually really good.”

“Thanks,” said the vendor who'd just sold them to Dad. “I use a little sage and black sauce. It really hits the taste buds, doesn't it?”

“Oh, yeah,” I drawled, attacking the sandwich again. Dad and I walked a little distance while we finished our sandwiches.

“So what do you think of our father-daughter day out so far?” he asked.

I wiped my mouth with the supplied napkin before answering. “Well, if you'd asked me yesterday if I'd be having a good time at a chicken festival, I would've been really doubtful. I mean, this is kinda weird, even for a street festival.” I spread my arms to illuminate my point. “There's even a guy selling pet chickens!”

“Those aren't pets,” Dad corrected me gently. “Those are egg-layers. And no, I'm not going to buy one for you. They take care and attention.”

“I wasn't going to ask,” I told him, though my attention was momentarily stolen by a cage of baby chicks. They looked so adorably fluffy that I wanted to pick them up and cuddle them all day long. Dad probably wouldn't let me get one of those, either.

The Festival was appropriately … festive. There were pens of chickens, elaborate displays showing that eggs were much healthier than most people seemed to think, along with enormous … chicken balloons. That is, Thanksgiving-style parade balloons shaped like chickens. Plus one or two shaped like egg-cartons, which was definitely something I'd never seen before.

Here and there, stands were selling foodstuffs, mainly based around eggs rather than chickens, which I found kind of odd. Little kids were running around with their own miniature chicken balloons, in all the colours of the rainbow. And of course, people roaming the street in chicken costumes. It was definitely festive, though a little weirdly so. Other people were wandering here and there, listening to the cheerful music and looking at the chickens as if they weren't quite sure what was going on. I knew that I wasn't.

Then I heard the shouts and screams at the other end of the festival, and I knew that something was going wrong. I knew about shit going wrong. This was familiar territory to me. “Get behind me, Dad,” I said quietly. Okay, power. Time to do your thing. I'd be really unhappy if anyone got hurt here today. I didn't even know if it would make a difference, but I concentrated on that thought as I stared toward the sounds of disturbance.

Whatever I expected to see, it wasn't weird dinosaur-lizard-dog … things. There were three of them, bounding one after the other down the street toward me and Dad. Riding them were four costumed figures, hanging on for dear life. To their credit, they were dodging around (and in some cases, leaping over) the pedestrians in their path. However, this seemed to be mostly the dogs' doing. The riders were spending more time looking over their shoulders at something.

Shading my eyes, I saw it. An immense black figure, easily twelve feet tall, was rampaging down the middle of the street in pursuit, leaping over and through displays as it went. At its discordant roar, people scattered. I watched as it slammed into a cable holding a balloon to the ground. The impact snapped the cable off its base, but instead of pulling free, the cable wrapped around the black figure, somehow sticking to it. Go get 'im, power!

Probably hampered by the cable wrapped around its left leg, the figure tripped and fell out of sight. Feathers arose, along with a huge amount of clucking; the latter almost drowned out the roaring of the monster. When it rose into sight again, it was covered in even more feathers. I suppressed a giggle. Damn, I love my power.

Not deterred in the slightest, it lunged forward once more, hampered somewhat by the cable still wrapped around its leg, and the balloon it was towing. Apparently so enraged that it didn't see the next cable, it blundered into that one too. This one snapped with enough force to wrap around its entire body. One balloon had not been sufficient to support its weight, but with the second one, this all changed. I watched with fascination as, struggling and raging, the feather-covered monster lifted clear of the ground and drifted away over the rooftops.

<><>​

Lung

The more he struggled with the cables, the tighter they seemed to wrap themselves around his leg and body. He tried to pull them free, but the tar on his hands was just as slippery as on the rest of him. Which was irritating, because it also seemed to be protecting the feathers that were now stuck all over him. Twisting around, he did his best to send a blast of flame at one of the ridiculous balloons that were supporting him in midair. It missed by a wide margin.

In the next instant, his faithful lieutenant Oni Lee appeared, holding tightly to one of the cables. Lung felt a surge of triumph. He would be down on the ground in moments, and then he would return to destroy all who had seen his moment of humiliation. “Burst the balloons!” he tried to shout, but his mouth was not well shaped for words at the moment.

Nonetheless, Lee seemed to get the idea. Pulling his pistol with his free hand, he aimed it at the nearest balloon and opened fire. Several small holes opened up, and the gas hissed out. Lee's body crumbled to ash as he teleported to the other balloon and pressed the barrel of the gun against it.

Far from the simple gunshot that Lung expected a moment later, the balloon erupted in a massive explosion. Shreds of charred rubber—and possibly Oni Lee—went past Lung in all directions as he was flung out of the fireball. All of the tar and feathers had been charred from his body on one side, though the balloon cables had managed to wrap themselves around him even more thoroughly than before, so that he was somehow bound hand and foot. Still, it wasn't a real problem, he told himself as he tumbled over and over through the air. He was still bulky enough to weather the impact, and once he hit the ground, he'd be able to work his way free of his bonds. One way or the other. And then the Undersiders will pay for this.

<><>​

Taylor

The three dog-things and their riders were bearing down on me and Dad. The crowd, finally realising the danger, were scattering in all directions. Even the guy in the fried-egg sandwich stall bolted. I saw a dark stain washing out over the asphalt in front of the stall, and wondered what he'd spilt as he ran for it.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. The three dog-things were moving in a rough triangle formation, with a stocky girl wearing a Rottweiler mask on the one in front. As that one came level with the stall, its front paws went out from under it, eliciting a thunderous yip in response. The dog went over sideways, tripping the other two in the process.

All four riders flew off their mounts, landing in a pile that reminded me of the incidents with Emma, Sophia and Madison. Over and over they tumbled, until they came to a halt before me. The stocky girl, apparently dazed, was entangled with a guy in biker leathers, while under the both of them groaned a skinnier guy wearing a now somewhat less than pristine Renfaire outfit. In front of them, a girl in a skintight purple costume rolled to a stop more or less at my feet. She sat up, shaking her head groggily, then stared at me, her eyes wide.

“Ah,” she said hesitantly. “You'd be Taylor Hebert, then.”

I had no idea how she knew me, but I suspected it was my power at work; the tell-tales were fairly obvious. Raising my eyebrows, I gave her an appraising look. “Uh huh. Mind filling me in on what's going on here?”

<><>​

Miss Militia

Hannah climbed out of her Hummer and marched over to the edge of the sink-hole, her eyes taking in every detail. The heavy pump which had obviously emptied the hole of water. The dump-truck full of gravel. The loader with a bucket full of the same gravel. The cement truck alongside the hole, with damage to the control levers. The sinkhole itself, which was almost full of partly-set cement, radiated a heat that Hannah could feel from where she was.

In the middle of the drying cement was a hole about a foot across. As she watched, a fist lashed up out of the hole, smashing a chunk of cement away and widening the hole. Her weapon reformed in her hand, and she waited.

It didn't take a genius to see that Lung had come in on a ballistic arc. He hit the truck and damaged it enough that it somehow started pouring cement, then bounced into the hole. Something stopped him from climbing out while the cement poured in. He was lucky enough to keep his head above the level of the cement till it stopped pouring. She grinned to herself. Hello, Butterfly.

She knew that Lung's size tended to reduce back to normal when he didn't have a powerful opponent to face. As far as she could tell, this was the case now. The cement appeared to have dried overly fast due to his heat, which would have happened before he went back to human size. So he's in there now, and he's not trapped. He'll be out of there in minutes. And it looks like he's stronger than normal, or the cement's a lot weaker than it should be. Did drying really fast weaken concrete? It was something she'd have to look up later.

In any case, Lung was going to be breaking free of his ad hoc prison very soon. The only flaw in the plan was that the foreman had contacted the PRT even while he was driving the hell away from the sinkhole. And I intend to be a very big problem indeed.

The fist punched another chunk of concrete out of the hole. Then the hand took hold of the edge of the hole, and Lung heaved himself into view. He was halfway up out of the hole before he realised she was there. She wasn't sure what expression was on his masked face as he turned to face her, but she would've put money on a serious level of aggravation.

“Lung,” she said levelly. Her weapon, a Brute-scale taser, was aimed right at him. Enough of these were manufactured for the PRT that she was able to duplicate them.

“Miss Militia.” His voice was gravelly and strongly accented.

“You gonna surrender peacefully? Kind of got you cold, here.” She gestured slightly with the taser.

“I am due for the Birdcage. I will not surrender for that.” With a burst of explosive power, he came around with a chunk of cement the size of her head in his hand. His arm came up, but before he could complete the throwing motion, she fired her weapon. The two wires shot out and lodged into his ribs. An instant later, electricity crackled through the Asian crime lord, making him convulse and jerk spasmodically. The piece of cement rolled to her feet and stopped.

She let up on the taser. A second later, his eyes opened and he ripped out the wires, yanking hard on them. She released the weapon, letting it dissolve into its green-black energy. The taser reformed in her hand a moment later, and she shot him again.

It took three shots to put him down for good. She hit the trigger a few more times, watching his body jolt with the current, but he was out cold. She could tell from the movement of his chest that he was still breathing. Carefully, she walked a little closer, intrigued by something that she could see. Reaching up, she pressed the button on her lapel radio. “Miss Militia here. I've got Lung, over.”

“Control calling Miss Militia. Please say again, over.” The voice sounded a little incredulous.

“Miss Militia here. The tip-off was on the money. Lung is down. You can send someone to pick him up. Bring plenty of containment foam, over.”

“I copy Lung is down. Sending pickup. Plenty of confoam, roger.”

“And one other thing.” Hannah leaned in close to verify what she thought she'd seen. There was a streak of a familiar-smelling black substance on his mask, with a tiny charred stub of a feather stuck to it. “Put this down as a verified Butterfly incident, over.”

A new voice broke in brusquely. “Director Piggot here. Can you definitively confirm Butterfly involvement, over?”

Hannah smiled behind her scarf. “Affirmative. From the evidence, he was tarred and feathered before being stuck up to his neck in cement. Over.”

There was a burst of static, which she interpreted as a sigh. “Understood. I'll write it up accordingly. Piggot, out.”

“Roger and out.” Hannah settled down to wait. Occasionally, she snickered. Tarred and feathered. God, I hope someone got footage of that.

<><>​

Taylor

“Hey, this is really good.” Tattletale took another bite of the fried-egg sandwich.

“I know, right?” I petted the cheeping chick that I had cradled in my cupped hand while I thought about what to say next. While I wasn't quite sure how the cage had busted open, I'd found the chick perching on my shoe and looking up at me forlornly, so of course I'd had to rescue it … permanently. I just had to get Dad on board with that.

Off to the side, Dad and Grue were helping the stall owner scrub up the spilled cooking oil. It turned out that he'd opened a ten-gallon container of the stuff only seconds before the Undersiders showed up. Most of it was spread across the asphalt, but the steady scrubbing seemed to be doing the trick.

Regent, according to Tattletale, had tried to be a douche when he first got up. He had powers that affected peoples' nervous systems, which he'd tried to use on me. I'd wondered why he was thrashing on the ground like an idiot. Apparently his taser-sceptre thing had been damaged in the fall and had short-circuited at the appropriate moment. Now, after being slapped upside the head by both Tattletale and Grue, he just sat and stared sulkily at the ground, shaking his head. Occasionally, he looked warily up at me and muttered, “Bullshit. Just bullshit.”

Bitch, on the other hand, hadn't tried anything like that. Once Tattletale explained the situation, she seemed to be happy to sit with her three dogs, which by some weird power thing had reduced back to normal size by now. The dogs also seemed to like fried-egg sandwiches.

“Let me see if I've got this right,” I said at last. “Your boss, who's a supervillain whom I've never heard of, told you to find me and be my very best friend.” Peep-peep, went the chick.

“Exactly,” she said earnestly. “He was clear that this wasn't a scam. This is my job from now on. But he's not a supervillain any more. He's given it up.”

I frowned. “That's the bit I don't get. Why's he given it up? Why tell you to be my friend? I don't even know him. I barely know you.” Though having a teenage villain as a best friend seemed to be about par for the course for me, these days.

She chuckled. “He didn't say, but I can guess. He's the sort of guy who likes to have his finger in every pie. When he heard about you, he probably thought he could get ahold of you and make you use your power for his benefit.” I thought I heard an echo of something darker in her voice. Is that what happened to her?

“So you say.” I shrugged. “I haven't heard anything about this until now.” The chick peeped in agreement. I petted it some more. It really was amazingly fluffy.

Tattletale's chuckle morphed into a smirk. “You wouldn't. He never even got close. You remember seeing a freak accident with a bunch of anvils on the news, in midtown?”

“Uh, yeah.” I gave her a dubious look. “I don't see the significance. I wasn't even there.”

Her smirk widened considerably. “You didn't have to be. He'd tried and failed, so he was gonna leave town. But your power decided it wanted him to work for you. So, anvils. He didn't want to die, so hi, I'm your new best friend. Especially after what happened to Lung. That was epic.”

Most of her rapid-fire explanation went over my head, but I figured I'd extract the details from her at my leisure. “That shit just happens these days. I don't make it do anything. Though I did wonder what that explosion was all about. I thought those balloons were all helium.”

Tattletale's expression was composed of pure, distilled smugness. “Someone skimped on the cost and filled one of the balloons with hydrogen. I'd say what a coincidence but I don't believe in them any more. Not since meeting you.”

That explained a lot. “Wow. Okay, I'm not surprised. I'm really not.”

“Nope, it – oh, shit.” The smile dropped off Tattletale's face.

I looked around and saw more costumed figures. In this case, it was Armsmaster, flanked by Assault and Battery. They were striding forward as if they owned the place, and Armsmaster already had his halberd out. With some difficulty, I suppressed a squee of hero-worship.

“Hello, Miss Hebert.” Armsmaster gave me a nod. “Are you unhurt?”

This was the second time someone in a costume had known me by name. I decided to roll with it. “Hi, Armsmaster.” I waved at him with my free hand. “Yeah, I'm fine. You should really try one of those fried-egg sandwiches. They're very good.” Or you can just autograph one for me.

“They really are,” Tattletale confirmed, looking from me to the heroes as if trying to figure out what was going on here.

“That's nice.” His voice disinterested, he turned his attention to the teenage villains. Grue was looking our way, Regent and Bitch were on their feet, and all four were now tense, ready for action. “We'll be taking the Undersiders into custody now.”

I had a split-second decision to make, and I didn't even take that long. “I'd really rather you didn't.”

He froze in the act of pointing his halberd at Tattletale. “I beg your pardon?”

I spread my free hand. “I think I spoke clearly enough. I'd really rather you didn't take them into custody.”

“Are you certain?” He carefully put the butt-end of his halberd back on the ground again. “They're criminals.”

“Not any more.” My voice was firm. “You can go and help someone else, now. They're with me.”

His gauntleted hand came up to cover his visor. “Of course they are.”

Behind him, Assault seemed to suffer an attack of the giggles, not helped by Battery surreptitiously elbowing him in the ribs. I had no idea what that was about.

Armsmaster waited for a long moment, but I folded my arms as best I could and tapped my foot. He stomped on through, smacking his halberd against the ground as if he had a personal grudge against it. Assault and Battery followed on. As the red-clad hero passed me, he offered a quick high-five; bemused, I returned it. The chick cheeped at him, causing a momentary double-take.

Just as Armsmaster reached Dad and Grue, he turned his head to look back at Tattletale and the other two, his mouth set in a grim line. And then, of course, he stepped on the only patch of oil that had yet to be cleaned up. I watched in slow motion as his foot skidded out from under him, and he ended up in a clattering ignominious heap on the ground. To his credit, he neither yelped nor lost his grip on his halberd. As Battery rushed forward to help him up, Assault lost it altogether and ended up leaning against the food stand, shaking with near-hysterical laughter.

Tattletale stared from me to where Battery was assisting Armsmaster to his feet. “What are you, Taylor Hebert?” she asked incredulously. “What the hell are you?”

“Me?” I asked. “I'm normal. Ask anyone.”

The response came from her, Grue, Regent, Assault and even Bitch; if I didn't know better, I would've sworn that they'd rehearsed it.

“BULLSHIT!”



End of Part Ten

Part Eleven