It Gets Worse [Worm AU Fanfic] Complete

It Gets Worse


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

[A/N 2: Allusions that may be made to fictional or non-fictional persons are intended solely as parodies of those persons.]


Part Eleven: Things Get Silly


The Boardwalk
Monday, 17 January 2011
Taylor

The Boardwalk was busy for a weekday. People strolled along, stopping at the kiosks and looking out at the Protectorate HQ under its iridescent force field. Others cruised past on rollerblades, moving with an ease and grace that I didn't think I could manage. Down on the sand, a bunch of guys and girls in their twenties were throwing frisbees back and forth in some sort of complicated, noisy game. In the middle of all this, nobody seemed to notice that I was strolling along with a bunch of super-powered villains, even if they were out of costume at the moment. Or that I had a baby chick on my free hand. Chick Norris, as Dad had dubbed him, seemed to be looking around with interest at everything. I hoped he wouldn't take it into his head to run off somewhere.

“ … okay, I get it that you're lucky.” Brian leaned against the rail and looked intently at me. “But how does this translate to our boss telling us that we're working for you now?”

I pretended to be engrossed in the soft-serve ice-cream I was eating until I could come up with an answer, although in truth I was lost in admiration for the way his biceps strained against his T-shirt sleeve as he folded his arms. Did you set this up for me, power? If so, nice.

All of the Undersiders had unmasked and de-costumed for the stroll along the Boardwalk. Lisa—Tattletale—had led the way, turning from a smug blonde in a purple catsuit into a smug blonde in stylish but casual clothing. Grue, the imposing figure in the motorcycle leathers and skull helmet, was a tall, well-built black guy with his hair in cornrows, and muscles on his muscles. Alec—Regent—had gone from Renfaire tights and a coronet to jeans and a t-shirt without losing his careless attitude. He was still keeping his distance from me, though. And Bitch—I'd been assured that was her cape name—hadn't really changed her costume, such as it was. She'd basically discarded her dollar-store dog mask, but that was it. Of the four of them, she seemed to be sticking the closest to me as her dogs trotted alongside her. This was possibly because her real name—Rachel Lindt—was already known to the public, so she couldn't go out without the chance of someone recognizing her and causing problems. I'd stood up to Armsmaster on her behalf, so she was treating me as the person in charge. Her choice of ice-cream was vanilla, of which she had two cones. One was for her, and the other was being shared between her dogs.

To be honest, I hadn't known that dogs could eat ice-cream. As an experiment, I offered my cone to Chick Norris. He snapped up a tiny beak-full and swallowed it, then went for another one. Well, that answers that. Chickens eat ice-cream too.

I wasn't quite sure how to answer Brian's question; it was just that I now seemed to have four teenage supervillains at my beck and call. Or rather, ex-villains. Which, given everything else that had happened, still wasn't the strangest part of my day.

“Can I tell him?” asked Lisa, the ever-present smug grin spreading across her face once more. She seemed to be acclimatizing to the new situation very rapidly indeed. Not to mention deriving immense amusement from it. “Please?”

“Sure,” I agreed, plonking myself down on a seat where I could enjoy the eye candy without being too obvious about it. Norris went cheep-cheep, so I lowered my hand a little. He jumped down to explore the seat—and decorate it with his leavings. Rachel watched him carefully, then sat down on the other end of the same seat. One of her dogs sniffed at my fingers, then licked them. I scratched it behind its one ear; a back leg thumped against the wooden boards in response. “What's this one's name?”

“Angelica,” Rachel said immediately. “She likes you.” She had an odd habit of ducking her head when she spoke to me, as if she were looking for my permission first. I hadn't thought I was that scary, but then again, Lung had been carried away by balloons.

“Okay,” began Lisa cheerfully. “Gonna need someone's phone, though. Mine got lost.” When I looked at her, she shrugged. “I dropped it, Lung stood on it and slipped, and ended up covered in tar.”

I'd heard of weirder things. Hell, I'd seen weirder things. Talking of which, the chick was now at Rachel's end of the bench, cheeping at her. The look on her face as she stared at him was just a little amusing. “Go ahead,” I said cheerfully. “I'll be wanting him back, though.” With the care and attention that she showed her dogs, I had no doubt that she would treat my new pet the same way.

“Okay,” she said, a little uncertainly. She fed the last of the cone to another one of her dogs—he crunched it up cheerfully—then put her hand down. Chick Norris promptly hopped on to it. Angelica turned her head in that direction, but a gesture from Rachel had her lying down with her head on her front paws.

“Wow,” I said admiringly. “Any chance you can teach me how to do that? With Angelica, I mean.”

Rachel looked at me, surprise showing in her eyes.

I blinked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she said hastily. “No, no, no. I just thought you'd know how to do that sort of thing already.”

Now I was the one taken aback. “Uh, why would you think that? You're the one who knows dogs, not me.”

“But …” Rachel searched for words. “You beat Kaiser and Lung and Coil. You're more powerful than the rest of us put together.”

“Still doesn't mean I know the first thing about dogs,” I pointed out. “Can you teach me?”

“If you want to learn, I can teach you,” she said. “It'll mean spending time feeding dogs and picking up their shit.”

I grinned. “I guess I can handle that.” With that in mind, I noted that the chick hadn't left any 'souvenirs' on my hand or Rachel's. Instead, he'd chosen the seat between us to use as his toilet. My power is awesome.

A little reluctantly, Brian dug out his phone and handed it to Lisa. She tapped in the unlock code without any hesitation, which made me wonder if they regularly shared such things, or if she'd used some sort of power to figure it out. She'd already showed an unusual level of intuition, so I decided to go with the latter idea for the moment.

Lisa fiddled with Brian's phone for a moment, then showed us all a picture. I recognized it as the one that had been on the news, with all the anvils. “This is what happened to the boss. He's an asshole who was using us for our powers. He tried to set it up so he could use you for your power, but your power basically laughed out loud and smacked him upside the head. So he tried to leave town, and your power did that. With him in the middle.” She handed the phone back to Brian.

He stared at the picture. “Holy shit. I can see how that would make an impression.” Lifting his gaze from the phone, he looked at me. “So from that he decided that you were calling the shots?”

Lisa answered for me. “There were a couple of other factors. Icing on the cake, as it were.” She looked incredibly smug. “He's basically shut down ninety percent of his operations. The PRT has full control of him, now. He's focusing all of his abilities on making you happy, and part of that involves telling me to be your best friend. And the other guys come along with me. If you're okay with that, of course.”

“Huh.” So it seemed I now had a bunch of ex-villains as minions. “Well, you know I'd be happiest if you didn't commit crimes any more. Just saying.” Well, it was worth a try.

Lisa stretched, catlike. If her expression had been any more self-satisfied, I would've begun to wonder if she was on drugs. “I have absolutely no problem with that. I was only doing it because the asshole had a gun to my head. Brian?”

From his serious expression, Brian was less thrilled with the outcome than Lisa. “I've got family problems. He was helping me with them. So now I'm without any way to do that, unless I go back into business for myself.”

“Okay, let's put a pin in that for now.” I turned to Alec. “What about you? Any problems with going straight?”

He rolled his eyes as only a teenager can do. “What can I say? I was just looking for the toughest gang around to attach myself to. I guess that's you?” The question was lackluster at best. I got the impression that he rarely showed strong emotion over anything. Even the caramel swirl soft serve cone he was eating. Which was blasphemy; caramel swirl deserved to be treated with the utmost respect.

“No, that's my power,” I corrected him. “If I like you, my power won't let anything happen to you that would make me unhappy. And I guess it's already decided that it likes you, seeing what happened to Lung for wanting to kill you.” I gave him a bright smile, then turned to the last member of the band. “Rachel, any thoughts?”

Almost guiltily, she moved the hand holding the chick away from her face, where she'd been rubbing her cheek against the little peeping creature's fluffy down. “Uh, I want to keep my dogs safe and be left alone.” Leaning down, she let her dogs finish off her second cone so that she had both hands free for Norris.

“Which, up till now, wasn't easy,” Lisa put in. “She's got murder charges against her.” She crossed her arms. “Trigger event related, but they weren't willing to listen then and they aren't now.”

“Oh, really?” I grinned at Lisa and held out my hand for the phone. “Gimme. Lisa, what's Director Piggot's direct number?”

Brian's eyes widened, and Alec managed to look a little startled. Lisa laughed out loud. Only Rachel kept her calm as Lisa rattled off the number, I tapped it into the phone.

The phone began to ring; I tapped the 'speaker' icon and held the phone up in front of me. After a few rings, the Director answered, her tone intense. “Who is this and how did you get this number?”

“It's just me,” I answered lightly. “Taylor Hebert. I've got a couple of favors to ask. If that's okay with you.” As I spoke, I watched the faces of the others. Lisa had her hands clasped over her mouth, but I could see her eyes dancing with repressed laughter. Brian was staring with blank astonishment, and Alec seemed to be wondering what the hell I was doing. Rachel was just watching.

“Ah, Miss Hebert.” The Director cleared her throat. “I apologize for my abrupt tone. Will you be using this number from now on?” She didn't sound worried, just … cautious.

“I'm not sure. I'll take care to let you know what number I do end up with. But I didn't call about that. I wanted to talk to you about the Undersiders.” I leaned back on the bench, still a little surprised at myself for being able to talk so calmly to someone in a position of power.

“Yes, I was just reading Armsmaster's report. Apparently they are now under your protection, despite being villains.” Her tone was carefully non-judgmental; maybe she'd heard about Armsmaster's pratfall. “You're certain this is the best course of action?”

“Sure.” Even though I knew she couldn't see it, I shrugged. “They're my age, or close enough. And I've already asked them not to do any more crime. But apparently there's a few complications.” By now, Lisa was leaning against the rail, heaving with silent laughter. Brian and Alec were both regarding me with stares of horrified fascination, only varying in degree. Rachel stroked the chick, which cheeped at her.

If Director Piggot's voice had been bland before, it was doubly so now. “I'm listening.”

“Okay then.” I took a moment to figure out what I wanted to say. “Grue says that he's got family problems. Would you mind getting the full details from Coil, then somehow fix this for him, please?” Which was probably something that nobody had ever said to Director Piggot before, now that I came to think about it.

“Grue … family problems … fix them …” The Director paused. “Understood. Was that all?” I was no good at reading meaning from tone, but even I could tell that she really, really wanted that to be all. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on her side.

“Actually, no, there's one other thing.” I looked at Rachel; the muscular girl's attention sharpened. “Rachel Lindt just wants to be left alone to take care of her dogs. I'd like that to happen, please.”

“And I want the other dogs,” Rachel said suddenly. Her hands, now curved protectively around Chick Norris, never stopped her careful stroking of his soft yellow down.

“Hm.” The Director sounded less than happy. “You are aware that Ms Lindt has pending murder charges against her name?” From the tone of her voice, she wasn't saying yes or no, just making me aware of the fact.

“Yes,” I said. “But isn't it true that trigger related events get a pass?” I didn't know whether it was or not, but that seemed to be the context from Lisa's statement.

“Not officially,” the Director said reluctantly, “but situations like that are generally taken into consideration.”

“Well, from what I understand, they weren't,” I said. “I was hoping that you could give the case a fresh appraisal and see what you think about it.” I cleared my throat. “Excuse me a moment. Rachel, what do you mean by 'the other dogs'?”

“I mean strays.” Rachel's expression darkened. “And the dogs Hookwolf and his asshole Empire buddies have been using in dog fights. All the dogs. Let me take care of 'em and leave me alone, and I'll be happy.” Norris cheeped at her and she stroked him again. They were definitely bonding.

“I see.” There was a distinct pause from the Director's end of the call. “I can't guarantee anything—it's not in my power to issue blanket pardons—but I will definitely make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, by my order, the Protectorate and PRT will be leaving Miss Lindt and her friends alone. Is that satisfactory?” I had to hand it to her; she was either totally resigned to the current situation, or she was a really good actor. Of course, my power had screwed over the Empire Eighty-Eight and the ABB, so it could've been a lot worse for her.

“It sounds good to me,” I agreed. “What about the dogs?” I could tell Rachel wasn't about to let that aspect go. Nor did I expect her to.

“There … we have more of a problem.” Director Piggot sighed. “Any dogs currently in your possession, you may keep, of course. And we can turn over Hookwolf's dogs to you. But there are more strays in the city than you could conceivably feed for more than a few days. The PRT does have a discretionary budget, but there are limits to how much of it I can justify putting toward feeding stray dogs. Also, the more dogs you take off the streets and bring back to health, the more they'll be breeding, using up the funds faster than ever. I'm afraid the majority will have to be euthanized, just to make room for the rest.”

“But you said -!” began Rachel, but I shook my head. She stopped speaking, looking at me as though I was about to pull the answer from mid-air.

“Let her finish,” I said. “Director, you were about to propose a solution?”

“A stopgap, at best,” Director Piggot said tiredly. “Every dog you take in, every dog you've already got, has to be spayed or neutered. Unless you're so good you can stop them from breeding as well?”

Rachel grimaced. “I don't—I've never -”

I decided to step in. “Rachel, you've never had to deal with numbers on this scale. In some cities, they've got about one stray dog for every human. Even if Brockton Bay had just a third of that, that's a hundred thousand dogs. If it cost a dollar to feed a dog for a day, you'd go through a million dollars in less than two weeks. And that's if you de-sex the dogs as fast as you get them. If you don't, the numbers will just keep going up.”

It looked like Rachel was getting it. “But even if I do, dogs will starve. I won't have the money to feed them.” She didn't like that, not at all.

“Director,” I said. “How about if Rachel trains dogs for the military and the police? Drug sniffers, explosives sniffers? Service dogs for the blind and deaf? She could do a better job than anyone else, I bet.” I didn't know how much that sort of thing paid, but I was certain it wasn't cheap.

“That's a start,” Director Piggot allowed. “Once you were up and running, it would make for a good income stream. But before that happens, you're going to have a huge financial hump to overcome. With city funds, and even with PRT assistance, I'm afraid there's going to be a considerable shortfall.”

“Not necessarily.” Lisa still had tearmarks on her face from laughing so hard, and the grin seemed to be a permanent fixture, but at least she was able to talk now. “Tattletale here. Director, what about Coil's funds? I know he's got eight or nine figures lying around. I've been through his books enough times.”

“Tattletale, you should know well enough that the results of criminal enterprises are routinely seized,” the Director said sternly. “The majority of Coil's ill-gotten gains have already been frozen, awaiting transferal.”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, Director Piggot? I just wanted to point out that without me and my power, you wouldn't have those funds. Or Coil.”

“Or Kaiser, or Lung,” added Lisa in a mischievous tone. “In fact, you might just say the PRT owes Taylor a huge debt of gratitude. And cutting loose fifty or sixty million to help out the stray dog problem is cheap at the price. Especially since that money isn't actually yours yet.”

When the Director spoke next, I imagined her rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Very well. I'll set the wheels in motion. I suggest you locate a property where you can work from. You're about to become the custodian for a great many dogs.”

“Good,” said Rachel bluntly. That seemed to end the conversation, as far as she was concerned.

“What she means is, thank you,” I said hastily. I was fully aware that the existence of my power was the only thing keeping Piggot from ending the conversation on a much nastier tone, but there was no reason to be impolite about it. “And thank you from me, too.”

“You're welcome, Miss Hebert,” the Director said pointedly. “Was there anything else? I have calls to make.”

“Actually, yeah,” Lisa said. “Now you've got Coil's nuts in a vice, feel free to use his powers to make your job easier, especially where it comes to making Taylor happier. It's about time the asshole put them to honest use.”

“I'll take that under advisement, Tattletale,” Piggot said, just a little curtly. “Good day.” A moment later, she ended the call.

“Wow,” I said to Lisa as I handed Brian back his phone. “You really like yanking her chain, don't you?”

She smirked. “Well, ex-villain here. Also, it's kinda my nature. So, what did you want to do? We could go check out the Market. Or catch a movie. My treat.”

Alec let out a really fake-sounding yawn. Either he was bad at it, or he just wasn't trying. I suspected the answer was 'yes'. “Or we could go back to the base. I'm missing quality first-person shooter time, here.” He caught the look that Brian and Lisa shot him and spread his hands. “What? Lisa's the cool gal-pal, Brian's the hunky guy she can drool over when she thinks nobody's looking, Rachel's the … uh …”

“The one who'll punch out people who annoy her.” Rachel had Chick Norris perching on her shoulder now, and was angling her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to enjoy it there. “Starting with you.”

“Ah, yeah.” Alec cleared his throat and moved on. “I mean, we've got everyone here we need to keep Her Almightiness Queen Taylor amused. What can I do that anybody else can't do better?” He stood up, and a frisbee hit the ice-cream he was holding, spraying him with the contents of the cone. All he could do was stand there blinking, holding the remains of the cone, his face painted in caramel and vanilla ice-cream. The frisbee rebounded off a light-pole and landed on top of his head, balancing there like a silly hat.

“Well, it looks like you've been chosen for the role of slapstick victim.” Lisa, totally free of any such coating despite having been sitting right next to him, eyed him with amusement. “Maybe next time you don't say mean things about Taylor?”

Brian picked up the frisbee from Alec's head and sent it zipping down to the group on the sand. “Is it bad that I'm not sure if I should go down there and beat up the guy who threw it, or shake his hand?”

“What the fuck?” Alec tried to wipe his eyes clear with the back of his hand. Once he'd managed that, he glared at me. “Do you fucking mind?”

I gave him a level stare. “What part of 'not under my conscious control' did you have trouble understanding, genius?” I'd been a bit irritated and embarrassed before the frisbee covered him with his own ice-cream. I mean, yes, I was kind of ogling Brian, but he didn't have to point it out like that. Also, referring to me as 'Her Almightiness' was just rude. Especially when I'd been trying to be polite, dammit!

“Alec.” Lisa's voice was calm and controlled. “Apologize.” Standing, she backed carefully away from him. “I suggest doing it quickly.”

“What? Why the fuck should I? She hit my ice-cream with a fucking frisbee. I was enjoying that ice-cream.”

Brian stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “She didn't. A guy down there threw it, and missed where he was aiming. Look around. There's a million things that could be about to fuck you up if you keep pissing her off. I'm pretty sure that the frisbee was just the warning shot.” He fiddled with his phone. “Look. This shit happened when she wasn't even aware of Coil.”

Alec looked at the photo, the one with the anvils. Finally, realization began to work its way through the natural irritation. “Oh.”

“Pretty sure that 'oh' isn't gonna cut it in the apology stakes,” Lisa murmured through half-closed lips. “Try harder.”

“Um.” He turned to me. “I … don't know how to apologize. I've never really done it much. Or ever.”

“And isn't that the truth,” muttered Lisa, almost under her breath.

“Not helping, Lisa,” murmured Brian. “Go on, Alec. You can do it.”

Alec tried to look in a dozen different directions, probably to try to avoid whatever doom was bearing down on him. “Um, I …” He paused. “What the hell?” He stared, pointing over my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes. “Funny. The 'look behind you' gag was old when my dad was a kid.”

“Uh, no.” Lisa spoke carefully. “It's not a gag.”

Slowly, I turned to look.

<><>​

Fourteen Days Earlier
January 3, 2011
8:31 AM

Detective Larry Calhoun, BBPD, lay slumped up against a set of steps alongside a dented garbage can, pretending to swig from the bottle in his hand. The liquid sloshing inside was only cold tea; the whiskey from the bottle had been carefully poured over his clothing to give him an authentic odor. He'd been wearing the same clothing for a week now, and would happily have killed for a shower, or at least a breath mint. But Larry was a professional; he'd do the job and he'd see it through to the end. Fortunately for his sanity—and sense of smell—the end was in sight.

Drugs were a significant problem in Brockton Bay. Three separate gangs in the city either bought or manufactured product, which they then sold on to their customer base. For the Empire Eighty-Eight, it was a relatively low-end part of their profit margin, although quite a bit of weed and oxy found its way to the rank and file. The ABB was far more into it, with white powders of varying types and levels of potency funneling into the city via their Far Eastern contacts, then spreading out on to the streets. The Archer's Bridge Merchants, otherwise considered a minor group, almost equaled the ABB's volume despite being a smaller operation all round; mainly because they were wholly invested in drug selling and use, with hardly any other organized crime on their books. This wasn't to say they didn't commit crimes, just that they weren't particularly organized about it. Also unlike the ABB, the Merchants largely imported the ingredients rather than the finished product.

Recently, a minor scuffle on the streets had led to the arrest of one of the Merchant dealers. As soon as pressure was applied, he'd folded and flipped on one of the mid-level suppliers, a guy known for some reason as 'the Russian'. The Russian, a real thug, was a suspect in several murders, including that of a reporter. Unfortunately, there was no hard evidence to link him to any of them. He was also thought to be responsible for a lot of ingredients coming into the city; to bust him would severely hamper the Merchants' operations for at least a while. With the dealer as their star witness, they'd arrested the Russian, only to discover the dealer's memory of events beginning to prove less than reliable. While this was almost certainly due to habitual drug use rather than any sort of deception, it was likely to cause the DA problems in court unless they could bring in something more solid. 'Solid', in this case, being evidence toward the half-dozen homicides for which the Russian was a strong suspect. Moving the ingredients for drugs was worth a little jail time, but if they could pin the killings on him, they could put him away forever.

The BBPD had held off on charging the Russian for as long as possible, but now they had a high-powered lawyer demanding that they respect his client's civil rights. Accordingly, they had a limited amount of time to either locate some hard evidence or grab someone who could actually put forth a credible testimony before the Russian walked. If he got to walk, he was going to vanish.

The 'someone' they'd settled on was a guy called Frederickson, the Russian's second in command. As far as Larry knew, Frederickson had no idea his boss was in custody. If their information was right, he'd know everything his boss knew, and had more to lose. If they could get him to testify in return for a reduced sentence, they could roll up the entire operation like a cheap carpet. But first, of course, they needed to get the guy into a nice quiet interrogation cell where they could start applying the thumbscrews.

Which was where Larry came in.

Larry was one of several undercover officers scattered about the area. They knew Frederickson was staying somewhere in the vicinity and they'd all seen pictures of him. All he had to do was pop his head up and the trap would snap shut. Or at least, that was the plan. In Larry's experience, the more complicated the plan, the more likely that some unexpected factor would screw everything up. Or, as he put it: “Murphy's an asshole that way.”

He moved a little, trying to get comfortable. Under cover of taking another 'swig', he keyed the radio microphone hidden inside his dirty collar. “Calhoun, here. No sign of him yet.” When he got home, he decided, he was gonna burn these clothes. And scrub off the entire top layer of his skin.

“Brandon to Control,” he heard over the earpiece. “I got nada.” That was Joe, half a block away, spray-painting slogans on a convenient brick wall.

“Francesca, here.” Larry sat up just a little at the excitement in Kelly's voice. “He's here. I say again, target is in sight. I've got eyes on him. Coming down towards you, Calhoun.” Kelly Francesca was younger and pushier than Larry, but she was a sharp operator and knew her beans. If she said she was looking at Frederickson, then she was looking at him.

“I copy eyes on target, Francesca,” Larry replied, holding the bottle in front of his face. “Everyone, you know the drill. Don't spook the asshole before we can grab him. This one's for all the marbles, guys.” Turning his head casually, he scanned down the street toward where Kelly was situated. As the acknowledgments came in over the radio, he finally spotted their target.

Some would've said that Frederickson was running to fat. In Larry's opinion, he'd run straight past 'fat' and barreled headlong into 'obese'. Despite that, he was reportedly vain about his appearance. This wasn't hard to verify; the man wore an obvious hairpiece, and his spray-on tan had a distinctively orange cast to it. He also had the stubbiest fingers Larry had ever seen on a grown man. Tiny, piggy eyes scanned the surrounding area suspiciously before returning to the phone that Frederickson was tapping away on. Probably trying to get in contact with the Russian. That phone alone'll be worth a mint in saved data.

“Okay,” Larry said quietly, faking another swallow from his bottle. “Calhoun, here. Start closing in, on the quiet. If he comes past me, I'll go for a take-down. Don't go overt unless he makes us.”

Again, the acknowledgments came back. Kelly, in her guise as a bag lady, came into sight behind Frederickson, trundling her shopping cart down the road in his wake. Larry couldn't see the other cops on the stakeout, but he knew they'd also be moving to intercept.

Up until now, they'd been lucky as far as traffic went. It was still relatively early in the morning—the concrete he was lying on was fucking freezing—so not many vehicles had come past to obscure his line of sight. But this changed as a sedan cruised past, the driver drinking from a cardboard coffee cup. Larry's nerves were so supercharged that he even heard the soft thud as the car driver tossed the almost-empty cup—musta gone cold—out into the street. That's littering, asshole. But Frederickson was his target, so he didn't turn his head to look. The car engine was quickly subsumed by the motor of a truck, coming the other direction. From the sound of it, garbage collection was late in this neighborhood.

This time, he actually took a drink of the cold tea, just in case Frederickson was alert enough to spot if he was faking. At the same time, he scanned his target and flexed his leg muscles. The last thing he wanted was to get a cramp while trying to tackle this asshole. Frederickson didn't look as though he was packing, but there was a reason frisking was done with the hands and not the eyes. His clothing, except around his expansive belly, was loose enough to hide anything short of a forty millimeter grenade launcher.

“Going for take-down in ten, over,” Larry murmured into the radio, then began to clamber to his feet. As Frederickson drew level, Larry gestured with his bottle. “Hey, buddy,” he slurred, keeping in character. “Spare ten bucks?”

Just as Larry had planned, Frederickson ignored him. Three steps, tackle, take-down. He had it outlined in his head. But as he took the first step, a cramp twinged in his leg and he stumbled slightly. This was fine; it was even to be expected. However, he put his hand on the trash can to steady himself, and the lid slid half-off with a grating noise, drawing Frederickson's attention. Even then Larry could've carried it through, but for the squalling cat that erupted from the trash can, right into his face. Startled, he overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground. The bottle flew from his hand and shattered on the pavement as the cat bolted off down the street. Staring at the ground, Larry realized the microphone had come loose from inside his shirt and was now lying on the dirty concrete in front of him. The look on Frederickson's face showed that he'd seen it, too. Shit. I'm busted.

Larry began to struggle to his feet again, cursing the dumbass cat that had been hiding in the trash can, but there was nothing for it. Frederickson had obviously connected the dots and was now lumbering off down the sidewalk. Winded as he was, Larry still figured he could catch the guy with relative ease. So long as the asshole doesn't have a heart attack on me first. Still, it was a good idea to call it in.

“Calhoun,” he wheezed as he clutched at the mic. “Target made me. In pursuit.”

“Francesca. On your six, thirty seconds.” Kelly was a fast runner, but even thirty seconds could be the difference between success and failure. He pushed his non-responsive legs into action. Frederickson was ten yards away, and swerving to cross the road. Beyond the fat man, the garbage truck was drawing closer. If he gets across the road and out of sight … no, Kelly'll still have eyes on him. Pride drove him on anyway. He was going to be ribbed enough for falling over; if someone else made the collar, he'd never live it down. “Frederickson!” he bellowed, pulling out his badge. “BBPD! You're under arrest!” Not that anyone ever stopped when I said that …

Just for a moment, Frederickson looked around. In that instant, his foot came down on the litterer's discarded coffee cup, which had miraculously landed upright. It crumpled underfoot, the liquid spilling out and adding just enough lubrication that Frederickson's foot slid sideways in front of him. Inevitably Frederickson tripped and fell sideways, right into the path of the garbage truck.

“Shit, no!” bellowed Larry, lunging forward. He was too far away to reach the fat man. Too far away to do anything. If he gets killed now …

There was a massive squealing of brakes, showing the driver was on the ball. The truck swerved sideways across the street, the front tires narrowly missing Frederickson's head. Moments later, there was a massive CRUNCH as the truck hit a skinny pole that seemed to be supporting secondary electricity lines. The pole lurched and a wire twanged loudly as it pulled free. Larry skidded to an abrupt halt as the sparking cable fell across Frederickson, causing the big man to twitch and jolt. Seeing the entire operation about to go up in smoke, Larry didn't even stop to think about what he was doing. Wrenching his boot off, he hurled it at Frederickson. By more luck than skill, the boot knocked the end of the deadly cable off the convulsing drug dealer. So of course it landed directly on Frederickson's phone, which was lying next to his hand.

Kelly came up alongside Larry as he sat on the curb. He wasn't even going to think about retrieving his boot until they turned the electricity off. “What the hell happened?” she asked. “Is he alive?” Her eyes focused on the boot lying on the road. “What the hell did you do with that?”

He heaved a weary sigh. “He's still breathing. You can see his chest moving. Don't go near him. That cable's live. Call the paramedics, and someone needs to call the electrical company to turn off the power before we can move him. Tell the driver not to leave his truck either.”

She stared at him. “What the fuck? Did you just move a live electrical cable with your fucking boot? Are you trying to get fucking killed? What were you thinking?”

He looked up at her, trying to muster all the authority he was due. “I was thinking that I wasn't gonna waste all the time and effort we've put into this goddamn case. Frederickson's scum, but if we can get him talking, he's useful scum.”

With a look of exasperation, Kelly shook her head. “You're crazier than I thought. The captain's gonna rip you a whole new one.”

“Whatever.” He waved tiredly. “Get to it. I'm just gonna sit here.”

<><>​

Brockton Bay General Hospital
9:42 AM

“Hey.” Larry, now showered and shaved, turned to greet Kelly. “What's the word on the phone?” He was pretty sure he knew what it was going to be, but there was always optimism.

She shook her head slowly. “Sorry. The end of the cable landed right on top of it. It'll make a nice paperweight, but that's about it. It couldn't have been fried more effectively if you'd put it in a microwave. How's Frederickson?” The look she shot him said loud and clear that she hadn't forgotten his act of idiotic bravery.

“Doc says his vitals are strong. He should be waking up soon.” Larry was looking forward to this conversation. His ribs were still tender; getting Frederickson to flip on the Russian would make the whole debacle worthwhile. The phone would've been nice, but Murphy's an asshole that way.

Almost on cue, the doctor appeared. “Ah, there you are. Your patient's awake. I suppose you want to talk to him?” He was a tall, spare man, going bald on top. “Try not to excite him too much. He's suffered potentially serious trauma.”

“Have you given him painkillers?” asked Larry immediately. If Frederickson was on drugs, anything they recorded in there would be inadmissible in court.

“No,” the doctor said. “He said he didn't need them.” He shrugged and his brow creased. “He seems to be a very stubborn man.”

“Let's see about that.” Larry led the way into the private ward. Frederickson looked somehow reduced, lying there on the bed with one wrist cuffed to the rail. The edge of the dressing from the electrical burn was just visible under his hospital gown. He was pallid under the spray-tan, but was still lucid enough to squint suspiciously at Larry. “Hello, sir,” Larry said cheerfully. “Do you know where you are?”

Frederickson's voice was peculiarly grating, but held no hesitation at all. “I'm the President. Can you believe it?”

Larry paused, and shared a glance with Kelly. What the fuck is this? Lacking any sort of idea of what Frederickson was talking about, he took a deep breath and forged on. “Uh, no, sir. I can't believe it. You are in fact under arrest for drug-related charges, and you're in a lot of trouble. Unless, of course, you want to cooperate with us.” He'd done this dance before. Sometimes they took a while to come around, but they nearly always did.

“No! Wrong!” Frederickson's voice rose. “I'm a big businessman! One of the biggest!” He began to sit up, but pulled up short as the handcuff rattled on the bed rail. “I do very big business all over the world!”

Kelly leaned in toward Larry and lowered her voice. “Does he do business overseas?” He wasn't surprised at the question; the conviction in Frederickson's voice would've been hard to fake.

“Not as far as I know,” he replied. “But I don't think we're gonna be getting anything out of him right now. That shock must've fried his brain pretty good.”

She grimaced, her expression matching his feelings almost exactly. “Well, crap.”

“Lock her up!” shrieked Frederickson suddenly, rattling at the chain. “Such a nasty woman! Lock her up!”

Kelly's head whipped around and she stared at Frederickson. “Excuse me?” She took a step toward the bed. “What did you just say?”

Larry shook his head, hoping Kelly wasn't about to assault Frederickson. “I don't think he was talking to you. Guy's a loony. Let's go.”

He led the way out; as Kelly closed the door behind them, Frederickson let out another bellow. “I have the best words!”

Whatever the fuck that's about.

<><>​

BBPD 10th Precinct
10:17 AM

“So, your Hail Mary pass didn't pan out.” Captain Reynolds, standing behind his desk, eyed Kelly and Larry keenly, although his disappointed expression was tempered with sympathy. “Did you get anything we can use? Anything at all?”

Kelly shook her head. “No, sir. It was just plain bad luck that he stood on the coffee cup and his foot skidded the wrong way. If that truck hadn't been there …” She trailed off. “Just plain bad luck, sir.”

Reynolds grimaced. “Why can't things just go smooth for once? But you're both alive, which is what counts.” Larry knew that Reynolds was fiercely protective of his 'crew', as he called them, and the precinct reciprocated the sentiment. All too many higher-ups would be happy to throw their subordinates to the wolves over a screwup like this. “And we'll pin the Russian down sometime. Somehow.” The grimace returned in force. “Even if we're letting him go right now.” His eyes went to the window separating his office from the precinct room.

Larry turned to look, just in time to see two officers escorting the Russian to the door. “Yeah, sir. We'll get him.” He tried to inject the same optimism into his tone that the captain had done.

“That's the spirit.” Reynolds fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Francesca, give us the room, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Kelly retreated, her parting glance communicating somewhere between sympathy and you brought this on yourself. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Detective Calhoun.” Reynolds' voice was now a lot harder. “What in God's name were you thinking?”

Calhoun drew himself up to attention. “I was thinking that if we lost Frederickson, we lost the case, sir. And I didn't put all that work in to lose that now.”

“Except that Frederickson is now apparently a delusional lunatic, and we have actually lost the case.” Reynolds shook his head. “I applaud your dedication, but Christ, I'd rather lose a dozen cases than lose one of my best damn detectives.”

Calhoun tried not to sweat too obviously. “Am I suspended, sir?”

Reynolds shrugged slightly. “Would it help?” Before Calhoun could respond, he shook his head. “Trick question. No, it wouldn't. I think I'll put you on another case instead.” He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “It just came in a little while ago. You know Winslow High?”

Larry shuddered. “Fuck. That shithole. A gang shooting?”

“You'd think so, but no.” Reynolds sat down again. “If we'd got Frederickson talking, this would've ended up on the back burner. It didn't, so it's not. Congratulations. It's all yours.”

Taking the sheet, Larry looked it over. “Shit, a girl got locked in a locker? With sanitary waste? For over an hour? No witnesses?” He looked up at Reynolds. “Is this a punishment detail, sir?”

The captain's face didn't give a damn thing away. “Would I do a thing like that?”

In a heartbeat. Larry grimaced. “I wouldn't know, sir.”

Reynolds smiled. “Good answer. I await your report.”

The dismissal was clear. Calhoun opened the door and left, still scanning the sheet.

I fucking hate Winslow.

<><>​

The Docks, Brockton Bay
Thursday, January 6, 2011

Marcus Kellerman, AKA 'the Russian', crouched beside his disabled car. His driver and sometime bodyguard lay slumped half-out of the car in a growing pool of blood. Shots sounded from the other side of the street, and he cringed as he heard bullets hitting the bodywork. I am so fucking dead.

Kellerman had been born in Compton, New Jersey. The closest he'd come to visiting another country was the six months he'd attended community college, studying foreign theater. However, he knew the value of an exotic background, so when he moved to Brockton Bay, he'd reinvented himself. Gone were the suits and ties and the 'Joisey' accent. Instead, he now favored a long coat with a fur-lined collar and a vague Eastern European accent, relic of the few acting lessons he'd actually retained.

For a while there, he'd actually done okay. Frederickson had been an idiot, but a useful idiot. A failed scam artist, the fat man had an encyclopedic knowledge of the city's underworld. He'd just lacked the vision and forethought to apply his knowledge in such a way that he could make a big score and retire on it. Marcus' vision and forethought had been enough for the two of them, but now Frederickson had vanished and Marcus was worried that the police had him.

None of that mattered now, of course. Wherever Frederickson was, he wasn't here. It's up to me. I gotta save myself. He scuttled over to his bodyguard's corpse and scrabbled for the man's shoulder holster. More bullets hit the car and the windshield shattered, sending fragments of glass raining down on him. He hunched his shoulders and kept looking. Where is it, where is it? Not that he thought he'd be able to do anything significant with it, but Marcus prided himself on never giving up until all was lost.

His hand closed over the butt of the pistol and he pulled it out into the open air. Without hesitating, he raised the gun over the level of the car and fired half a dozen shots blindly back at his attackers. Then he came up like a runner at the starter's pistol and began to sprint down the street. A dozen paces into his run to safety, nobody had shot at him yet. Two dozen, and he was still unscathed. In fact, the gunfire had ceased altogether. Despite the fact that every instinct was screaming at him to keep running, he slowed to a stop. Even now, nobody shot at him.

Okay, I gotta see what's goin' on here. With the pistol held before him like a talisman to ward off danger, he eased back toward the ambush site, using every car, trash can and fire hydrant for cover. No shots greeted his return. Nor were there shouts or the sound of running feet. Finally, with a sense that his bravado was going to kill him, he leaped out into the area where the assholes had been shooting from. His pistol tracked over … six corpses. All lying back with expressions of utter surprise on their faces, each with a neat hole drilled right in the middle of his forehead.

“Wait … the fuck?” The 'Russian' persona was so ingrained, he rarely fell out of character, but what he saw did the job. Six clean headshots … if he were to believe the evidence of his own eyes, someone had just headshot every guy who was shooting at him. Unless, of course, it was him who'd pulled it off. Without aiming, or even looking. He stared at the pistol, then at the dead men. Nah, couldn't'a been me.

Turning, he scanned the rooftop opposite for whoever it had been that sniped these guys for him. “Okay, you can come out now!” he bellowed, remembering just in time to put on the 'Russian' accent once more. “If it is job you want, I will give you job.” Anyone who could shoot like that would be well worth paying good money to.

Nobody emerged. He looked again at the pistol in his hand. Holy crap. Did I …?

It was something that he'd have to think about. Over a drink. Or several.

<><>​

Saturday Night, January 15, 2011
The Docks

The bar was a typical low-end dive. It was full of men doing their best to drink away their problems. In such a place, it was usually fairly hard to gain the attention of everyone in the bar at once. Even the 'costume' Marcus had come up with, augmenting the fur-trimmed jacket with a fur hat bearing a star on the front, didn't cause more than a few heads to turn. This changed when he pulled out the revolver and fired a shot into the ceiling. Silence fell; around him, more than a few of the patrons pulled weapons of their own. Knives there were in plenty, as well as a few guns. But he wasn't pointing his pistol at them; he was pointing it at his own head.

“I am Russian Roulette!” he bellowed. “I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!” Theatrically, he spun the cylinder of the revolver; the whzzzzz-clk-clk-clk-click-click-click was loud in the hushed silence. As it ran down, he placed the muzzle against his own temple. “Five bullets,” he went on. “One empty. I am so lucky, cylinder is on empty. Watch.” His finger squeezed the trigger; everyone seemed to jump as the hammer fell on the spent cartridge.

It had taken Marcus days to convince himself that his luck was truly this powerful. Time after time he'd flinched away. Time after time he'd checked the cylinder to find that the empty cartridge was under the hammer. Every other test he could devise told the same story; his power would protect him. So just a day previously, he'd put the gun to his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. The dry click had been the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Now, after a dozen more tests, he was sure of it. His power would always make the cylinder land on the empty cartridge.

Brockton Bay, hell. I must be the luckiest man in the world. There was nothing he feared, not any more. Except, of course, chickens. When he was very young, he'd been incautious enough to try to pick up a baby chicken at a poultry farm, and he'd been savagely attacked by several of the older ones. He'd been irrationally terrified of the species ever since.

“Fuck you!” yelled one man. “You got empties in all of 'em!” From the sound of it, he was both drunk and aggressive.

Marcus levelled his revolver at a wooden post. “You think so?” he asked. “Count the shots.” He squeezed the trigger, and the gun went off once more. Five times he fired, leaving five holes in the post. By the time he finished, his ears were ringing—letting off a firearm indoors was hard on the hearing—but the look of astonishment on his would-be critic's face was gratifying as hell.

“That's fuckin' cape shit!” yelled one burly man. From his attitude, he didn't like parahumans. “Fuckin' cheatin'!” People turned to look at him, just as he stepped in a puddle of beer and slipped. He lurched backward, his arms windmilling, before the back of his head hit the bar and he slumped to the floor. A burbling snore escaped his lips.

“Maybe,” Marcus agreed. “But it is very useful cape shit, yes? Anyone goes against me, they are very unlucky.”

Another man stepped forward into Marcus' private space. For all that these were the very dregs of society, the patrons of the bar moved aside for him. Part of it could've been that the man was wearing a costume. Another part was almost certainly because he represented the source of the drugs that most of them depended on to get through the day.

“Okay, dicksnot,” Skidmark said. “First, you don't pull that shit in my bar. Second …” He stopped to think. “Second, you got no bullets in that fuckin' gun, so you can drop it. Then I'm gonna fuck you up good.”

Time for part two of the plan. Marcus raised his hands, the empty pistol dangling from his index finger. His grin was wide and disarming. “At last, I have attention of Merchants! Is good! Have been wanting to work for you for so long!”

This was nothing but the purest bullshit, of course. He'd been happy supplying drugs to the Merchants, but working for them was the last thing on his mind. Especially with the power now at his fingertips. All these assholes should be working for me.

Skidmark stared at him. “You hear what I said, dog-fucker? I said, I'm gonna fuck you up.”

Marcus beamed back. “Would you not recruit powerful new Merchant? I am luckiest man alive. Help you kick serious ass.”

Come on, take the bait …

<><>​

“In here, assmunch.” A hard shove in the middle of Marcus' back propelled him forward. He wasn't too worried about tripping; even with a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back, he knew he was too lucky for that to happen. As he regained his balance, he heard a door shut behind him. Even though the bag muffled the noises around him, he thought he picked up on echoes; it sounded like a large space. Maybe a warehouse.

A moment later, the bag was pulled off his head, and he saw that he'd been partly right. He was in a warehouse, but it was far from empty. Directly in front of him was a hulking monstrosity of a vehicle, its every line shouting that it was a Squealer creation. The Tinker herself was just climbing down from its cockpit, her trashy appearance not helped by liberal smears of oil and less salubrious substances across her face and clothing. A wizened little man in a loincloth and a girl with her hair hanging over her face in best emo fashion were wandering over as well, drawn by the commotion. Mush and Whirligig, I guess?

“Skids, what the fuck?” Squealer ran her hand through her hair, adding another layer of some kind of lubricant to it. Marcus suspected that if a lit match ever came close to her hair, she'd lose the lot in one blinding flash. “Who's this asshole and what's he doing here?”

“New recruit or dead guy, one or the other.” Skidmark tossed Marcus' revolver to her, then followed with the box of ammunition that Marcus had been carrying in his pocket. “Load it up. Six shots.” Pulling out a folding knife, he cut the cords holding Marcus' hands behind his back. “Don't try anything smart, turd-sniffer. I will wreck your shit before you can fart.”

“Do not worry. Will not try anything.” Marcus smiled broadly as he rubbed his wrists. He didn't know where his hat was, but he wasn't worried about that right now. “Will show you. Am luckiest man in Brockton Bay. You will see.”

Squealer flipped open the revolver and dumped the empties, then expertly refilled the cylinders. Watching her, Marcus figured he could probably do it that fast as well, if he relied upon his luck to do it right. He just hadn't tried it yet.

“Okay, it's full up.” Squealer held the weapon nonchalantly in her hand. “What now?” The muzzle wandered in Marcus' direction, almost as if she were expecting to be told to shoot him. Has he ever told her to do that before?

“Gimme the gun,” Skidmark ordered. “You guys, power up.” He took the weapon from the Tinker, then pointed at the craft. “Get in. Cover him with the main gun. Cock-gargler says he's lucky, let's not give him the chance to be stupid.”

Obediently, Squealer clambered back up the side of the vehicle. At the same time, Whirligig had stepped away from Mush and was starting to spin up what looked like her own personal whirlwind. Mush's body, on the other hand, had extruded branching tendrils which were picking up random pieces of trash and pressing them to his body.

The cockpit cover closed behind Squealer, and a large gun muzzle tracked in on Marcus. It looked big enough to insert his head with room to spare. A speaker crackled to life. “Ready, Skids.”

Skidmark nodded. “Okay then, wet-wipe. Let's see you do your thing.” He tossed the pistol underarm to Marcus, then stepped back in front of Squealer's tank, directly under the main gun. “Show us your luck.”

“Certainly,” Marcus agreed as the gun slapped into his hand. He suspected that they couldn't have done it better if Skidmark had planned to throw it that way. “I have to fire one shot off first, yes? So we have empty in cylinder?”

“Right, sure.” Skidmark pointed. “But point it away from me, or I'll have Mush shove it all the way up your ass.”

“Da, da. Of course.” Marcus raised the pistol, elaborately ensuring that it pointed at none of the Merchants as he did so. When it was pointing up and backward, he squeezed the trigger. Luck, time to do your thing.

The pistol went off, and his ears rang a little more than before; they still hadn't quite recovered from the bar. He would ever after be convinced that he heard two sharp metallic impacts, almost simultaneous with the shot. Whether he did or not didn't really matter, for even before the sound of the shot died away, Skidmark's head jerked back. Marcus blinked as the leader of the Merchants fell over, his brains painting the front of Squealer's vehicular monstrosity.

The tank chose that moment to lose power; squinting, Marcus thought he saw a bullet-hole between two plates. Smoke was starting to waft out of that hole. He decided that now was a good time to be elsewhere. After all, his luck was no defense against stupidity.

Even as he bent over Skidmark's corpse, Marcus could hear Squealer's muffled screaming as she beat against the cover of the cockpit, which was starting to fill up with smoke. She jabbed buttons and wrenched at controls, but nothing seemed to work.

The keys were in the first pocket he looked in, which was lucky. That is to say, par for the course. He turned and strode out of the warehouse as Mush and Whirligig began to try to get Squealer out of the tank. His hat was still sitting on the passenger seat, but he ignored it in favor of getting the car started.

When he was just fifty yards away from the warehouse, the entire building exploded. A flying piece of debris went through the rear window, whiffed past his shoulder, and stuck quivering in the dashboard. As he drove, he looked in the rear-vision mirror at the mushroom cloud that was slowly growing over the ruins of the warehouse.

Now I can finally recruit my goddamn gang. And remove the pretender to my throne.

<><>​

The Boardwalk
Monday, 17 January 2011
Taylor

I stared at the man. He was wearing a calf-length fur-trimmed jacket, set off by a Russian fur hat on his head. Behind him was a bunch of about fifteen guys, all of whom seemed to be either drunk or high. It didn't take much to identify them as Merchants. Who the guy in the Russian hat was, I had no idea.

“Um, who the heck are you?” I asked. I wouldn't have bothered, except that he was staring at me kind of creepily. Like he wished that I didn't exist or something.

“I am Russian Roulette!” he proclaimed, in the fakest Russian accent I'd ever heard. “You are Taylor Hebert! I am here to prove you are liar and cheat! I am luckiest person in Brockton Bay, not you!”

“I … what?” I was not at all sure that I'd heard right. My power was pretty cool, but I had not asked for challengers to show up and try to … prove they were luckier? “Mister, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

In answer, he leveled a pistol at me. “Your luck, it has run out!” Then he pulled the trigger. I flinched, just a little, but all that happened was that it went 'click'. He stared at it with an expression of betrayal. “What is this? I am luckiest man in Brockton Bay!”

“Having performance issues?” Alec's drawl hit just the right note. “I hear one in five men get it. Not me, of course …”

“No! I am lucky!” The guy—had he really named himself after a form of attempted suicide?—turned the cylinder a little by hand, then pointed the gun at me again.

“Say the word, Taylor,” murmured Brian under his breath. “We'll take this asshole apart.”

“Stay back,” I murmured back. “I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Not empty now!” shouted the man. He pulled the trigger … and the gun fell apart. I was pretty sure that guns weren't supposed to do that, but there it was. He was left holding the butt, which was attached to the frame, but the rest of it was lying on the Boardwalk.

Chick Norris chose that moment to leap from Rachel's shoulder. He hit the Boardwalk, but he was so small and fluffy that he just rolled to his feet. Little tiny wings spread wide, cheeping nineteen to the dozen, he ran directly at the guy with the stupid name.

I started up from my seat, terrified for my little chick pet … but Russian Roulette's face brought me to a stop. The guy's face went from the red of anger to the white of terror without any steps in between. “No … no!” he croaked, all trace of the fake Russian accent gone. “No, leave me alone, don't let it get me!” He turned to bolt, but stepped on the fallen cylinder, his foot shooting out sideways. With a massive thud, he landed heavily on the wooden boards.

I got up then, as the others took that as their cue to go into action. The guy was lying on his back, gibbering in terror, as Chick Norris clambered on to his chest. He could've easily swatted the little fluffball away with one hand, but instead he was cringing away. It was almost funny, in a kind of sad way.

In the background, I heard the sounds of Brian and Rachel taking down the fifteen mooks, with Alec helping here and there. As Chick Norris made triumphant cheeping noises over his cowering foe, Lisa handed me Brian's phone. I shook my head and hit redial.

“Hello, Ms Hebert.” Director Piggot's voice was wary. “How may I help you?”

“Um.” I paused. “This might sound like a silly question, but have you ever heard of a cape called Russian Roulette?”

Her reply surprised me. “Actually, yes. I received a report about him this morning. He's wanted for questioning to do with the suspicious deaths of several capes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you're really not going to believe this, but …”



End of Part Eleven

Part Twelve