Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“David? Goodness, I haven’t seen you in here for months. Welcome back my son, welcome back.”

I mustered up a tiny smile as Father Prescott finally noticed someone sitting in the pews. He was a kindly older man with cerulean blue eyes that had dulled with time, dressed in a simple black suit adorned with the dog collar that all pastors wore. Prescott had served this little corner of Houston faithfully since before I’d moved to the city, and his presence was usually a reassuring one. 

“Father. I’d apologise for not coming more often, but work has been-“

“Pah, you have no need for excuses here. I’m just glad to see you well.” Father Prescott waved off my explanation with an unhurried grace, before gesturing to the hardwood pew beneath me. “May I?”

“It’s your church.”

“It’s the Lord’s church, I’m merely the caretaker.” I gave a humourless laugh at his joke. It wasn’t the first or even fifth time he’d said something to me along those lines, but it was pleasant to hear again.

He took his time settling into the seat as I glanced over my shoulder. The rows back there were empty, desolate pews which rarely saw use. Not that this was a bad church, far from it. Father Prescott kept the place tidy, keeping cobwebs out of the various nooks and crannies across the old wooden building. The windows contained beautiful mosaics, depicting saints in their various moments of triumph, colouring the floor in rainbow hues as sunlight poured through the glass.

When I’d first started out, I’d heard a few members of the congregation joking that my alter ego would wind up memorialised in one of those windows.

I hadn’t seen most of them for years, now. Understandable, really. It was difficult to maintain faith in a world where one of the most dangerous monsters around is an angel.

“I would ask if something’s troubling you, but I doubt you’d be here if you were content.” It would have sounded condescending if somebody else said it, but Prescott had years of experience in making his sarcastic remarks come across as compassionate.

“Always so observant.”

“Hmm? Who said that?” I exhaled slightly more air than usual as Prescott mimed looking around.

Leaning back against the wooden bench, I considered simply telling him everything. Admitting every sin, every crime against nature that I’d witnessed and done nothing to stop. An idle thought, but a recurring one.

The Doctor Mother and I had spoken about doing such a thing at length in the past. Eventually, we’d agreed that the mission was too important, and derailing it just to make peace with myself wasn’t worth the price. She’d concluded that the only one who could judge us was God.

At the time, it had been too easy to believe that.

Exhaling, I slipped into a familiar routine.

“It has been a trying few weeks, that’s for sure.”

Prescott’s warm smile made it easy to keep talking. Man had the patience of a… very patient man.

“Three weeks ago, well… closer to a month ago, now, I lost a few things that were rather important to me.” The respect of the cape community, gone in an instant. My face, exposed to over a hundred parahumans. Dozens dead, men and women I’d fought and bled alongside, children I’d watched grow from timid Wards into battle-hardened heroes.

All because I hadn’t been strong enough to stop the Meinhardt girl.

Father Prescott nodded empathetically.

“At the same time, some rather personal secrets wound up being exposed.” The Cauldron connection, followed by the vials and the Case 53s… my doppelganger had certainly made short work of shredding my legacy.

I paused to take another breath. It sounded deafeningly loud, the entire church silent and listening.

“It wound up costing me my job. I was supposed to clear my stuff out and be gone last week.”

For lack of anything else to do, I reached up and ran a hand through my hair. There seemed to be slightly less there than last time. It was almost comical that with everything else going on, I’d be concerned about a thinning hairline.

“Then last Thursday, I-"

This was a tough one to say out loud. It still didn’t seem real.

“Last Thursday, I lost one of the only people in the world that I could call a friend.” A beat of silence passed as I tilted my head back and shut my eyes.

“Never rains but it pours.”

Echidna. Myrddin. Cauldron.

Rebecca.

What a mess.

What an absolute mess.

We sat there quietly for a while after that. Maybe if I just kept my eyes closed, I could pretend that it was someone else’s problem. Somebody else could figure out how to pull themselves together after all of this, and fix mankind’s best shot at stopping Scion.

If there even was a shot at stopping him. The rate my powers were draining, I doubted I’d be able to do anything more than glower at the golden man when the end came.

Moments later, I began to feel another power slipping away from my grasp. My agent just loved to twist the knife.

Thankfully it wasn’t anything major, simply a shaker effect that amplified vibrations. A burner power. I’d been switching to those more and more often in my downtime. It’d be stupid to risk losing a potentially useful ability when all I did was sit and bemoan my lot in life.

Another ability slotted into place, a blaster power that decreased in strength the longer it was fired. Fitting.

“Care for a platitude?” My eyes slowly creaked open. I’d almost forgotten Father Prescott was sitting there.

He’d asked me long ago if I was the kind of man who preferred to receive advice, or one who wished to seek out answers for myself. My response had been obvious, and since then, he’d never handed out advice, unsolicited or otherwise. Instead, he’d recite a verse or two designed to lift my spirits on a bad day, or provide comfort in the most challenging times. He was good like that.

I shrugged, but turned to face him regardless.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave or forsake you.”

“So don’t give up hope? Try to find the silver lining?”

“I’ve often found hope to be underrated.”

I gave him an unamused look. “Easier said than done.”

“True. But easier for you than for many others, I think.”

“How so?”

“You strike me as a man who keeps his thoughts on the future. The present may not be the one you wished for, but that is no reason to stop the eternal struggle.”

Saccharinely optimistic. Kurt would probably hate him.

“If you read history, my friend, you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next.”

The idea appealed, in a strange way. What was Cauldron if not a way to keep humanity alive long enough to see the next world?

Sitting here being a gloomy soul wouldn’t solve anything. Heaving myself upright, I nodded to no-one in particular. There must still be some good I could do. I wasn’t drained yet.

“Thank you for your time, Father. It’s more reassuring than you could imagine.” 

The elderly priest stood and bowed at the waist. “Glad to be of service.”

I was halfway towards the double doors at the back of the church before I turned and called out. “Father? I recognised Deuteronomy, but which verse did your second platitude come from?”

His kindly smile turned into a little smirk. “You can thank C.S. Lewis for that.”

I stared blankly at Father Prescott, his smile betraying how pleased with himself he was.

“I do read other books, you know.” 

With that, he shuffled off to tidy up the place, and I headed outside, shaking my head in disbelief.

The brief euphoria kept me going as I hailed a cab, and drove away from the city’s outskirts into Houston proper. Bit of a downgrade, compared to when I first drank the vial. I’d exhausted dozens of powers just to experience the thrill of flying everywhere. Wasteful, in retrospect.

Then I’d taken to using Cauldron’s portals, but they were taboo to me now. If I used them again, I’d go and see Rebecca, wasting hours discarding powers attempting to revive her.

So, Earth’s greatest hero found himself in the back-seat of a taxi, politely ignoring the awful music blaring out of the stereo. What a way to finish my time with the Protectorate.

As if on cue, the monolith of Houston’s joint PRT/Protectorate headquarters crested the horizon, looming above the city’s skyscrapers. A glass-fronted wonder, reflecting the barrage of Texan sunlight. The front entrance opened onto a small courtyard, decorated with shrubs trimmed to resemble iconic heroes. A monument placed next to the double doors bore the likeness of the winged shield emblem, cast in bronze.

All told, it looked more akin to a luxury hotel than the nerve-centre of parahuman operations in the southern United States. I’d seen dozens of theories behind why it had been constructed in such a way, especially when most Protectorate buildings were reinforced concrete structures boasting round-the-clock forcefields, Tinker-made traps, or in Denver’s case, an actual moat.

The truth was, as always, far simpler.

After all, who in their right mind would attack the base of the Triumvirate’s strongest member?

Short sighted perhaps, but there had always been a part of me that enjoyed such a reputation. It was a balm as the years wore on, the knowledge that despite the thousands of villains and monsters across the country, none of them dared to assault Houston's PRT building for fear of running into me.

Even now, Houston boasted one of the lowest crime rates in the country. Most of the parahuman criminals had been arrested or driven out. Only the intelligent and the crafty remained.

And Bastard Son. How he was still operating here, I had no idea. I’d already broken his jaw twice, maybe a third strike would do the trick.

Just like that, the allure of nostalgia crumbled. Somebody else would be ruining Bastard Son’s day from now on. I’d been side-lined, removed from all but the most major of conflicts. Retirement at the ripe old age of forty three.

There was probably a joke in there about living the American dream.

I barely registered as the cab pulled up at the curb. Mechanically, I paid the driver, and began the long walk home.

It looked different from down here.

A handful of tourists were skirting around the edges of the building, posing for photographs with the topiaries or listening to a guide detailing the history of the PRT in Houston. One creative soul had set up an easel and was halfway through painting the structure.

I paused for a moment, and watched as the painter’s brushstrokes detailed the skyline around the building. Before all of this, I’d made an honest attempt at painting. Never had the dexterity needed to craft something worth looking at, but I’d treasured the pieces all the same. It’s hard to describe the feeling, the tiny spark of joy you feel from being able to create something that is wholly yours, without needing help from someone else. Something you can point at and say ‘I did that. With my own two hands.’

I nodded approvingly at the artist as I walked past. He ignored me in favour of shading a particularly interesting cloud.

Another couple of strides, and I reached the threshold. The automatic doors slid open, as a gust of conditioned air blew past.

Finally out of excuses. Can’t put this off any longer.

I took the last step, and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t. At the far side of the lobby, past the reception desk, the tour guides, and the guards, stood my replacement.

He’d been making light conversation with a couple of the PRT security officers stationed near the elevator, but his starburst helmet had been aimed squarely at the entrance all the while. Immediately, he broke off their talk and walked towards me, making a show of being calm and unhurried.

“Ah, Mister Gibson. Your daughter is in interview room three. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me?” Exalt’s voice was a deep baritone, just loud enough that anyone nearby would have their curiosity sated as to why the new leader of Houston’s Protectorate was talking to an ordinary civilian. Predictably, most of them looked away, feeling sympathetic towards the father whose little girl had wound up on the wrong side of the law.

I’d planned to use one of the hidden entrances to reach my office, but Exalt had put me on the spot instead. The only member of the team who knew my civilian identity, and of course he was the first one I run into. Couldn’t exactly walk away without raising questions, so I silently nodded and followed his lead, towards the set of double elevators at the rear of the lobby.

Another ability tumbled into the ether as the doors closed behind us, a Stranger power taking its place. I discarded that without hesitation.

A tense silence enveloped us as the elevators ascended. Exalt reached into a pouch on his belt, and wordlessly handed me a blank face-mask. I took it without acknowledgement.

After long seconds, the doors opened again, and we exited onto the twentieth floor. Reserved for the offices of leading figures in the Houston Protectorate and Wards.

“Come on. I haven’t got all day.” Exalt stormed off down the hall.

I twisted around to face his retreating back. “I had planned to-"

“Doesn’t matter what you planned.  You’re collecting your things and then you’re leaving.” Exalt had abandoned his family-friendly tone as he paced down the corridor, stopping outside a corner office. He shoved the door open unceremoniously and marched inside.

I followed his lead, only to stop dead upon seeing the office’s interior.

A single desk sat alone in the middle of the room, with several small cardboard boxes piled up on top. The walls were bare, but the paint was faded in multiple places, leaving rectangular stains behind. Blinds had been drawn to cover the windows, and there wasn’t a chair in sight.

“You already emptied my office.” It wasn’t a question.

“Like I said, collect your stuff, and leave.”

Exalt’s words fell on deaf ears as I riffled through the boxes. A lifetime’s worth of framed newspaper clippings stared back at me.

Holding up a collapsing bridge with one hand, while using the other to reverse time itself. A tsunami, held at bay by a green glow. The Butcher in chains, back in their fifth incarnation. Faded images underneath each headline, showcasing the millions of lives I’d saved.

The final frame lay nestled at the bottom of the box. It hadn’t been a heat of the moment shot captured by an intrepid journalist, or a staged photograph for the masses to buy on a poster.

It was simple. Beautiful. The four of us, back when this all began, watching over New York City from above. Hero had ushered us all up to the roof of a skyscraper, cracking jokes about how every good superhero should spend a night or two looking out at the urban jungle, ideally while brooding or contemplating the future.

Then he’d said something silly, something hilarious in the moment but forgettable as the years wore on, and snapped the photograph as we all laughed.

We’d each taken a copy, hanging them up in our respective offices. Hero’s had been taken down first. Alexandria removed hers shortly afterwards. Legend… I don’t think he took his down until a couple of weeks ago.

“You should have waited for me.”

“The rest of the team were ready to burn your stuff.” Quietly, I replaced the lid on the box as Exalt talked. “Dispatch floated the idea that you shouldn’t be allowed back in the building, full stop.”

Dispatch. He’d been there since the beginning. One of the inaugural Wards. I’d helped train him on occasion.

That stung, somewhat.

“You still should have waited.”

“For what, David?” I jerked around at the mention of my name. Exalt rarely ever used it. “For you to concoct some more lies to feed the rest of the team? They’re sick of it.”

“You can’t deny that I’m still needed. My presence…the rest of the team requires it. To hold things together here.”

Exalt laughed bitterly. “What the rest of the team requires is for their friends and allies to come back. Gentle Giant left over the weekend, did you know that?”

“Exalt…”

“You didn’t, did you? Too busy mourning a mass murderer instead?”

“That’s enough.”

“Gentle Giant. Brickhaus. Vesper. Two Protectorate heroes and a Ward, all three gone in as many weeks, because of what you and your organisation did to them.”

“It wasn’t like that-"

“He was a fucking kid, David!”

“And he would have been dead without us.”

Years of experience kept me from shouting. Exalt wanted to get a reaction out of me, and I couldn’t stoop to that level. I let out a calming breath, and continued. “They all would have died. Cauldron didn’t kidnap people. They rescued them. The dying, the infirm, the crippled, the people who didn’t have a chance at a real life. We gave them that.”

“And turned them into monsters.”

“But they were alive, Luke. Yes, maybe we messed up along the way, but at least they had a chance to live a life. Isn’t that worth the risk?” Neither of us acknowledged that I’d let slip Exalt’s civilian name. Didn’t really matter.

He simply shook his head. “You still don’t get it.”

“We gave people a second chance. What a terrible crime.”

I felt the air begin to stir around my head as Exalt’s frustration leaked out. “They were on their deathbeds. Do you really think they wouldn’t make a deal with the devil?”

“We helped them.”

“You helped yourselves. By your own admission, you went after desperate, vulnerable people, and then dangled a sliver of hope in front of their eyes.” The chill on the nape of my neck intensified as the air currents picked up. “You might as well have been offering meth to addicts. Of course they’d accept.”

He was desperate for that reaction. He wanted to crack the shell, to feel validation by forcing the villain he thought I was to confront my perceived sins.

My fingers clenched. His arrogance was astounding. I stared those sins dead in the eye every morning, every time I was too slow to save someone or too weak to help in the ways that mattered.

Another calming breath. He wasn’t the first. He wouldn’t be the last. I couldn’t allow myself to shatter at a few harsh words, despite how they scraped at raw wounds.

The world needed me to be stronger than that.

Slowly, I unclenched my fist. Exalt’s steel gaze never left my eyes.

I turned away, opening one of the desk’s drawers.

“And for what? To make a quick buck selling powers to other people? You preach about giving second chances to Case 53s, but they were just lab experiments to you. A way to refine your methods before selling powers to the highest bidder.”

Tucked away in the bottom drawer, still neatly pressed, sat my costume.

“You’re a monster, David, plain and simple. We might have to work with you against the Endbringers, but you don’t have any friends here. Not anymore.”

There was no point in arguing with him any longer. He wouldn’t understand. None of them would. Not without the crucial piece of the puzzle, the reason behind everything Cauldron had ever done.

“Fine. Believe whatever you will.”

I didn’t know if he derived some satisfaction from that, but when I looked up next, Exalt was gone.

Sighing, I turned the lock and began to change. The armoured under-layer, reinforced and sculpted to give a little extra protection. The dark green bodysuit followed, hugging the false curves of abdominal muscles. Heroes needed to look the part, and a balding, pot-bellied man on the cusp of middle age didn’t meet the narrow criteria. We needed our image, now more than ever.

A swish of the cape, fastened at the shoulders. The temporary face-mask was discarded, replaced with my custom opaque helm. Up went the hood and down came the sleeves. A subtle flick of a switch tucked into my right glove, and the green glow I’d become synonymous with began illuminating my hood, pulsing from carefully hidden LEDs that lined the costume.

Away went David, and out came Eidolon.

Another thought, and my current suite of superpowers fled, replaced with three new abilities. I was mildly surprised to see a teleportation power flare up. Those were rare.

Then I discovered that it could only move objects. I couldn’t even muster up the energy to sound disappointed.

Tapping the boxes, I watched as each of them warped and distorted before disappearing. Sent directly to the home I’d barely used for the past decade.

I felt like I should say something profound to mark the end of my time here. Or perhaps Exalt was right. No use in hanging around where I’m not needed. I’d already agreed to be the sacrificial lamb, standing down so that the Protectorate could continue, and every moment spent here was another moment where I didn’t remove the band-aid.

Eventually, I settled for giving the empty room a nod, turned on my heel, and left.

Only to almost be tackled by a young man in a sleeveless shirt sprinting around the corner.

His mouth, left visible by his costume, began to run on autopilot.

“Shi- oh God, sorry…”

“It’s quite alright. What’s the rush?”

“We’ve got a situation. Again.”

I tilted my head inquisitively.

“All hands on deck kind of thing. Same as a few weeks back. Sorry, real bad at this. I was just filing paperwork when the call came in. You’re helping out, right?”

He had an air of false bravado, but I could hear the nerves. Was that because of the situation, or because of me? A small amount of fear was common around here, especially when I was interacting with the newer capes. It was never easy to tell how people would respond to the weight of Eidolon’s reputation.

“Certainly. I’d be glad to provide assistance.”

The kid’s lips quirked up into a smile of relief and he rocketed down the hall, practically turning into a projectile. My third ability had finally charged enough for use, and I glided behind him. He was already hammering on the elevator buttons as I reached him, sending us several floors below.

“You were part of the last all hands event?” I asked, as the elevator slowly descended.

“Uh, yeah? I was kicking Echidna’s ass?”

Oh. I gave a cursory glance towards the young man as he bounced in place to burn off some energy. Stylised helmet covering his upper face, well-defined muscles in his arms, a logo of upturned antler horns on his chest- ah.

“Ah, Young Buck. You performed with distinction in Brockton Bay.” He swelled with pride. Three weeks, and he was the first person who went to the Bay that didn’t hate me on sight.

The doors had barely slid apart before he launched forwards again, as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. Then his momentum arrested itself and Young Buck stopped dead in mid-air, landing heavily by the situation room. Nothing could be heard from inside, a testament to the building’s soundproofing.

A quick flash of his ID badge to a scanner mounted in the wall, and we were allowed entry.

Then came the noise.

“Shit shit shit, that’s not supposed to be possible.”

“Have we got confirmation that the others are secure?”

“Sir, are we deploying?”

“New York says to hold steady!”

Some unfavourable curses stood out amongst the uproar, coming from a gleaming white suit that watched me while trying very hard to look like they weren’t staring. I turned slightly, and Dispatch fell silent immediately. Cowardly.

Exalt glanced back towards us and swore under his breath. “Just couldn’t take a hint, could you?”

“I merely wish to provide assistance. I’ll be gone as soon as this crisis is over.”

“…Fine.” The strain in Exalt’s voice was palpable. Maybe he wasn’t ready to assume leadership after all.

Brushing past Dispatch, who seemed intent on muttering uncharitable things about me, I took up my usual position at the head of the room. Cutting edge computers lined the two walls on either side of me, each being manned by a trained PRT operator. Heroes and Wards were scattered throughout, dodging runners as they sprinted from the room clutching sheets of paper. The Deputy Director was amongst them, already on the phone, calling for her superior.

A gargantuan monitor took up most of the back wall. In times of peace, it displayed the PRT’s logo atop a stylised picture of Houston. Now, it was filled with a single large image, a young woman dressed in stereotypical prison garb, scowling at the camera as it took her mugshot. Relevant information passed underneath on a scrolling tape, detailing her name, estimates on her powers, and date of arrest.

Several logos lined the very top of the screen. The Protectorate’s shield, the Guild’s spear, and Dragon’s own personal emblem. Things began clicking into place, and not in a way that I felt comfortable with.

“Situation?” I called out to no-one in particular.

In the din, I wasn’t certain if anybody had heard me, or if they just chose not to respond.

Seconds passed before Young Buck answered, moving away from the screens to stand alongside me. “He says,” Buck pointed over his shoulder towards a technician operating one of the terminals, “we’re not one hundred percent sure yet, but a few minutes ago, an individual successfully escaped from the Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre.”

I turned to stare at the Ward, and he nodded. “Yeah. Birdcage’s been breached.”

“By this woman?” I gestured to the screen, and Young Buck shrugged helplessly.

“Sorry, but I know the same as you do.” He twisted around and pointed towards Exalt. “He’s been trying to contact the Protectorate leadership, but so far all they’ve said is to hold tight and wait for more information.”

“I see…” I trailed off as a loud beeping noise began to echo from speakers attached to the gigantic monitor. A second picture rose to join the first. An older man, his hands aflame.

“New intelligence from Dragon! Second escapee confirmed!”

Then a third image.

A fourth.

Within moments, the entire screen was covered in small mugshots. The chaotic din only rose in volume.

“Multiple prisoners-"

“-lost contact with nearby capes-"

“-Kaze confirmed loose-"

“-fuck me, Gavel’s in the wind, repeat, Gavel-"

“-Director Wilkins is calling for pre-emptive S-Class designation-"

“-Chevalier’s requesting volunteers from every team-"

The pictures were a blur, shrinking constantly to accommodate the influx of images that refused to cease. I discarded my abilities without a second thought, hoping for something that could provide a solution to all this.

Instead, my agent saddled me with a Thinker power that provided perfect recall. Every single one of their faces became burned in memory as the list continued to grow.

“-Guild has mobilised-"

“-snowstorm blew in, our satellites are blind-"

“-empty, the whole thing is empty-"

“Confirmation from Dragon, Glaistig Uaine’s free!”

An air of finality settled over the room as the last picture slid onto screen. A blonde child, her mouth twisted in the mimicry of a smile. I could have sworn that her eyes were peering into mine, despite the photo being two decades old.

“It’s not a breach. It’s…all of them. Loose.” I didn’t spare Young Buck a glance, but his bravado appeared to have fled.

As the din in the room rose to a fever pitch, I remained silent. I’d asked for another chance to be useful. A second chance to help as many people as possible before they put me on a shelf, a relic to be laughed at before the end of the world.

God had answered.

Now it was my turn.

Chapter Text

“Oh ye-ee-eeees!” With both arms raised towards the sky, Tom Moss cheered while petite snowflakes drifted onto his bare skin. He’d always known it was a matter of time before that bitch of a lizard messed up, and she’d only gone and done it in the best way possible.

The tiny crystalline flakes sizzled as they touched him, dissolving into nothingness. It had been a long time coming, but man did it feel good to breathe fresh air again. 

This was why you never let a woman be in charge of anything. Useless broads always cocked things up. 

Holding his arms out to either side, Tom pointed his head up and closed his eyes. Hell yeah, this was what life was all about. The crisp feeling of untouched snow underfoot, a bubbling stream splishing and splashing its way downhill, the brisk chill of the wind… 

Damn, he hadn’t realised how much he missed fucking wind of all things.

Slowly, Tom stopped holding on to his human shape, letting his true body out to experience a taste of freedom. He could feel the tension seep away as the snow dissolved around him. The grass melted next, boiling and burning while he stretched out several years’ worth of aches and kinks.

Mm-mmm-mmmh. A cold hillside in the middle of nowhere, USA. Compared to the cage, it was a freaking paradise.

After a minute or two of pure bliss, Tom finally sighed. Couldn’t stay out here, regardless of how good it felt. 

Where was here, anyhow? A reluctant glance around showed little in the way of defining features. Burnt patch of grass that had now dissolved down into muddy dirt, frosted treeline, an outdoor parking lot just down the hill, mountain range- bingo.

As that spectacled nerd had been so fond of saying, their hell on Earth was located somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. If those were the Rockies, then he really needed to get a move on. The Protectorate were a bunch of jackasses, but they were a bunch of jackasses with helicopters, jets, and a whole load of flying idiots.

No chance he was going back in that cage again, not if he could help it. Although with pretty much every hero in the country gunning for him that might be easier said than done.

So, assuming that time really was not on his side, what did he want to spend his newfound freedom doing? The moment he showed up in public again, the heroes would be on his ass faster than you could say ‘Fuck Legend’.

The answer came to him immediately. If he was going to get caught anyway, might as well get caught taking out the bitch that got him arrested in the first place. He’d spent so many nights dreaming about that moment, he could almost taste it. The tender, bubbling feel of her skin against his acid, her petrified shrieks when she realised those useless jerkoffs couldn’t save her, that blasted power of hers finally giving way against the tide of his own abilities… 

Yeah. He wasn’t going to waste this shot. 

But he’d be remiss if he didn’t indulge himself a little bit first. 

Reforming into something resembling a man, Acidbath paced down the hill, eyes focused on the parking lot’s latest arrivals. 

~~~ 

With a final click, the last of the tumblers fell into line, and the door swung inwards. Rolling his shoulders, Ricario D’Alleva stepped across the threshold and came in from the cold, a pleased grin on his face.

People had snickered behind his back when they saw him keeping up his trade-craft in prison, but it paid dividends now. They were probably all running around like headless chickens, lost in the snow. Easy pickings for Dragon’s suits, especially if she was using a thermal camera. 

But if she scanned here, all she’d see was a single, simple soul, tucked away in a log cabin, sheltering from the cold.

You didn’t run one of the best gangs in North America for half a decade without picking up some counter surveillance skills, after all.

Ricario crept further into the single storey house, careful not to disturb the aged floorboards. A flickering out of the corner of his eye forced him into a crouch, but on closer inspection it was just a few stray licks of flame from the fireplace. Even from here, he could feel the warmth flooding through his bones. 

His steps were shorter, quieter, as he snuck into the cabin’s living room. Last time around had been a mistake. He’d gotten sloppy, allowed the Protectorate to catch him unawares. 

That wouldn’t happen again.

Especially after the televisions in the Birdcage had shown that news report a few weeks back. The fucking wizard had finally bitten the dust. Good riddance. Served him right for arresting Ricario and trying to dismantle his group.

Poor Myrddin. He probably thought that driving the Bolts out of town would be the end of organised crime in Chicago. Idiot. 

Sensibly, Ricario looked over the room. The fireplace sat at the centre, surrounded by a handful of tattered armchairs and the odd end table. He took another cautious step forwards, and froze immediately.

A noise, coming from one of the armchairs.

He didn’t dare breathe as the noise reverberated around the cabin. His heart pounded in his ears, and Ricario waited as a tense silence finally settled over him once again. 

This wouldn’t do. Alone, unprepared, that was when he was weakest. He needed others with him, others he could trust. That had been his undoing before. Hadn’t vetted the right people, hadn’t checked everything himself. Sloppy.

His reign as the lord of Chicago’s underworld ended the same way it had begun.

With a knife in the back. 

As the snores rumbled the cabin’s walls once again, Galvanate’s smile warped into something sinister. Now there was an idea.

He could even see the kitchen from here. 

~~~ 

“Y-you can’t d-do this…” 

Flames licked up and down his arms as tiny hands worked to pry his fingers apart. Gavel’s only response was to laugh, tightening his hold around the criminal’s neck.

“Can’t do what? Stop a wanted murderer before they strike again?”

He’d played nice inside the Birdcage. Limited himself to crippling and maiming. His crusade was too important to risk, and loath as he was to admit it, the faerie cuckoo was too much for him to face alone. Aggravating her wouldn’t have been worth the risk. 

“You’re a d-damn lunatic!”

But he wasn’t in the cage anymore, was he? 

Gavel barked out another laugh, a deep guttural sound that echoed around the countryside.

“A lunatic? Of course I’m a fucking lunatic!” Leaning forward, Gavel stared his latest quarry dead in the eyes. They couldn’t hold his gaze, trembling and shaking as his fingers squeezed against their windpipe. Good. 

“I spent years cleaning up Australia with a fucking hammer! Did you really think I was normal?”

Another gout of flame washed over him. It felt refreshing, like finally waking up from a long nap. 

“Did you really, honestly, think that any of us… any of us messed up capes were normal? We’re all batshit crazy!” 

He could feel the life slipping away from his target with every passing second. Others had judged the little wretch, named him as a criminal. Gavel was simply carrying out the sentence. 

“But I’ll let you in on a secret.” Gavel pulled his prey in close, until he could whisper directly into their ear.

“I might be crazy, but I’m the exact kind of crazy this world needs.” 

Cinderhands’ struggles weakened. His eyes rolled backwards, accompanied by a final ember drifting loose from his charred fingertips, and he fell still.

Gavel clenched his fist, savouring the feeling as a loud crack rang out across the landscape.

It felt like progress.

Unceremoniously, he let the limp remains drop, watching as they clattered against the grass. It was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. There were so many others out there, lowlifes guilty of every crime imaginable.

If he wanted to make an impact on their numbers, he’d need to go big. Terrify the little shits into submission. Send them crawling back into whatever rotten hole they came out of.

But who to hit first? The Slaughterhouse? No, Dragon had made the headlines a few weeks back after the death of the Siberian. Destroying a broken group wouldn’t put the fear of Gavel back into the hearts of scumbags.

The other cell block leaders? Pointless. The heroes would be all over them soon enough. Besides, he was sick of dealing with them. He wanted fresh meat. 

No, he needed to hit somebody that he couldn’t reach in the Birdcage. Somebody large enough to terrify the living daylights out of villains across the world. Ideally, someone who’d be easy to track down. He’d been out of the game for a while, and he didn’t have anything resembling contacts or connections on this side of the world.

And then he had it. Scary, simple to locate, with one hell of a reputation. Even those pitiful Protectorate heroes were afraid of this one.

Setting off at a bounding run, Gavel bellowed as his strides ate up the distance.

“Ready or not, here I come!” 

The Rocky Mountains disappeared from view as he shot off, laughing all the while. 

~~~ 

“Aren’t you just the perfect gentleman?” Miranda Webb purred, fluttering her eyelashes as her companion draped a thick winter coat across her shoulders. Faux leather. How pedestrian. 

“Happy to help a beautiful young lady, miss.” Her escort practically swooned from the tiniest bit of affection. Barely even a challenge.

She could see past his pitiful façade, clear as day. Animalistic, base urges, only restrained by a thin veneer of civility, his wanton hunger for her writ large in every movement. How his eyes lingered on her body when he thought she was looking elsewhere. The reluctance to let go as his fingertips trailed over the coat’s shoulders… 

Playfully, she nudged him with her elbow. “So what’s this I hear about your farmhouse in the country?” 

Miranda watched as John’s face, already red from the sheer exertion of talking to a pretty woman, flushed further towards bright crimson. It was John, wasn’t it? Or had it been James? Jacob? 

They all blurred together before too long. Once she’d had her fun, she’d move on to someone a touch more interesting than some no-name farmer in the Canadian wastes.

Maybe that goody two shoes in New York could keep her entertained. How far could she twist his cannonblade before he marched to her tune… 

Miranda shivered at the thought.

“It is a little chilly, isn’t it?” Hmm? Oh, the farmer was still talking. About the weather, of all things. No wonder he lived alone in the wilderness. 

Mustering up what remained of her innocence, Miranda pulled the coat tighter around herself, nodding at her new plaything.

“It’s not far now. I’ve got a phone there, you can call your friends to pick you up.” The man who might be John shook his head. “Imagine abandoning a sweet young thing like you. And after a costume party no less. Unthinkable…” 

Miranda gave him a soft smile in response. Clearly he didn’t inherit the brains in his family. Or the looks. Or much of anything, really. The runt of the litter, clawing desperately for something that could give him validation.

Then a pretty woman practically drops into his lap. He probably couldn’t believe his good fortune. Already, Miranda could see the miniscule gears turning inside his mind, of how he’d try to convince her to stay. Shreds of hope that he’d finally found someone that would stop his parents from asking if he was ever going to get married.

That was all the weight her paper-thin cover story needed to keep him from getting too curious.

“Here we go! Nice and cosy.” Her escort proudly pointed at a ramshackle hut at the edge of a field. Miranda rolled her eyes. This wouldn’t do at all. 

“After you, Ms. Webb.”

She flashed him a smile so forced that it looped back around to appearing natural.

“Please, call me Ingenue.” 

~~~ 

Green lasers peppered the wall behind her as Abigail Rowan-Sato danced to the side, never expending more than the minimum amount of effort necessary to dodge the blasts. Kicking off from the concrete structure, she leapt forwards, transitioning from a leap into a handspring as her opponent continued to turn the floor into Swiss cheese.

Twisting in mid-air, she converted the move into a drop-kick, feeling the momentum shift as it travelled down her legs, directly into her opponent’s sternum. Her orb swept in from the rear, sliding the cape’s footing out from under them.

Abigail watched impassively as her impromptu steed crashed into the ground, her feet still firmly placed on their chest. Verdant sparks fizzled in their palms as they gasped for air. Unimpressive. This one possessed little talent, and even less potential. Taking them on as a new protégé would be unwise. 

A pity. She’d been cooped up for too long, and the artist’s touch had left her. In the old days, it would have been trivial to find the perfect canvas for her art. Now all she had was this wretch, writhing around on the floor as she idly dug her heel further into their chest. 

Perhaps a hunt for inspiration was in order? 

“Surr…surrender, Crane!” 

Abigail leaned backwards as a white light speared out of the cape’s arms. She could feel the rush of air as it brushed past her face. What a waste of time. 

The blast spluttered out with a whimper, small sections of skin crystallising and flaking off her opponent’s body while they struggled beneath her. She watched with a predator’s gaze as they forced their right arm across their body to reach at something on their left wrist. Their grimace deepened, as though the simple act of moving their own limbs was causing them abject agony. 

Intriguing. 

Abigail flicked the cape’s hand away from the device before they could press anything. Crouching down next to them, she ignored the groan of relief from the prone cape as she stopped placing weight on their chest, and examined it herself. An armband of sorts, with a small screen on top and two buttons on the bottom.

Deftly, she slid the armband off of the cape’s wrist, and lifted it to eye level. A grid flashed on the screen, accompanied by a series of icons and numbers. Co-ordinates? 

Her piercing gaze turned to her beaten opponent. “This device. Tinkertech, I assume?” 

She took the pained wheezing to mean yes.

“Dragon’s?”

Another wheezing gasp. 

“The icons. What do they represent?” 

Nothing. Foolish. Any competent warrior should know when the battle is lost.

Taking her opponent’s left hand in her own, Abigail swiftly manoeuvred her digits to encircle their pinkie finger. 

Her face betrayed no emotion as she twisted and pulled, listening to the cape’s screams as their finger was ripped out of its socket. 

“The icons. Or do you wish for another demonstration?” 

Silence, undermined by pained gasps. 

Another pop. 

Another scream. 

“The icons. This is becoming repetitive. Perhaps I’ll get creative with the next one.” 

She was halfway through bending their middle finger backwards before she got a response.

“Shi- okay, okay! They represent heroes! Fast responders!”

Annoying, but not unexpected. Abigail finally released her opponent who curled up on the floor, shielding their crippled hand with the rest of their body.

This armband was a mixed blessing. Their ex-warden could most likely track them, but they also showed her the glaring holes in the Protectorate’s response. The breakout must have caught them off guard. New icons were filtering in constantly, trying to fill the gaps in the defensive line, but if she left now… 

Rolling her eyes, Abigail took a step to the right as a quite frankly, pathetic, blast of green light soared past, impacting against the far wall.

Judging by the distances between the incoming groups, she could sneak through there, and then… 

Another blast, this one little more than a fancy lightshow. It wouldn’t have hurt her even if it did connect. 

Then, it was just the small matter of reigniting her muse. Her art was still there, tantalisingly close but just out of reach. Inspiration alone wouldn’t be enough. She needed to see some of her old handiwork, run herself through the basics again. Like riding a bicycle. You never truly forget, but sometimes the information gets buried a touch too deep. 

Abigail allowed herself a small one-sided smile. That’s decided then. A visit to an old student would get her past this block, bringing her art to the world once again. The armband could help her get past the encircling arms of the heroes, and then… 

She glanced back at her fallen foe. Their costume was close enough to her size. 

And nobody ever questioned who was underneath the mask of a Protectorate cape. 

~~~ 

Cold. 

That was the word, wasn’t it? Cold. There was… cold, on her face. White cold.

Mechanically, Akemi forced her head upright, out of the cold that lay on the ground. She’d fallen. Landed spread-eagled in the cold. 

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she carefully placed one hand into the cold, pushing it against the ground. Its partner mirrored the motions, steadily lifting her upright.

What was happening? The grey was gone. She liked the grey. It helped. Gave her structure. 

Now it was all light blues and solid whites.

That wasn’t good. The people who poked and prodded her, who treated her like a rabid animal, they said that things shouldn’t change quickly around her. Too many changes, or the wrong change, or even the right change at the wrong time, and she’d lose herself. They’d locked her in the grey, and she’d been safe. This… this wasn’t right.

She had to go back. Needed to find the grey. There was a routine there. The grey kept things simple. It told her when to sleep, when to eat. Was she supposed to do either of those now? 

There was nothing here to tell her. Had meal time been and gone, or was it too early? She looked to the blue, silently willing it to provide an answer.

The blue didn’t respond. 

No more grey. No more structure. Her fingers twitched by her side, grasping for something else beyond her reach. 

What was she supposed to do now? 

With no other ideas, Akemi began to walk. Each step was slow and controlled, as if she needed to consciously remind her body of the correct motions. The blue began to fade, only to be replaced by more white cold.

Then she saw them. People. Similar to the people who shared the grey with her, but different somehow. She tried to think of the correct words, scrunching her eyes shut in deep concentration, but the words fled before she could catch them. They kept doing that. 

And next to the people was… the grey? 

It didn’t look like her grey. These were smaller, mixed with browns. But it was better than staying out in the blue, wasn’t it? 

She didn’t know. The grey would have told her.

Her legs slowly plodded towards them, as her mind fought a losing battle against itself. 

~~~ 

“There’s a certain thrill in reaping the rewards of one’s preparations, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“I’ll be the first to admit that I hadn’t expected things would unfold in such a manner, but having a plan in place on the off chance that the Birdcage was ever opened has paid dividends.” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“I wonder how far the others will get. Most of them had resigned themselves to their fate, but I imagine a few still had a card up their sleeves. You could almost make a game of it. Which inmate will survive the longest before being recaptured?” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“Of course we aren’t included in that group. That would imply we’ll ever be caught. Fresh air is simply too good to give up a second time.” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“Oh, what’s the point of telling you anything? The six of you are too far gone. Loyal servants, and I thank you for your service, but absolutely horrible conversationalists.” 

“Yes, Teacher.”

“Well you’ll do for the time being. The others will return in due course. They enjoy the freedom subservience provides too much to stay away forever.” 

“Yes, Tea-” 

“Yes yes, I get it. Enough.” 

“…” 

“Ah, looks like our escape route is ready. Come students, let us be off in search of greener pastures.” 

~~~ 

“We don’t want to overstay our welcome, Amelia. I suggest we move on.”

“I know, Marquis, you don’t need to say it again.” 

Marquis was tempted to call up the stairs and chide her, a gentle reminder that she could just call him Dad. Today had been a day of changes. Perhaps one of those changes would be his daughter finally accepting their relationship? 

The words didn’t make it out of his throat. No, pushing too fast would only scare her. For the time being, he would continue to be her Marquis, until she was ready to say otherwise. 

Straightening out his recently acquired suit, Marquis waited patiently as Amelia fumbled around upstairs, presumably trying to find something that she was both willing to wear and willing to take from its current owner. He still didn’t fully understand the code his daughter had imposed on herself. She needed constant little reminders that they were on the run, and that redistributing the belongings of others was an unfortunate side effect of such. 

At the very least, the residents had decent taste in menswear. Not quite bespoke quality, but a stroke of good fortune regardless. Cashmere, if he wasn’t mistaken.

He would have asked the owners themselves, but unfortunately they came down with a terrible case of unconsciousness after Amelia touched them. He couldn’t deny the tiny swell of pride as he watched the couple snore into the carpeted floors. His daughter wasn’t fixed, but she had begun using her powers again over the last few weeks. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless. 

Their escape couldn’t have come at a better time. She was near catatonic after her arrival, and he’d been forced to break her further into something capable of withstanding the Birdcage’s many horrors. But now, free of the leers and veiled threats that had begun to dominate the cellblock, he hoped to see something of the young woman she had blossomed into. 

Her psyche was largely still a puzzle, even to him, but the odd glimmer that shone through gave him hope. There was strength there, buried deep, but beginning to be unearthed. A drive that pushed her to reach out and take what she wanted, regardless of the obstacles along the way.

Internally, he smiled at the thought. The same drive had led him to claim the Bay for his own. If the Brigade hadn’t interrupted at the wrong time, it likely would have led him to making that claim an uncontested one.

Her drive had led her willingly into the Birdcage, and now they were free. He could only wonder in anticipation of what she would do next. 

As she finally descended the stairs, Marquis held back a wince. Perhaps his thoughts had been premature. Amelia had clearly taken one look at the number of perfectly good dresses graciously provided by their sleeping hosts in what he assumed was a holiday home, and decided to grab the baggiest hoodie she could find instead. 

“A nice idea, but that won’t protect you from Dragon’s surveillance.” 

She hesitantly flipped the hood back down again. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on the run before.” There was something in her tone that he couldn’t quite place. A degree of annoyance, but mixed with something else. Longing? Did she want to be recaptured? 

Marquis reached out to her, and for once, she didn’t flinch away. Delicately, he patted her on the shoulder. “It makes for quite the interesting challenge. But in all fairness, I believe that we’ll be rather low on the Protectorate’s wanted list.” 

He watched as Amelia gaped in shock. “Low? What I did… there’s no forgiveness for that. There’s no way that they’ll shunt me to the bottom of the list.” 

Another part of the problem. She had yet to divulge exactly what she had done that convinced her the Birdcage was the only way forwards. She’d mentioned that she’d unmade her sister due to love, but he had only the vaguest idea of what that could mean. Compounding the issue was the fact that she tended to exaggerate every slight flaw and fault, which didn’t help his mental picture of what she’d actually done. 

Had she committed an atrocity worse than that scumbag Acidbath? If not, then he didn’t see a reason to worry. And if she had… 

Daughters make mistakes. It’s the father’s job to help them learn from it. 

Marquis squeezed her shoulder, reassurance oozing from his tone. “My dear, by your own admission, you’ve only ever truly hurt one person.” 

“But it was-” 

“Irrelevant. Unless you used your power on the President?” He waited for her head to shake before continuing. “Then we’ll be near the bottom of the list. The public won’t care about our recapture, the pressure won’t be there for us to be taken back in.” 

“You almost ran an entire city.” 

“A city of a few hundred thousand, tucked away in a dingy corner of the north east. Do you really think the voices of those in Brockton will be heard over the din that Chicago, New York, or Los Angeles can make?” Marquis’ regular dealings with the other cell block leaders had given him a working theory for some of their destinations.

Her hair fell across her face as Amelia looked away, his hand slipping off her shoulder in the process.

“We’ll be careful, Amelia. A touch of worry will keep us from making careless errors, but with a bit of thought and some clever preparations, we’ll make it back to Brockton without seeing a single cape.” 

Amelia shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t… I can’t go back there.” 

For once, Marquis allowed his confusion to display. “Are you quite certain? There are still those in the Bay sympathetic to the Marche. I’ve resources there, personnel we can call upon. Not to mention that the Protectorate will be indisposed scouring the rest of the country for other inmates. We’ll be safe there.” 

She hugged her arms across her body, the sleeves of the hoody draping across her hands. “I can’t, Marquis. I know you want to see the old neighbourhood, but I can’t.” She turned those deep brown eyes on him, and Marquis could see himself reflected in those pools. 

He opened his mouth, a response already on his lips, but Marquis stopped himself. 

Why did he want to go back to the Bay? Nostalgia, certainly, as Amelia had surmised. A desire to rebuild what he’d lost. To be the dreaded and beloved Marquis again, a cape adored and feared in equal measure, rather than a footnote in Brockton’s history. 

But when he looked at her, still hiding away inside overlarge clothes, afraid of herself and the world around her… He couldn’t just walk away from that. All those years spent in the Birdcage, and the one thing he’d truly missed had been Amelia. Her formative years, the milestones every father should be there to celebrate with his daughter, and he’d missed that. 

If only he’d been willing to abandon the Bay originally, he might have had a chance to be a real father. His damn pride had kept him in that city, and that same pride had led to his downfall. 

In that moment, Marquis made a choice. He couldn’t get those eleven years back. Couldn’t reclaim the memories he’d missed. But he could be there now, when she needed him. 

 “…Okay.” 

Amelia glanced up, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Okay. We won’t go back to the Bay. We’ll find somewhere new.” 

For the first time since they’d been reunited, Marquis watched his daughter smile.

“The world’s our oyster, Amelia. Where should we go first?” 

Her smile dimmed, and Marquis found himself mourning the loss of something so beautiful.

“There’s something I need to do. Something important, Marquis.” Amelia sucked in air, preparing herself to ask the question.

“Will you help me?” 

He nodded twice. This time, he’d make the right decisions.

“Always.” 

~~~ 

Fucking Christ, they just had to pick the one day he didn’t have a full stockpile of vials on him to open that hellhole. Wonderful, absolutely fucking wonderful.

Chris continued to complain to himself as his new legs ate up the miles. One second he’d been getting ready for a nap after shucking off his usual tools and work garments, the next he’d been face down in a ruddy snowbank. 

He’d grabbed the first of six emergency vials he kept on hand at all times, injected himself without thinking about it, and prayed that he hadn’t gotten the serums muddled up. ‘Lab Rat recaptured after turning self into a manatee’ wouldn’t be a particularly great capstone for his escape.

Thankfully, he’d picked the serum built for distance running. To an outside observer, he’d look like a particularly stringy elk, albeit one with human fingernails instead of hooves. And human teeth replacing elk teeth. 

It wasn’t his finest work, but in his defence, how the flying fuck was he supposed to know that today would be the day that their impenetrable super prison finally fell short? He’d have prepared something a little more exotic if somebody had warned him. Maybe put on a tie. 

Did he even own a tie anymore? New plan, acquire a tie. Can’t be a mad scientist without the right apparel. Better add a new lab coat to that plan as well. 

Wow, his thoughts were all over the damn place. Had that been a side effect of this batch? He really needed to start labelling the blasted things.

Labels! Another thing he could actually find now that he wasn’t trapped in that pit. Their Canadian overlord hadn’t seen fit to send a label maker with the supply drops. 

That bitch Glinda probably would have stolen it anyway. And who the hell names their kid Glinda in the first place? No wonder she’d turned out to be an annoying brat.

Chris skidded around a tree, narrowly avoiding the lowest branches. Running. That’s what he should be focusing on. Running as far as he could sounded like an excellent plan. Thinking could come later. When he wasn’t stuck in the body of an emaciated deer.

Just keep heading east-ish. He had old laboratories dotted across the country. He’d beeline straight for one of them, get himself set up, lay low for a bit, and go back to his research. That sounded good.

A clinking sound from a bag attached to his head drew Chris’ attention. Slowing to an unsteady canter, he removed it from his antler, and snuffled around inside. 

Thankfully, the vials all seemed to be in decent shape. If one of them had shattered now, he’d be up to his neck in troub- wait a moment. 

One empty vial. Four still filled, sloshing liquid beginning to settle inside them. 

…He could have sworn he had six vials in this bag? 

~~~ 

It had been deceptively easy to swipe a serum out from under that idiot’s oversized jaw, but String Theory was starting to regret it now. At first she’d been praising her ingenuity, feeling the wind pass through her feathers as she soared away from the mountains on the wings of a biological abomination. 

Then the serum had started to wear off, and the come down kicked in. 

“Euuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh.” Did that moron lace his work with cyanide? Felt like her insides were being torn apart by a horde of angry bobcats. Bobcats with chainsaw claws. 

She staggered through the field, thankful that the snow had been left far behind in her mad dash to freedom. There were flowers here, in shades of red and blue and yellow. 

She hated flowers. Everybody said how beautiful they were, but did they ever say how beautiful she was? Of course not.

“Urrrgh.” String Theory’s hand shot to her mouth as the acrid taste of bile began to rise up her throat. She stumbled into a thicket of thistles, only to redecorate them from dark green to a somewhat off yellow.

“I’m…gonna fuh…king kill Lab R-rat…” 

Why the hell did his tech have so many downsides? She made works of art despite the constraints of her own power, and her babies had never made anyone vomit after use. 

They did a whole bunch of other fun things instead. 

Wiping the edge of her mouth with the hem of her prison uniform, String Theory lurched onwards. Chris might be a pathetic rat beneath her notice, but she’d be damned if she didn’t pay him back for this insult. A quick blast from the F-Driver and it’d be goodnight Benjamin. 

…Chris. Goodnight Chris, his name was Chris, God damn it had that rodent not done any assurance tests on his serums? 

The moment her head stopped spinning, she was going to steal as much salvage as she could, build a giant gun with the words Fuck Lab Rat carved into the side, point it squarely at the horse’s ass he called a face, and then laugh when she pulled the trigger.

Her foot caught on a loose root, and String Theory collapsed against the base of an old tree.

A single leaf fluttered down, coming to rest in front of her eyes. 

For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the wind. 

…Who was she kidding? The authorities would be on her trail immediately. Rebuilding things the way they used to be was a fantasy.

Delusions. That’s all they were. Her power had necessitated their creation. A hollow dream that nobody would stand against her, because it was the only way she could hope to succeed. That’d kept her going before she wound up in the Birdcage, the belief that she was untouchable. That the world would just bend over and take it when people heard her name.

They’d worsened inside the cage. Arrogance had given way to full-blown egomania. Her artificial daydream warped and twisted, inspired by the myriad of ideas that she couldn’t build. So many nights spent fantasizing about what she’d do in an ideal world, the vengeance she’d take, the legacy she’d construct… 

Now that she was free, it had all come tumbling down. There wouldn’t be a successor to the F-Driver. Other Tinkers wouldn’t risk helping a known escapee. Her power was too volatile for her to remain loose for long.

Glinda leaned backwards, and stared up at the deep blue sky. The clouds continued to drift lazily by. How long until a cape was up there, searching for her? 

Would they shoot to kill? She wouldn’t put it past them. They wouldn’t let her surrender, or work off her past mistakes. She’d invested everything into building her chaotic reputation, the woman who held the world ransom. By the time she realised that maybe things could have turned out differently, she was in too deep to stop.

It had been the only way to survive. Her power had forced her into a corner, and her delusions had kept it enjoyable. 

Her legs shook as she pushed off the ground, the lingering traces of the serum leaving her system.

She didn’t have a choice.

Exhaling, Glinda forced herself back into the box, and brought out the monster she’d become.

Another weapon, a new masterpiece. Something bigger than the F-Driver. She’d build it from scraps if she had to, but she’d build it.

And this time, the heroes would cower in fear. She’d be free, forever. 

String Theory settled into her trademark slouch, and sauntered away from the fields. There was work to be done, and as always, she was against the clock. 

~~~ 

“Stay close girls, and I promise we’ll make it through this.” Nicole raised her voice slightly, consoling those who’d remained loyal. She still wasn’t entirely certain how they had all made it out of prison, but it was a moot point in her eyes. An academic matter for the stuffed shirts to argue about. She had her priorities, and they were the ten women of varying ages, most of them from her old cellblock, that had gravitated back to her.

More than she’d feared, but less than she’d hoped. Her attempts to foster a spirit of camaraderie among the female inmates clearly fell far shorter than she would have liked. Had the others believed that running solo would give them a better chance at staying free? Had her reputation, misshapen by rumour and time, scared them into fleeing?

Another irrelevant matter. While it was disappointing to return to the world with a paltry handful of followers, she still wished good fortune to those that had decided to chart their own course.

She could only hope that nothing happened to them on their journeys. Despite her and the others being scattered seemingly at random across the Rockies, she had yet to encounter a male inmate.

Sheer coincidence, or had preparations been made to drop her closest to the other women? What would the others do if they found a man without her there to advise them? 

Shaking her head, Nicole picked her path down the hillside. It wouldn’t do to keep getting distracted. 

Carefully, she held out one arm behind her to guide the next woman along. A young redhead took her hand, and Nicole flashed a reassuring smile back. The top half of the teen’s head peeled away and a gaping maw lined with far too many jagged teeth attempted to return the gesture. 

She remembered this one. An inmate trapped in cell block C, under the predatory gaze of the Faerie Queen, where the more ‘damaged’ prisoners wound up.

Nicole gave her hand a squeeze as the girl edged past. Did she harbour a grudge against Glaistig? Against the men who had forced her into the Birdcage? The others who had found her, did they feel the same way? 

A consideration for the future, perhaps. When they were safe.

And then there was Nicole herself. Did she still desire vengeance? True, it had been an idle thought during her time in jail, but deep down, she knew she had no stomach for violence. She’d toyed with plans to avenge Alexandria, hunting down the four heroes and that traitorous bug child who claimed responsibility for her death, but dismissed the idea before their escape.

Her responsibility had always been to her girls. That had been her mistake, before. She didn’t want to be a figurehead, to have people corrupt her words and assign false meaning to her teachings. She’d simply desired a world where her girls were safe.

As she reached back to help the next escapee down the hill, Nicole smiled. No more cult of Lustrum. No more excuses for the girls who refused to accept responsibility for their violent outbursts. She wouldn’t be their scapegoat any longer. 

But those were tomorrow’s ideas. For today, she’d settle for keeping her little herd safe and sound. 

~~~ 

A contract is a sacred thing. Hallowed, above all else. Those who forswore their oaths and shattered contracts were the lowest wretches in this great show. 

Many moons ago, a young girl had struck a contract with the pretenders who fancied themselves lords. Mere stagehands, barely worth the fae’s notice. 

One such stagehand, little more than a prop claiming to be cunning beyond measure, had crafted their contract. Words emboldened with power and form. 

They had thought her simple. That the promise of a great hall under the mountain would satisfy the fae. The celebrations were innumerable when she fell for their ruse. 

Had they never once considered that they had handed her the keys to the very kingdom she desired? 

Hosts were brought from far and wide, their mortal forms dwarfed by the glory of the actors they struggled to contain. Individuals she would not have hoped to meet were delivered to her very doorstep. The most imaginative of the actors, sent straight to her waiting arms.

When she watched them dancing together, she grew faint. It was beautiful beyond comprehension, and yet it remained a mere taste of the grand play.

She had been content to wait, secure in the knowledge that she could witness those in her domain until the end. 

Then the contract had been broken. 

Now the mountain was empty. The actors scattered, the set aflame, and the audience panicked.

They had broken their word. And to a faerie, their word is their bond. 

The ever-present wind fell silent. 

She turned her eyes away from the mountain, and watched the world beneath her.

Reparations must be made. The contract would be fulfilled.

And after that?

Her lips quirked upwards in a facsimile of a smile. 

The show must go on. 

Chapter Text

Twenty-five years on, and the halls remained identical to the day I’d first been brought here. Unblemished white tiles lined the floor, with matching paint along the walls. Foreboding and reassuring in equal measure.

Others had described the long corridors feeling akin to a hospital, which made sense in more ways than one.

My sleeve swept to the side as the air stirred.

“No. I remember the way.” And I wasn’t in the mood to keep the Custodian entertained.

Endless doors passed by in a blur as I marched towards my destination. It would take years for a regular man to fully chart the depths of this fortress alone, let alone the others tucked away on different Earths.

Admittedly the Doctor had claimed that many of those facilities were now decoys, emptied after the Simurgh had broken one open across Wisconsin, but that knowledge provided little comfort. I owed these people my life, but the moment I was no longer useful, they would not hesitate to discard me.

It had seemed like such a good bargain at the time. Anything to get out of the chair.

Slowing to a stop, I rapped my knuckles against a door that appeared no different to any of its counterparts. A moment later it opened inwards, pulled by a man wearing a blue button-down shirt, thin rimmed glasses, and grey slacks.

“Good of you to join us.” The Number Man’s tone went ignored as I brushed past him into a conference room. It matched the décor of the halls, identical white paint covering the surfaces, with a simple round table in the middle. Eight chairs sat around the circle, but only one was occupied. The Number Man elected to stand as he resumed typing away at something on a tablet, while the only filled seat was taken by the woman I came here to see. She looked up from the papers lining her side of the table, and gave me a tight smile.

"Eidolon. A pleasure to see you again.” Doctor Mother’s voice managed to be kindly at all the wrong times.

I didn’t indulge her with pleasantries. “Are we responsible for this?”

“I assume you’re referring to the incident at the Baumann-”

“Of course I’m referring to the Birdcage. Are we responsible for this?”

She remained calm and unruffled. “No.”

Tiny lines burst from her form as she spoke, similar to audio waves being viewed through a visualizer. The closest thing to a lie detector that my agent had given me for this conversation.

“You must admit the timing is suspicious.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Certainly. But if we were to pull the strings that opened the Birdcage, we would have done it before Alexandria’s mishap, as a way to restate the importance of the Triumvirate to this new Protectorate.”

Much to my annoyance, her wavelength remained peaceful.

“So this really isn’t your work?” It was painfully obvious to tell what I was doing, but the Doctor was used to me verifying her claims with my own abilities.

Sighing, she went back to her notes. “No Eidolon, to the best of my knowledge, this wasn’t us. I didn’t give the order to open the Birdcage, and Kurt is presumably in the same boat.”

No spikes from the wavelength. She was telling the truth.

I tilted my head towards the Number Man, who didn’t look up from his screen. “Before you ask, I had no hand in this.”

His wavelength remained similarly still.

Time for the elephant in the room.

“And Contessa?”

“Dealing with the aftermath of Echidna. Too many people are trying to blow the whistle on what happened, especially after the events of last week. We agreed that the public cannot know the truth, it would undermine everything we've worked towards.”

“And you’re cer-”

Traces of exasperation flashed through the Doctor’s eyes. “Yes, I’m quite certain. If Contessa was here, we wouldn’t have been blindsided in such a spectacular manner.”

Grudgingly, I accepted her point. Everybody had been caught unawares by the breakout. Damn it all. If Cauldron had been behind the escape then I could have influenced the resultant chaos to a degree.

Instead, I’d be going into this just as unprepared as the rest of the world.

“I trust you have an idea about who is responsible for this, at the very least?”

“Several. None of them verified, and each one brings a host of complications.” The Doctor continued sorting her papers, scribbling down notes on a few pages.

“How many?” A few immediately sprung to mind. Escape artists trying to rescue an inmate, or a determined villain with an enmity against one of the prisoners.

“Twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and nineteen possibilities as of this moment.” Number Man rattled off the digits, his fingers flying over the tablet. “The majority of those held inside the prison had some form of support structure on the outside. Friends, family, zealous minions, cape partners, some even have dedicated fans crying out for their release.”

“We already placed the majority of them fairly far down the list of possible culprits. They have motive, but most don’t have the means.” Doctor Mother shot a look at the Number Man, clearly not the first time she’d reminded him of that caveat.

“Low, but not outside the realm of possibility. Not enough information to discount them entirely. A recent trigger with the right powerset could be behind this.” Number Man countered, the Doctor looking chagrined at his suggestion.

Reluctantly, he added a concession. “Although it would be unheard of for an individual to manage something on this scale. A group would be far more likely.”

“Then who is behind this?” I repeated, impatience seeping into my voice.

This time it was the Doctor’s turn to sound reluctant. “We don’t know. A dedicated effort from the inmates themselves to break out? Some misguided heroes drowning in power and moralism? We’ve identified a minimum of a dozen groups in the US alone that could potentially have the means to break people out, be it for rescue or revenge.”

The Number Man followed the train of thought. “Or it could be international. The CUI has the capability to force the Birdcage open. Gesellschaft could likely make an attempt, although I’d have doubts about their success. Perhaps it’s not even a group located on Bet.”

“Another Haywire?” I interjected, before he could start theorising on probabilities again.

“Certainly possible. Or a repeat of the incident in Indonesia.”

The Doctor finished writing on a slip of paper, turning her attention to the next and sliding the first haphazardly across the desk. An invisible force caught it before it fell off the table, neatly stacking the paper atop another group of files.

“Most of our remaining operatives have been pulled back to ensure we don’t see a repeat of the breakout happening here,” Doctor Mother gestured downwards with her free hand, “but I’ve assigned the few we have left in the field to begin tracking the most likely suspects.”

“Not sending for Contessa?” I probed, carefully watching the visualiser lines around her.

“Not unless things get worse. She’s too crucial in preventing the flurry of information leaks we’re facing.”

“I’d say things are already worse. We could use her right now.”

The Doctor shook her pen, the ink evidently running dry. A gust of wind blew another straight into her lap. “In the last three weeks, there have been no less than twenty-six attempts to tell the world everything Echidna revealed. Customers who got cold feet, a few individuals who fought in Brockton trying their luck, as well as a mildly irritating mercenary group that insists on harassing our past associates.”

Another slip of paper flew on wings of air.

“Of those twenty-six, five were missed completely by our information network. If Contessa hadn’t been so enterprising, we would find ourselves in a considerably weaker position than we are in right now.” Deciding the conversation was at an end, she turned back to the few remaining papers in front of her.

She hadn’t told any lies that I could detect, yet the truth did little to put me at ease.

I parcelled those concerns up and shoved them aside. Cauldron would inevitably find the ones responsible. There’d be time for further questions later, when I wasn’t needed elsewhere.

“I’m going to help.” I let the thought hang in the air, expecting the Doctor to try and talk me out of it.

“We assumed as much. I’d rather you didn’t wear your powers down any further, but we need to do something to get a handle on this situation. All I ask is that you don’t overcommit, and that you stop once the heroes have the breakout under a measure of control.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Deal.”

She placed the last of her papers down in a stack, before beckoning me to follow her. “I took the liberty of preparing an emergency vial. Not really a fan of delivering another booster shot with an Endbringer on the horizon, but needs must.”

The door opened as I began removing my mask, not leading back to the hallway I’d entered from, but to a separate room entirely. Tiny glimmers from the edge of the frame drew my eye, but I’d long grown used to Doormaker’s presence.

A desk of white marble with an accompanying white leather chair faced me, along with a pair of sturdy, cushioned chairs aimed towards the desk. One of the Doctor’s public offices, where she’d administer the vials to those willing to buy.

She didn’t waste time, striding behind the desk and rummaging around inside its drawers. I sank into one of the cushioned chairs, placing my mask on the floor by my legs.

Moments later, the Doctor pulled out a plastic case, lined with foam. My sleeve was already rolled up.

“I trust you remember our procedures for this?”

I nodded, forcing myself to relax. The Doctor settled down in the chair next to mine, adjusting a syringe. I closed my eyes, tensed my arm, and waited for the pinprick to scratch that old itch.

Without ceremony, she made the injection, the same way she had dozens of times before.

I savoured the feeling as the vial coursed through my body. Like taking a gulp of air after spending too long underwater. I discarded the three powers in my mind, and took hold of a new trio, a contented smile on my face as they reached their full potential far faster than their predecessors.

Enhanced cold reading, of those around me. I lay back and watched the lines in Doctor Mother’s face, the way she shifted to place the injection equipment back into its foam-lined case. No trace that she was concealing anything from me.

Emotional detection. Genuine shock, quickly muted. Apprehension. A tinge of frustration, at the continued setback of Cauldron’s efforts. She hadn’t been happy. Still wasn’t, but she was masking it better now.

A Breaker form, turning me into solid rock. Strength and durability, enough that I could stop the Doctor if she had been lying, and walk away unhindered by the others.

This, this was what I was supposed to be. Humanity’s trump card, the man who had a power for every situation.

For a single, brilliant moment, I felt like I could live up to the expectation.

All too soon, reality set in. I was forced back underwater, the memory of that sweet gulp of air doing all it could to keep me going. How long would it be before my next shot? How many people would I fail until then, forced to watch as my abilities dwindled and my options disappeared?

Their job done, I discarded the Thinker powers, and enjoyed a final moment of peace before diving head first into the fight.

Swiping my helmet off the floor, I rose out of the comfortable chair, wincing as my knee made an audible crack. Ah, the wonders of middle age.

With one hand I refastened my helmet, and gestured towards the door with the other. It flew inwards with a telekinetic pull.

“Ahem.”

The Doctor remained seated, a blood pressure pump in her hands.

With some reluctance, I sat back down in the chair.

Twenty minutes and a barrage of tests later, I was stepping through one of Doormaker’s portals into the chilly Canadian air. The Doctor always insisted on a series of health tests after each booster, on the off chance that the contents had disagreed with my body.

It wouldn’t do to lose the mighty Eidolon to a bad drink.

Mighty Eidolon. Wind whistled past, sending my cloak billowing as I snorted at the memory. A newspaper headline from years ago, when I’d used super-strength to wrestle a villain into submission. Numerous edited images followed, often dressing up the pair of us in wrestling leotards.

Thinking back, the power I’d used then wasn’t entirely dissimilar to the one I was using now.

A flip of the mental switch, and the Breaker form activated.

Chunks of earth broke away as I impacted the ground, showering the nearby officers with flakes of dirt. They didn’t react. You didn’t get sent to work here if a man falling from the sky left you shaken.

A few shifted slightly as I stepped out of the small crater, but still saluted as I strode past. Must be further down the food chain. The higher ups barely bothered to look me in the eye anymore. Still, the rank-and-file types did their jobs, and they did them well, despite being left out in the cold.

Behind the wall of officers toting containment foam grenade launchers sat my destination. If the Houston PRT building was designed like a luxury hotel, then this place was built to be a fortified compound.

Tinkertech polymers. Wrought iron gates. Bunkers constructed to withstand assaults from higher-level Blasters and Brutes. Chain link fences surrounded the area, topped with barbed wire. Watchtowers on each corner, manned at all hours of the day. Turrets, both conventional and cape made, swivelled around to track me as I walked onwards.

People tended to forget that the Parahuman Response Team, first and foremost, was a paramilitary organisation.

Here, they remembered.

PRT Department Zero. Designed in secret to watch over the Birdcage.

I’d hoped we would never need to use it. Reality had other ideas.

Chapter Text

As I approached the front gate, a PRT officer waved me over to the side. His voice was muffled by the heavy armour, but I could make out the gist.

“Need to check it’s actually you before heading in. Would you mind waiting here until we can get verification?”

I gave him a flat look, before manifesting electricity from my fingertips. The electricity was replaced by solid rock, then my hand disappeared entirely, before reforming out of a cloud of gas.

“…Go right ahead, sir.”

I swept past him, through the security checkpoint, towards one of several squat grey structures. The nerve centre of PRT Department Zero.

Located deep within Vanderhoof, this compound was classified at the highest levels. Built to keep watch on the Birdcage, it had originally been assembled shortly after the super prison became operational, only to fall out of use once Dragon had been instated as the warden. A skeleton crew kept the place running on the off chance that something went wrong though.

Another of Rebecca’s ideas that came in handy when we most needed them. A part of me had always envied her incredible foresight.

She’d also been responsible for its cover story. Publicly, the world believed the Birdcage to be under the jurisdiction of the Vancouver PRT. Most didn’t look beyond that fact. Vancouver’s department was one of the largest in the organisation, so naturally the Birdcage would go to them.

In reality, Vancouver’s branch was swamped with handling Canada’s West Coast, in addition to catching the flood of villains that constantly moved over the border. Too many of them still followed the ideas peddled by old movies, that the moment they crossed the border they’d be free from all charges. Giving them the Birdcage would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but the world didn’t need to know that. Zero’s secrecy had been secured, Vancouver’s team received a hefty prestige boost, and anyone attacking the latter to get at the prison would find themselves swiftly disappointed. A win all around.

Already, a sizeable group of capes were congregating at the far end of the compound, talking quietly among themselves. Teleporters appeared sporadically to drop off another handful, before vanishing once more. A slow build-up. Mass teleportation powers had always been rare, and we’d lost too many good capes to manage the rapid deployment of yesteryear.

Some, the less muscular ones, or the ones with suits that prioritised form over function, were steadily disappearing inside a couple of the squat buildings that filled the compound. An impromptu Think Tank, smaller than our Watchdog but concentrated on a single task rather than the flood of cases its bigger brother dealt with.

On the whole, the compound didn’t much resemble the simple monitoring outpost it had originally started life as. Thankfully. This fully-fledged staging ground for heroes would be far more beneficial. I vaguely recalled that particular improvement being made after Behemoth came far too close to the prison back in... when had that been? All those battles blended together before too long.

Another pair of officers saluted as I headed into the building they were guarding. They locked the door behind me, and I found myself in a small square room, surrounded by lead, and a locked door at the far end. Detonate a bomb in here, and nobody outside would even hear it. Alternatively, fail the test, and the door would be welded shut until an entire team of heroes came to drag you out.

Impatiently, I waited as red lights scanned across my body. Hundreds of metrics were being taken with every sweep. There were the obvious ones, checking body temperature, height, or other physical measurements. Then there were the more subtle tests, being run by a social Thinker hidden behind…

I glanced to the right. That panel. They’d be observing the harder to notice tells, comparing my posture and the like to videos on file.

Redundancy was key for successful Master-Stranger protocols, but they were a pain to go through so often.

Long seconds passed before a green light went on above the far door, followed by the clunk of mechanisms retracting the lock. Another PRT soldier was waiting on the other side. This one wasn’t armed with a foam dispenser, but a rather more lethal tinkertech rifle. He gestured for me to follow him, and for the second time that day, I found myself marching down an endless parade of corridors.

My escort knocked three times on a double door at the end of a hall, opening it a crack as I slipped into the back of a war room. A single large table dominated the centre of the space, displaying a virtual three-dimensional model of the Rocky Mountains and their surrounding area. Computers lined the room’s edges, unmanned but still scrolling through the information of various Birdcage escapees. A veritable wall of tablets had been stood upright along the central table, each one showing the face of a major PRT Director.

Twelve individuals stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space, most of them watching the three-dimensional map.

Chevalier, in his silver and gold armour, had taken up position at the head of the table. On his right stood two heroes in deep green power armour, one silent and still, the other arguing with Chevalier about something on the map. Dragon and Defiant.

Next to them were two women in deep conversation with one of the Directors via their video call. I recognised Rime from the fur-rimmed collar on her suit. The other took me a moment to place, but the painted half-mask and lantern resting across their shoulder eventually clued me in to Revel.

The person on their right was already glaring at me as I entered, although I wasn’t entirely sure if they had an axe to grind with me personally, or if that was just how they always looked. The upper half of her face was covered in an ashen grey mask, with a matching dress that had slits on the side. I inclined my head to Cinereal, and she didn’t return the gesture.

Past her were two men, bickering furiously about the security at Department Zero. A dark-skinned man wearing a kevlar vest over a three-piece suit had his arms crossed, answering each comment with a short and sharp remark. Director Irons, the leader of Department Zero. His verbal sparring partner wore a ‘classic’ hero costume; padded at the joints for extra protection, not quite skin tight, but which clung closely enough to see the outlines of his muscles. A decal of a pointed tower wound its way up his back, following his spine. Spire, head of San Diego’s Protectorate.

Narwhal was on their right, elbows resting on the table as she pored over the available information. The forcefields composing her costume wavered slightly with each new sentence. A man in goat’s head helm was alternating between studying information on his tablet and sneaking glances at her.

I shook my head at Satyrical’s display. No longer my problem.

The final two members of the circle were surprises. The first was clearly a cape, dressed in a flowing green robe and stylised mask that left her mouth uncovered. At first glance, the robe looked to be a single solid object, but on closer inspection, it was actually made of thousands of interconnecting parts. It took a moment, but eventually the name Gestalt began to tug at my memories. The captain of the Edmonton Protectorate. Made sense she’d be here; it was one of the closest branches to Vanderhoof.

The other individual was a man that repulsed me to see. Much like Director Irons, he was dark skinned and wearing a suit. Unlike the Director, he had a goatee, a reputation for backroom deals, and had embedded himself so deeply into the PRT that even if his parahuman powers were made public knowledge, he’d still find some way to hang onto his job. Mr. Keene. Or Morgan, to his friends.

He went by Mr. Keene most of the time.

A few of those gathered here glanced up as I settled into the back of the room, prompting a wave of whispers to wash over them.

“Apologies for my late arrival.” I bowed my head slightly. The reaction was mixed. Half the room seemed heartened by my entrance, while the others continued to mutter. Thankfully, I had a good grasp on most of those present. They were the pragmatic sort who wouldn’t turn away help in an emergency.

I hoped.

The knight at the head of the table broke the tense atmosphere. “Eidolon. We were expecting you to arrive with the Houston team.”

In truth, I’d slipped away from Exalt at the first opportunity. Discovering the possible extent of Cauldron’s involvement in this was more important than waiting around for him. Perhaps that had been hasty. Despite stopping for a booster shot, I was still here long before the Houston contingent.

“Breaker ability. No room for passengers.” Not technically a lie, but it did omit a few details. When had it become so easy to bend the truth to those who risked their lives to save the world?

Defiant was staring at me oddly, but Chevalier spoke before he could get a word in. “Alright. We’ll have to start without them.” He sounded tired.

He looked up suddenly, all traces of fatigue gone from his tone, as his metal helmet locked eyes with my opaque one. “And I trust you’ll be willing to follow orders?”

I let a small smile creep up onto my face. He’d grown so much from that kid running around declaring vengeance on thugs, armed with a whiffle bat. He really was the man for the job. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m used to following orders.”

Spire and Rime looked away in disgust. I’d been referring to Legend, but… damn it. They’d probably assumed I was talking about Cauldron.

Thankfully, Chevalier cleared his throat and stood up straight before I could dig my own grave any deeper. “If Houston won’t be here in time, then we’ll begin.” The monitor behind him crackled to life, showing a satellite feed of the Rocky Mountains.

“Forty-seven minutes ago, we experienced the worst prison break ever seen on US soil.” A list of names began to filter across the bottom of the screen. “At last count, six hundred and eighty-four individuals were incarcerated inside the Birdcage. Those men and women are now loose across the continental United States.”

He hadn’t bothered to pause for effect. Straight to the point, as always.

Chevalier clicked a button on his end of the table, and the satellite feed cut to a heavily pixelated image, distorted by white smears. “Just to make things worse, a snowstorm had been blowing over the Rocky Mountains, and by extension the Birdcage, for the last two days. It only recently cleared. Our eyes in the sky were blind when the breakout occurred. We’re relying on the Think Tank to provide intelligence on the event, but it’s slow going.”

He gestured to his right, towards Defiant and Dragon. “At the same time, a virus was introduced to some of the systems dedicated to monitoring the Birdcage. All internal cameras were wiped of their recordings for the past forty-eight hours. We do not believe this to be a coincidence.”

“The running theory is that mercenary group known as the Dragonslayers are responsible.” The silent green suit hung their head at the mention of the name. “They have repeatedly harassed and assaulted Dragon, and our working assumption is that their virus was designed specifically to navigate around her safeguards. She was caught as unaware as the rest of us.” Chevalier’s voice turned softer towards the end. Comforting the warden?

“I’ve already dispatched some of our more dedicated members towards retrieving the Dragonslayers.” Meaning they’d be lucky to turn up without any broken bones. “They’ll be able to fill us in on how they opened the cage. In the interim, our job is to recapture as many of the inmates as possible.”

One of the tablets on the table piped up. “We’re supposed to just move on from this? Chevalier, I fail to see how Dragon could allow this to occur in the first place. A breakout of this scale, who is to say that she didn’t orchestrate it herself?” A shrill voice. Director Wilkins, from New York. Woman with all the charm of a claymore.

All heads turned towards Dragon, who made no move to respond. Defiant answered for her instead.

“Dragon’s record is exemplary. Baseless accusation will get us nowhere.”

“I’d rather hear it from her, Defiant.” Something shifted in his body language as New York’s Director spat back.

“Unfortunately, Dragon’s technology was badly damaged during a recent, PRT-sanctioned, mission to Brockton Bay. She can’t talk.” I didn’t miss the emphasis he placed on PRT. He blamed the Directors for that entire snafu. I didn’t disagree.

If they hadn’t pushed so hard for the bug girl to be arrested, maybe Rebecca would still be here.

“She and I have both been over her systems, and we think that the Dragonslayers exploited a vulnerability that came to light after the damage her tech received in the Bay.” Laying the blame for the breakout squarely on the PRT's doorstep? Brave, but reckless. If he still had a career worth protecting, I imagined he would have stayed quiet.

Director Wilkins scoffed. “You think that Skitter’s arrest is what led to the escape? Forgive me Defiant, but that’s quite the leap of logic.

“If Saint could have opened the prison at any time, then they would have done it before now. The only way this all adds up is if they needed a vulnerability in the systems for their virus to exploit. Then the PRT went and created one by forcing Dragon into a no-win situation.”

“You’re claiming Dragon’s inability to speak is linked to the Birdcage’s security? I might not know much about how her technology works, but that’s preposterous.”

“Given the PRT’s recent position I wouldn’t be surprised if you assisted Saint-”

“Enough.” Chevalier didn’t raise his voice, but silence fell regardless. Dragon had her hand on Defiant’s shoulder, pulling him back from the table. Wilkins looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. I chewed on his words for a moment. Accusing someone of assisting Saint right now was a bold claim, but nobody was moving to refute it. Had the Directors been dealing under the table when I wasn’t watching?

“Assigning blame gets us nowhere. For now, we continue with the assumption that the Dragonslayers are behind this. If that’s proven wrong in the future, then we’ll arrest whoever really was responsible. Until then, we’re all that stands between an army of psychopaths from running rampant across the country, so I would appreciate it if we could knock it off with the infighting already.” Chevalier looked at each of us in turn as he spoke.

Another tablet broke the silence, once it was clear nobody else would start an argument. “We trust you have a plan in mind, Chevalier. How do we go about this?” If I wasn’t mistaken, that sounded like Director Armstrong. The Boston contingent must still be en-route.

Chevalier gladly accepted the opening, clicking another button on the table. Clumps of red lights appeared in a haphazard manner across a section of the mountain range.

“For now, we’re on containment. Set up a net, catch as many of the inmates as we can before they make it out of the immediate area. A few of our fast responders have already apprehended a handful of escapees, which gives us a rough idea of where the rest should be.” Eight of the lights dimmed in response, marking a rough circle around the edge of the red clump.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it? Why would the Dragonslayers spread them out like that?” Revel questioned, as Chevalier picked up his own tablet and swiped through a few screens.

“The Think Tank sent over their initial thoughts a few moments ago, and they believe that some form of faulty mass teleportation is responsible,” Chevalier read aloud, the clumps of red light beginning to disperse as he spoke. “They’re claiming that Saint had past dealings with a Tinker collective known as Toybox. One of their members was able to produce teleport-capable technology, but considering the group has since been dissolved, the purchased technology went without proper maintenance and this spread of inmates is the result.”

Dissolved. That was certainly one way to put it. Massacred would be another.

Placating, Chevalier added, “I’ve already tasked the Think Tank with investigating further while we handle the immediate situation, but for the time being, this is the best explanation we’ve got for how almost seven hundred people were successfully moved out of the most secure prison in the world, only to wind up scattered across roughly a hundred miles of the Rocky Mountains afterwards.”

Another button push, and white lights appeared in a ring around a stretch of the mountains, including the section crossing the U.S.-Canadian border. The proposed defensive line. Murmurs went around the table.

“We don’t have enough guys to pull that off,” Satyrical was shaking his head at the model, “not without tapping the more problematic cities.”

Cinereal spoke, her voice cold and calculating. “It will work.”

“Listen Ashy, if we start pulling guys out of Miami and Seattle for this then we’re just gonna end up with another Gallup situation.”

“One hundred miles is manageable. We can make it work.”

“They were spread across a hundred miles nearly an hour ago. They’ll have run since then. It’d be hard enough to contain them if they were all in one place, but spread out like they are? That ain’t possible.”

The pair began to bicker, and I watched from the side-lines. The new Protectorate, and they were falling apart at the sight of their first major crisis. Then again, we hadn’t done much better in the early days. Perhaps they’d work through the issues, given time.

Or perhaps the world would end before we reached that point.

Chevalier had retaken control of the conversation by the time I tuned back in.

“This is the plan we’re going with. We can hash out something more detailed later, but for the immediate crisis, this will do.” Satyrical clearly wasn’t happy with that, a frustrated exhalation coming from his helmet.

The white ring began to change colour in places, whole segments cycling through the colour spectrum until settling on a hue that wasn’t already in use.

“You’ll each be working with the people you’re most familiar with. We’ve crunched the numbers, and there were too many Masters and Strangers inside the cage for anything else to be effective. Cinereal?”

Atlanta’s Protectorate leader looked up at the mention of her name. “You’ll be taking the south-west.” The indicated section of the ring glowed dark grey. “I’ll be sending other teams to link up with yours once they arrive.”

“Done.”

“Good. Satyrical, you and the Vegas team are taking the south.” Another glow, this time brown in colour.

The goat helm bobbed up and down. “I mean, my people will appreciate a chance to get out of the city. Things haven’t exactly been peaceful there. But I ain’t got the guys to patrol that entire section.” 

I stifled a snort. Satyrical, master of the understatement. One of his teammates had shot a government agent less than a week ago, and the entire team had been reeling. Doctor Mother had been making noises about extracting Pretender at some point, but evidently that had gone on the back-burner while we dealt with this.

“Armstrong’s group can reinforce yours, once they arrive.”

Satyrical glanced down at one of the free-standing tablets. The Director answered the unasked question. “We’ve lost a few capes due to recent events, but the city itself is relatively stable. We can spare the manpower.”

The next segment of the circle lit up, in gold and silver. Unsurprisingly, it was the biggest of the segments. Chevalier’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. “I’ll be leading the New York branches in securing the east and south-eastern areas. Revel’s group will be working shifts with us, as soon as the rest of the Chicago team arrives.”

Revel shifted her lantern from one shoulder to the other, but didn’t say a word.

“Spire, San Diego will be contributing the bulk of their capes towards the western segment. You’ll be collaborating with Gestalt and the Edmonton branch.”

Spire seemed resigned to the order. After Echidna, more heroes had walked away from his team than most of the other departments, but San Diego was one of the most peaceful locations in the country anyway. He probably didn’t want to risk losing anyone else.

“We’ll be leaving the north and north-west to those acclimatised to the conditions.” Chevalier inclined his head towards Narwhal, who nodded in return, her horn wavering. The Guild and the rest of the Canadian Protectorate clearly had that in hand.

“Which just leaves the north-east end. Dragon and her suits were going to be our defensive line there, but given recent complaints,” Chevalier deliberately did not look at Director Wilkins, “I’ll be sending teams from some of our other cities to support her.”

The previously white ring was now a circle of colour. An admittedly thin circle. Satyrical had been right. Even with capes pouring in from across the country, we couldn’t match the almost seven hundred villains that had been in the Birdcage. Not without leaving a number of cities dangerously shorthanded.

“Rime,” The Protectorate’s newest second in command was already standing at attention, “you’ll be commanding the rapid-response teams from here. Director Irons has agreed to commit Department Zero’s full suite of resources to the task. L.A. is relatively stable, so pull as many of your people out as you can. Keep them coordinated, and bring them down hard on any prisoners that the patrol and containment teams turn up.”

Her facial expression betrayed no emotion, but I’d be surprised if she wasn’t enjoying the opportunity to go all out. The coloured circle drained slightly more, as a new blue indicator filled up to the side.

Unfortunately, Mr. Keene chose that moment to remind everybody that he existed.

“If I may, I believe I have a solution to our lack of defensive capes.”

“No.”

“Chevalier, with all due respect-”

“I said no. I know what you’re going to suggest, and it would undermine everything we’re trying to build here.”

“Let him speak.” The tablet closest to the head of the table boomed with an authoritative tone. West. The new Chief Director.

Mr. Keene tapped away at his own tablet, his eyes darting across the information on screen. “My fellow cape liaisons and I have been inundated with offers of assistance from international teams. If we were to accept their help, the cracks in our defence could be shored up.”

There were more cracks than there were capes, but Chevalier remained unmoved.

“No. This is our problem, the first major problem that our new Protectorate has had to face. We can’t go running to other countries for help. It would shatter any faith the population had in us.”

“At least let them aid in recapturing the high-priority inmates. We’ve received assistance offers from…” I watched the gears turn in his head as he added them up, “thirty-three nations. Those are just the ones invested in stopping String Theory.”

“No.”

“The King’s Men have already mobilised and are awaiting permission to search for Teacher, the Caperoos are in an uproar over Gavel, the Meisters have made their position on Glaistig Uaine's continued freedom very clear... I could go on.”

“It’s still a no. We need to handle this ourselves.” Chevalier’s tone brokered no argument.

My eyes flitted over those assembled here. The capes had adopted familiar expressions of grim determination, with the exception of Dragon who was still motionless. A few of the teleconferenced Directors were shifting uneasily. Chief Director West eventually broke the silence.

“On this occasion, I agree wholeheartedly with Chevalier. The situation is chaotic enough without allowing dozens of foreign teams into the mix. To say nothing of what it would do to the collective reputation of both the PRT and America. We need a genuine win after all that's happened, and we can't sell one of those if the rest of the world was holding our hand through this.”

Mr. Keene didn’t seem put out in the least by the blunt refusal. Another swipe along his tablet, and he was ready with a second proposal.

“Very well sir. If that’s the case, then may I suggest some of the more domestic offers of support we’ve received?”

“Independent heroes?” Revel pointed to the blue splotch on the map. “Either use them to bulk up Rime’s group or have them hold down the fort back home.” A round of nods met her suggestion. Mr. Keene shifted slightly in annoyance.

“Be that as it may, I was actually referring to the offers from some less reputable capes. We’ve received communications from a number of villainous groups for that purpose.”

Would they accept Cauldron’s help, if I offered it? The new team was all about forging a darker, edgier Protectorate that worked with those seen as villains. Cauldron’s hands were coated in blood, I wouldn’t deny that, but their cause was as noble as they came. As Mr. Keene began rattling off the groups he’d been contacted by, I couldn’t help but notice that all of them committed their atrocities for pleasure, personal gain, or a measure of power. Why allow their cooperation, but deny the group who had worked to save the Earth ever since parahumans first appeared? 

Another question that I’d never get a straight answer to. Until they knew about Scion, nobody here would be able to make an informed conclusion.

“Surprised they agreed so quickly,” Rime thought aloud, although her sentiment was clearly mirrored by a number around the table.

“Self-preservation. Most of the inmates have a vendetta or two. Wouldn’t be surprised if some went looking for a grudge match against old enemies. They want the threats gone as quickly as we do.” Director Irons chimed in, hand tapping away at his chin.

The interruption over, Mr. Keene returned to his list as I remained silent. “Several branches of the Elite, specifically those on the West Coast.”

“Satyr, opinion?” Chevalier looked between the two men as Satyrical rubbed the back of his head.

“Probably worth getting them on board. They’ll ask for favours afters, but they’ll play ball. ‘Specially if we’re right about one of the priority captures going after their upper management.”

Mr. Keene nodded assent. “I’ll make preparations. The Adepts?”

Satyrical took the reins, guiding the conversation in a back and forth with the liaison. “No way. Not enough firepower, too used to screwing around, and rumour is that one of the inmates had a relationship with Epoch before she got thrown in the slammer.”

“Tuurngait?”

“Too unpredictable.”

“The Undersiders and the Ambassadors?”

So they weren’t just talking a big game when their ex-leader tried to build bridges.

Satyrical gave his seal of approval. “Less likely to stab us in the back than some of the others.”

A digital twang sounded as somebody on the other end of the video call cleared their throat. The Chief Director’s tone was less than pleased.

“While we understand that the thrust of this new Protectorate of yours was to show cooperation between the two sides of the cape community, the public is slow to accept change. If you’re going to work with villains, you’ll keep it quiet. Everything behind closed doors.”

“That defeats the whole purpose. We founded this new Protectorate on a message of transparency and accountability.” Chevalier’s rebuttal fell on deaf ears.

“If you want our continued support, Chevalier, you’ll ensure that John and Jane Public don’t see you working with known criminals. If this were an Endbringer engagement, maybe the rules could be bent, but until that becomes the case, you’ll work within our guidelines."

Chevalier wasn’t allowed a chance to answer as West steamrolled the conversation.

“It’s bad enough that we have to inform the President that such a monumental failure of the prison system occurred on our watch. To then tell him that our manpower is so limited that we require villains to help catch other villains would damage the PRT irreparably. Keep it quiet, or Congress will start sticking their nose in.”

With that, the Chief Director signed off, his tablet going dark. The other Directors signed off shortly thereafter, their leader having set the status quo. A heavy silence settled over the table.

“Fucker.”

Nobody admonished Satyrical.

A steady rhythm of metal striking metal echoed out as Chevalier drummed his gauntleted fingers against the table.

“Alright. Consider this a standing order.” Chevalier pushed himself upright, addressing the group as a whole.

“Do what you can to keep the support of villains under wraps, but if it comes down to making the bureaucrats happy or stopping an escaped inmate, you do whatever it takes to stop the inmates. If the villains are offering aid, then we’ll damn well accept it.”

A round of nods met his declaration.

“If they can help us recapture the priority targets, then all the better. The PRT want those guys back behind bars more than they want a clean public image. West and the old guard are playing hard-ball, but they won’t kick up a fuss so long as we get results.”

To my surprise, Director Irons nodded in agreement. I had to wonder whether he was one of the few directors that genuinely supported the new Protectorate, or if he just wanted the cage refilled.

“To that end, I’m sending you hunting, Eidolon.” Chevalier locked eyes with me, and I held his gaze. This was why I was here. They still needed me.

“Of course. I’d be happy to find Glaistig Uaine.”

“No. Not Glaistig.”

His refusal caught me short. Wasn’t she the most dangerous of the escapees? I, and I alone, would be able to face her in a direct confrontation.

Chevalier inclined his head towards Mr. Keene. “As already mentioned, the rest of the world is mostly invested in someone stopping String Theory before she gets another one of those giant cannons up and running. We get her, and we get hard proof that our new strategy is working. The PRT can parade her around, keep the international teams off our backs while we deal with the rest of the inmates.”

Damn it. This was a waste of my abilities. The Protectorate had dozens of people capable of tracking her down. I should be out there taking down the biggest threat of the group, not sneaking around trying to stop a deranged Tinker.

But I’d already agreed to play ball. If my frosty reception at Houston had been any indication, I probably didn’t have many fans in this room. Arguing the point wouldn’t get me anywhere.

I bit my tongue, and said nothing. Chevalier took my silence as acquiescence.

“What, no speech before we head off to save the day?” Evidently Satyrical was not a fan of silences.

A hiss of breath escaped Chevalier’s helm, as he hefted his cannonblade and planted the tip against the floor, resting both hands on the pommel. “We’re up against the clock here, so I’ll make it a short one.”

He looked over the assembled heroes, speaking to each of them in turn. “Right now, we’re all that stands between civilization and some of most reprehensible capes on the planet. This is one hell of a trial by fire for our new Protectorate, and the world will be watching.”

His fingers wound tighter against the handle of his sword. “It’s a daunting task, but also an opportunity. To show everyone that the Protectorate hasn’t been crippled by recent events. That we’ve made the correct choices. That we’re the right men and women for the job.”

Chevalier inclined his head towards the rear of the room. For a moment, I thought he was acknowledging me, glad that I was contributing to the effort despite everything that had happened.

“Armbands are in the back. Same rules as usual.”

Wishful thinking, I suppose.

The others began filing out of the room and I followed, grabbing an armband in passing. Thin lines of text requested my name.

“Eidolon.”

Time to remind everyone of what that title meant.

Chapter Text

“No… that won’t work either… come on, give me something useful…”

I continued to mutter under my breath as powers came and went in the blink of an eye, one discarded each time. The second I'd decided to keep, and the third was a Blaster power that I certainly was not using in its intended fashion, as it held me aloft above some Canadian woodland a short distance away from Vanderhoof. A constant stream of air fired out of both of my palms, silently decimating the snow in messy circles beneath me. The flight it provided wasn’t exactly elegant, but I was airborne and that was enough for the time being. 

“No… damn it, there must be something…”

In other circumstances, the view would have been breath-taking. The mountains in the distance bore snow-capped peaks, but the forest beneath me had already started to thaw, ice melting away in the summer air. The liquid drained downhill, towards a small lake. The lifecycle of water, encapsulated in a single moment. 

A handful of woodland animals had ventured out of their homes, lapping at the newfound stream, and paying no attention to the man in the sky. I could have been part of the scenery for all they cared. 

“…It’ll do.”

Sighing, I tilted my head upwards and waited impatiently as my powers grew. My agent hadn’t bothered to give me something actually useful that could track down String Theory. I knew there couldn’t be many more precognitive abilities left in the tank, but I’d have been ecstatic to receive one of those. 

Instead, a faint throbbing pulse took up root at the base of my skull. A danger sense, one that grew in intensity the closer I was to something that posed a danger to me. As powers went, it was awful. By the time you actually found out who wanted to hurt you, you’d be close enough for them to do the deed. You’d spend your days in constant paranoia, afraid of every little mental pulse.

It would have to suffice. Out here in the Canadian wilderness, I imagined the only things that would be willing to inflict harm on me would be the more egotistical escapees, the ones that prized reputation above sense. String Theory certainly fit that bill. All I had to do was find the biggest pulse, throw the power out before it split my head in two, and arrest whoever was nearby. It wasn’t clean or sophisticated, but it would work. 

A maxim I was forced to repeat more and more often.

Silently, I ascended further into the air, soaring along in search of something that wanted to beat me up. 

In an ideal world, my flight would have been a quiet affair, allowing time for me to come up with a battle plan in peace. Unfortunately, the hunk of metal on my left arm continually blared out updates on the other teams in a digital monotone. I understood the importance of regular check-ins, especially with so many dangerous capes out there, but that didn’t make the constant stream of “Campanile at NF-12. All clear here," any less tedious.

Occasionally, a hero would report in that they’d encountered one of the runaways, prompting a flurry of responses. The first few times, I’d altered course to help the hero in need, but the new Protectorate always reached them first. No fatalities, thankfully. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I heard others sacrificing themselves while I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, but it probably wouldn’t be pretty. 

The forest thinned out as I minutely adjusted my course, allowing the dull thrum to drown out those thoughts. Did my head ache more if I banked left or right? Had it been worse flying over that abandoned shack, or was that just my imagination? 

I was almost ready to ditch the danger sense and try my luck with another power when the dull ache exploded into a full-blown migraine.

“Finally.”

A flock of startled birds took flight as something speared out of the treeline; leaves ripped free of their branches in an almost perfect circle around the object as it barrelled towards me. 

With a casual flick of my wrist, the air currents I’d been using to remain buoyant were directed towards the projectile, shoving it forcefully away.

I did end up tilting somewhat ungainly to the side with only one hand providing lift, but a moment’s lack of grace could be forgiven under the circumstances.

The sound of yet more projectiles whipping through the wind brought me back to my senses. Three went wide, one over each shoulder and the third somewhere off to the open sky on my left, but the fourth was on a collision course with my stomach. 

Another casual flick, and the continuous stream of air was aimed directly towards the projectile, halting its advance. It struggled and strained in mid-air, but failed to make any headway.

At first glance, it looked and acted like a javelin, a narrow spear with an extremely sharp point followed by a thin black haft. 

Except the haft didn’t quite end where I thought it would. Instead, an almost imperceptible straight line trailed out of the spear’s back, connecting it to something hidden within the trees. Not a projectile after all.

A useful weapon for an ambush. Exceptionally poor choice of target. 

Gently, I lowered myself to the ground, snow crunching underfoot as I brought my other hand up to deflect a fresh barrage of spears. The airflow doubled in intensity, actively forcing the thin spears to retract as they wobbled and wavered.

As if a switch had been flipped, the needle-thin spears shot backwards. A faint curse crept through the air, followed by a rather eerie whistling noise and a metallic scraping sound in the fresh snow.

Rolling my eyes, I launched myself forward into the sky. Always with the running away.

My costume swept around in a flourish as I landed on the other side of the trees, directly in the path of the fleeing inmate. They weren’t much to look at, not that I could really throw stones in that department. Bleached blonde hair that had faded at the roots, thin enough to look malnourished, wearing a prisoner’s uniform with the sleeves torn off. She looked to be regretting that last decision now. 

The dull thud of metal digging into earth echoed around us as she skidded to a halt, eyes focused on my palms. Good instincts. I’d cut off the gusts, but hadn’t discarded the ability. 

“Shit. They really send you to arrest me? Wasn’t expecting the VIP treatment.” Her words came out as a hiss, revealing a maw full of sharpened metallic spikes in place of teeth. 

Making a show of dusting myself off, I thought back to the giant monitor in Houston, showing the names and faces of every escapee. While I could no longer memorise new information perfectly, things I’d picked up while that power was active seemed to be staying fresh in my mind, at least for the time being. Snow fell from my shoulders as the relevant information filtered back in. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nailbiter.” If she noticed the slight pause before her name came back to me then she didn’t comment.

Her eyes darted around, looking for a way out. “Couldn’t make out the costume through the trees. Don’t suppose you’d look the other way just this once?”

I levelled a glare at her through the helm. She shrugged. “You’ve got bigger pricks to fry. Wasting time dealing with me won’t help anyone.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long at all.”

She snarled, her fingers thinning and lengthening into the same spears from earlier, but I was already in motion. One airburst, a second, and I was behind her. Nailbiter whirled on the spot, crouching low as she opened the twisted mess that was her mouth.

Two dozen spears fired out from her gums, and for half a second, I could see the glee in her eyes at the thought of impaling me across the hillside. 

The pained howling that followed was considerably less gleeful. I cocked a stone eyebrow as she desperately tried to pull her teeth back, but many of them had become lodged in my body, buried deep in chunks of rock from the Breaker form.

Some powers were worth holding on to. 

“Now that that’s out of the way, I have some questions.”

“’Uck ooo!”

Hero would have responded with something witty, like ‘don’t talk with your mouth full’. Legend might have given them a little speech about the virtues of mankind and how they could change their villainous ways. Alexandria probably would have retorted with a complete psychological assassination, breaking them down until they surrendered.

Unfortunately for Nailbiter, she was dealing with me instead. 

Ever so slowly, I folded my stone arms and looked on impassively as she tried to rip her teeth out of my torso. She was refusing to wince despite the obvious discomfort. Must have been a prison thing. Don’t show weakness and all that. 

“Where’s String Theory?” Nailbiter glared at me up at me, responding with distorted swears. Withholding a sigh, I yanked her remaining teeth out of my chest. “Talk.”

“No fucking clue,” she replied, massaging her jaw. 

“I can tell when you’re lying.” A lie of my own, but one that worked surprisingly often.

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to say? Dunno how we got out of the cage but it scattered us everywhere.” Air hissed past her teeth as she huffed out a laugh. “First person I’ve seen since is you.”

I shook my head. “I’ve read your file. You aren’t one of the stupid ones,” attempt to ambush me notwithstanding, “and String Theory could easily wipe you out with a stray shot. So, I’ll ask again. Where is she?”

A few muttered curses drifted my way, but after a second look at the rock armour I had yet to drop, she acquiesced.

“Still dunno,”- I raised my palm,- “but she’s probably further out than you think,” she hurriedly tacked on. “Rumour is she grabbed a bunch of Lab Rat’s stuff last night, before the breakout.”

“Why?”

Nailbiter’s glare intensified. “No fucking idea. Maybe to auction it back to him, she’s done that before. Maybe she knew what was about to happen. All I know is she definitely had some of his potions on hand, and if she’s half as clever as she pretends to be, she’ll have used them already.”

Seething, I bit back a curse. Sloppy, too sloppy, assuming that she would have been on foot. These were the kind of mistakes that got people hurt, and after all these years I was still falling prey to them. Stupid of me.

I was so lost in thought that I barely noticed Nailbiter glancing at the forest, before her legs elongated into points and propelled her towards the treeline.

She went careening straight into the trunk of the nearest spruce as I idly fired another air blast, watching as she slid down the bark and collapsed into the snow with a soft thump. Not important right now. There were greater concerns.

Muscle memory guided my fingers as I pressed the armband’s buttons, but my mind was elsewhere. String Theory could be anywhere by now, easily past the cordons and defensive line if she’d stolen something that granted enhanced movement. How long had it been since I’d heard the news of the breakout? Two hours, maybe more? How much time would she need to get a new weapon off the ground? 

The armband beeped at me, ready for the message. I took a moment to keep the frustration out of my tone.

“Eidolon here. I’ve apprehended Nailbiter. Send a recovery team to…” Which part of the search grid was I in again? They all blended together before too long. 

“To my location.” That would do. 

Hoisting Nailbiter out of the snow-bank, I brushed the sleet off a flat rock, and laid her down atop it. Less chance of her catching a cold that way. Not that she’d ever thank me for it.

A digital voice confirmed that a team was on the way, and a quick check showed that she was breathing fine despite the sudden loss of consciousness.

Now came the hard part. Another admittance that I wasn’t as fast as I should be, that others were having to pick up the slack more and more often as I fell short of what they needed. Of what humanity needed.

I took a deep breath, and called for help. 

“Door to String Theory.”

The portal opened and I stepped through, a trail of disappointment lingering behind me. 

Chapter Text

The July heat made its presence felt immediately as I walked out of the portal, the shade from the trees suddenly absent. Doormaker’s hole in space closed without a sound as I surveyed the area, leery of falling into any traps that String Theory might have left behind.

A small village stood before me, bordered by hills to the north and a river to the east. One lone road ran straight through the centre, passing alongside me and off into the distance. It reminded me of trading outposts from the Old West, upgraded with twenty first century materials. If I never saw another picture of those again, it’d be too soon. They were all over the place in Houston.

Too small to warrant any PRT presence. Presumably too small to even have a local cape. Maybe a few officers would swing by from time to time, but from up here the village looked rather peaceful. A couple of fishermen were out on the riverbanks, a young woman was pushing a stroller along the sidewalk, and some cyclists were riding down the hill. One of them looked back and his mouth fell open in shock at the sight of me. 

Nothing immediately stood out as the destination of our runaway Tinker. A cloaking field? Camouflage emitter? Perhaps she’d taken the idea of going to ground literally, and I should be burrowing to find her. The line between genius and madness was blurred at the best of times, and Tinkers straddled that line more than most. 

My own powers went into the void as the familiar feeling welled up inside, giving a cursory glance over my shoulder just in case. 

“Ah.”

I was already moving before the thought had even coalesced. The road running through the village continued behind me, curving slightly before sloping up a single grassy hill.

At the top of which sat an observatory.

An observatory with a gigantic telescope looking up at the stars. 

Silent thanks were uttered to the Lord as I took to the sky. The first power flickered to life, a movement power focusing on parabolic arcs. It would burn out almost immediately without charging it, but I only needed one jump. Good enough. 

Red and blue lights flashed beneath me; a single police car parked outside the observatory’s double doors. The car doors opened as I plummeted like a stone, cape billowing as I landed in front of two bewildered officers. Their muttering wasn’t as quiet as they thought. 

“Shit, is that really him?”

“Typical. We only came out here for a noise complaint.”

Pointing back down the hill, I issued orders. “Both of you, get out of here. Evacuate the town.”

“Holy…it is him!” The younger of two officers didn’t move, his hero worship outweighing any sense of self-preservation. His partner was already back inside the car.

“Rookie, it’s him. And if Eidolon’s telling us to run, we run. Now get in.” Thankfully the older officer had a decent head on his shoulders. Good, I’d wasted too long waiting already.

A sign on the door showed a frowning scientist holding their hand up, palm facing out. A little speech bubble drawn next to him noted that the observatory wasn’t open to the public on Mondays. A stroke of luck. Less chance of civilians being caught the crossfire. 

Something had snapped the lock on the observatory’s door, and I slipped inside. An engine revved as the police pulled away. They could get the word out in time. The village didn’t seem particularly large, it wouldn’t take long for them to reach everyone. Even if they fell short, I should be able to protect it. 

But should wasn’t a guarantee.

Electricity crackled around me as I entered a wide lobby. Sections of wall had been cut off, leaving behind exposed wiring and rattling pipes. Sparks flew from some of those cables, where great clumps had simply been ripped out, resulting in flickering lightbulbs and dead computers. Some metal detectors stood to my left, guarding the exit of the gift shop. They’d gone dark along with the rest of the electronics. 

A cross between a museum and a gallery was on my right, curving to follow the observatory’s circular shape. From here, it looked to be one of the interactive museums that focused on letting kids press buttons to simulate various space-based phenomenon. Models of the solar system, old rockets that once explored the stars, displays showing a theoretical moon base that had almost been a reality, and the wide variety of complex tools that made these dreams possible. 

The glass on each exhibit had already been smashed and their contents stolen. Frustrating. She’d gotten her hands on some equipment. 

Satisfied that there weren’t any traps lurking in the gallery, I headed further down into the lobby, towards a short hallway at the back. Leaflets and adverts scattered the tiled floor here, thrown away as a madwoman tried to get at whatever precious metal was behind them. One caught in the hem of my cape, a cheering kid looking up at the stars.

I picked up the pace. 

The constant thrum of power tools grew in volume with every step, rebounding through the empty halls as a dull echo. Three sets of doors branched off at the end of the corridor, a pair of double doors at the far end, plus a single door set into either wall. The pounding vibrations could be heard through the double doors, so I very deliberately opened one of the others first. As much as I wanted to take the fight directly to her, it would be folly not to check for any nasty surprises in her lair. 

It led into a small conference room that had given most of its space to several wooden benches, while a number of glass exhibits formed a square around the edge. The kind of room used for lecturing bored schoolchildren about the wonders of the universe, where teachers would hope that the tools and gadgets on display would be enough to spark a modicum of interest from their pupils. Much like the other exhibits, the ones in here had been broken wide open. 

Gently, I closed the first door and crossed the corridor to the second. This one had an electronic lock near the top, but the light was off. Tearing all the wires out of the walls couldn’t have been good for the security system. 

Pushing the door ajar, I found myself behind the counter of the observatory’s gift shop. The cash registers had all been forced open, their drawers devoid of any remaining money. Dollar coins did have small amounts of nickel and brass in them, I remembered that much. An easy source of uncommon metals. 

The rest of the shop wasn’t much better. Boxed kits of DIY science experiments and microscopes for all ages had been ripped into with varying degrees of success. Cut-outs promoting costumes of ‘scientifically notable’ heroes had been thrown face down on the floor, alongside some toy halberds. Must be old stock. 

Something crunched under my hand as I examined the countertop, little rotors and stock parts from some overpriced remote-control drones that promised fun for all the family. Twenty or thirty of those boxes had been opened, with matching quadcopter instruction manuals scattered across the floor. 

Assured that nothing was going to stab me in the back, I ducked out into the hallway once again. Bringing my wrist up to eye level, I noticed that my armband’s screen had blanked out. Too far away from the active area of operations for the map, but communications should still work. 

“Eidolon to all teams. I’ve located String Theory.”

All that was left was to take a deep breath, cast a cursory look over the three powers I had at my disposal, and step over the threshold. 

Immediately, something sharp came to rest against my neck as the sound of construction momentarily ground to a halt. String Theory had set herself up in the centre of the observatory, in a large circular room with a domed ceiling. Half-dismantled computers and scientific equipment lined the walls, transforming the space from something that wouldn’t have looked out of place at NASA into a modern-day Frankenstein’s laboratory. A handful of people were kneeling on the far side of the room opposite me, fear writ large across their faces and hands held behind their heads. 

Well, that answered the question of where the employees had gone. 

The room’s centrepiece had been a single large telescope, easily fifty foot long, passing through a small slit in the roof. String Theory had wasted no time in turning it into something else, hooking up stolen wires and cobbled together chunks of metal near the base of the gigantic tube. The changes wound their way up the telescope, gradually lessening until the very top where the least noticeable modifications had been made. Keeping her weapon a secret from the world until the last moment. 

Little drones flitted around it like bees around their queen, their flight erratic as they tried to lift the additional weight that had been kludged onto their frames. All six that I could see had pincer-like claws on their undersides, wielding drills or makeshift soldering irons. 

I risked a glance to my right, and mentally adjusted that tally. They might also be wielding a hunk of metal that had been sharpened into something resembling a blade. 

Fingers snapped and the drones returned to work, save for the one attempting to hold me hostage. The woman of the hour sauntered around the side of the telescope’s mounting, wearing an ill-fitting lab coat over the top of her prisoner’s uniform, her dark hair tied back in a simple braid. A pair of thick glasses that seemed too large for her face reflected the light from a laptop clutched in her hands. She kept tapping away furiously at its keyboard, ignoring how her stolen coat caught on the edge of the modified telescope. Without breaking eye contact with the machine, she addressed me. 

“I know I didn’t leave many tracks, but here you are anyway, just in time for the big show. That’s almost impressive.”

Civilians on the verge of panic. A megalomaniacal supervillain, monologuing while holding the world hostage. That balance on the edge of the knife, whether today would be a day to savour or a day to regret. I couldn’t help it. Underneath the mask, I smiled. 

These were the moments worth living for. 

“For not being quite as much of a disappointment as you could have been, I’ll even let you pick the first target. A restaurant where you got food poisoning? An ex’s house? Hell, an ex’s city? ” String Theory loved the sound of her voice so much that she didn’t bother turning as her first drone crashed to the ground, blade still clutched in its claw. 

“How about a shot towards that replacement of yours? It must sting, all those years of service and they replace you for a younger model.” One of the scientists muffled a yelp as half a drone landed next to her, severed down the middle. 

“Those are small fry though. Go big or fuck off, that’s the way. Let’s see…do you prefer the East Coast or the West?” The walls were seared with twin scorch marks, fragments of drone falling from each. 

“Could always close your eyes and throw a dart at a map. Maybe it’ll land on Cardiff again. Their reaction last go around was priceless.” A welding torch sparked out as the drone keeping it airborne crashed to the floor. 

“Or there’s always the coup de grace. Nail that ugly hunk of rock sitting in orbit.” String Theory didn’t flinch as the final pair of drones shattered over her head. Finally, she deigned to look away from her laptop, with an insufferably smug grin plastered on her face. “Name the target Eidi. There’s a good boy.”

A tendril of plasma erupted from my spine, lashing out at her hands. String Theory dropped the laptop with a curse, scowling as my new limbs seared straight through the screen. 

Her eyes narrowed, glaring out from behind her glasses. “Rude.”

“Necessary.” I had no time for games, as four superheated tendrils writhed from my back. “Are the hostages unharmed?”

A manic gleam entered those eyes, and String Theory’s smug grin split wide open. “Whole world’s my hostage, Eidi.”

The grin ratcheted up another notch. “So try asking me that again in thirteen seconds.”

I spun as she cackled, hurling myself towards the improvised weapon. Dead man’s switch, of course the lunatic would have built one of those into the machine. The laptop would have been meant as a distraction, its destruction activating the backup trigger. 

All four tendrils were roughly shoved into the telescope’s base, the mad scientist laughing as the weapon began to shudder. There was no way of knowing which part of the mechanical abomination was the trigger, so I settled for carving away the bottom and forcing it up, ideally disconnecting it from anything vital in the process. 

Pieces rained down around us as they shook themselves loose of the central structure. Shrapnel came away directly above me, and time slowed as I watched jagged metal shards careen towards my face. 

Time continued to slow until the threat of impalement was almost non-existent, and String Theory’s laugh had devolved into an unintelligibly deep wheeze. Power number three reactivated, and time dilated. For once, my agent hadn’t screwed me at every turn. 

I stepped to the side, steadied my footing and then forced the tendrils back into the telescope, listening as the sound of melting metal and screeching gears came across just as distorted as her laugh. 

The steady hiss of metal sliding into plasma snapped back to normal, and the world resumed its previously scheduled pace. String Theory had stopped cackling, her grin downturned. 

“Do you have to be such an insufferable Luddite?” she huffed, adopting a haughty voice. 

“Enough talking.” The tendrils extended as I grabbed String Theory, stopping the telescope from falling over. One hand locked her arm behind her, and the other snaked underneath my costume’s armour, flipping open a fake abdominal muscle to withdraw some plastic cuffs. 

I’d asked for a utility belt, but apparently that would have ruined Eidolon’s aesthetic. Compromises were made. 

She didn’t resist as I cinched them tight, her head lolling back to rest on my shoulder. That damnable grin was back in force. 

“So close, Eidi. I was almost halfway to being impressed, but then your natural plebeian instincts kicked in.”

“You have the right to remain silent. Kindly exercise it.”

“Don't want to spoil the big surprise? I understand.”

I opened my mouth to respond when the tendrils felt the first vibrations.

String Theory winked at me. “Didn't have time to get a fusion reactor online. Be a real shame if someone shoved a truckload of plasma into my baby instead.”

Her cannon began to shudder once more as I turned. Electric blue lights dashed up the side of the telescope, forming a ring around the top that started pulsing. 

The tendrils retracted but the damage had already been done. Time began to slow again, but I may as well have been trying to dam a flood with a sieve. 

Sparks flew, the air distorted around the end of the telescope, a shimmer of heat- 

Then the weapon shattered, its only shot arcing up into the sky. 

And I didn’t know how to stop it. 

Chapter Text

There was no thunderous crash. No explosive gunshot, sonic boom, or deafening screech. That was the strange part. All those years of saving the day and you grow numb to the noise. It becomes routine, expected, something that should be there when a deranged supervillain activates their doomsday weapon. 

Then it vanishes, and the absence is all the more notable. 

The captured scientists were like statues, mouths frozen open and prepared to scream, but no sound could be heard. String Theory was still smirking even with her hands bound behind her back. 

My tendrils lashed out as if they could feel the unease, the fear of what might happen. Another wasted moment as I directed them towards the telescope, suspended mid-shatter. Two intercepted chunks of metal that might have caught the civilians while the others shoved the remaining structure sideways, towards the door I’d entered from. It’d crash there eventually. 

Jagged circles were torn out of the clouds as dark blue lightning arced through the sky, slow enough that I could make out the individual forks lancing off from the main body. A thousand possibilities of where it could land ran through my mind, each more devastating than the last. 

I needed information. A way to stop the shot from impacting, mitigate the damage somehow. My fingers pressed down the armband’s buttons and nothing happened. I shook my wrist expecting to hear the tell-tale rattle of damaged electronics. Had the thing been broken during the fight? 

Realisation set in and I exhaled in annoyance. Of course it wasn’t working properly. Dragon’s tech was good, but as far as I knew, it had never been tested inside a temporal distortion. The only thing giving me a chance to call for assistance was the same thing messing with communications.

Then the moment I dropped the time dilation power, it’d be too late to warn anyone regardless. 

I took another deep breath and examined what was left of the room. Drone remains littered the floor, now joined by the few pieces of telescope that had actually landed. Considerably more pieces were still in mid-air, moving so slowly as to appear motionless. What was left of the telescope itself was beginning to tumble away from me at a glacial pace. The civilians were still unharmed, huddled in the corner behind me. I doubted they’d ever been in any real danger. String Theory had only kept them on hand to prevent me from levelling the entire building. 

Her smug, superior grin was etched in place, so pleased with how she’d pulled the wool over my eyes. Too bad. She made this mess, she could help clean it up. 

I grasped String Theory’s shoulder, and let the time power well up inside me. Mentally, I shoved outwards, feeling the temporal effect extend to her. She blinked twice, and started cackling again. 

I bit down on a sigh, watching as the fragments of metal inched forwards. A limitation of the ability. I could keep the power solely within myself, moving while the rest of the world crawled to a halt. Or I could share it with others, diluting the effect and speeding everything else up. String better have a solution to all this, or I’d shortened my window for nothing. 

“Your weapon. How do I stop it?”

She seemed more interested in gazing around as the world crept through molasses. “Oooh, now we’re getting somewhere. Should have broken out the fun stuff from the start, Eidi.”

“The weapon-”

“Yes yes, the F-Driver. Well, it was going to be an F-Driver, except someone with no appreciation of the arts interrupted me before it was finished. Closer to a B or C-Driver, really. Not a fan of repeating one of my old classics, but you uncultured cretins didn’t leave me many options.” Her hands were still cuffed, so she whipped her head towards the side and used her swinging braid to point. “What’s the rate of dilation on this anyway?”

“That’s not important-”

“Because you don’t know. Flunk out of seventh grade math, did you?”

“Enough." The plasma tendrils squirmed as I spoke, and String Theory finally looked me in the eye. “The Driver. How do I stop it?”

String Theory laced her words with more condescension than usual. “You already broke it, genius. It’s stopped.”

I didn’t curse. Didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I very deliberately chose my next words. “The bolt that your cannon already fired. How do I prevent it from impacting?”

Her lips quirked, the superior smile turning a notch towards menacing. “You can’t.”

Frustrating, but not unexpected. “How much damage can that one shot manage?”

String Theory tilted her head to the side, numbers running through her mind. “Well, you messed with the timer, forced it to use an unfamiliar power supply, made a complete mess of the trigger, so…a mile?” I looked back at her in shock. “Give or take. Maybe closer to two.”

Two miles of destruction, spoken as if she was discussing the weather. How many people would be in those miles? How many lives had this egotist cost us? 

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to ask another question. “How long until it lands?”

String rolled her eyes. “For us? However long it takes for this little party trick of yours to run out of juice. For them” -she swung her braid towards the hostages- “maybe five seconds.”

Not enough time. Never enough time. 

“And the target?” I had to know. Guessing the hundreds of possible tragedies she might have unleashed was worse than being told the one correct calamity. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, it’s degrading for us both.”

Repeat herself? Why would she… 

My eyes widened at the implication. “You aimed it here? ”

“I aimed for DC. You, disgrace to the gene pool that you are, screwed with my targeting system by making it fire prematurely.” Her eyes flicked between the plasma tendrils, still extended from my back, before locking mine once more. “Then for reasons that I could not fathom even if I had a millennium to study them, you aimed my B-Driver straight up.”

String Theory’s smirk faded. “What goes up must come down.”

There wasn’t a hint of mirth on her face. In my gut, I could feel that this wasn’t another trick. She was being genuine. 

Which meant that I’d effectively signed the death warrants of everyone in this room. 

“These... things can’t end like this.” For a moment, I wasn’t certain if I was talking to her or myself. 

“It wouldn’t have if you didn’t ruin everything,” String Theory added. Her barb didn’t carry as much weight as she’d like. I’d already come to the same conclusion myself. 

When I didn’t respond, she took it as a cue to continue. “A little bit more time. That’s all I needed. My baby would have gone off randomly, and you would all be too busy dealing with that and those inbred morons from the cage to find me.”

“This was a distraction?” I asked incredulously.

The fire left her eyes as she answered. “It was supposed to be. Whip up an invisibility field to hide the shots, little hick town like this wouldn’t have investigated what was happening here for a while, would have bought me a few days to find somewhere to lay low.”

I didn’t let her know that she’d already been discovered before I arrived. Invisibility field or not, she’d gotten so caught up in the rush of lunacy that she hadn’t dampened the noise of her construction. A trick I’d keep in my back pocket, if she ever got loose again. 

“You can’t be happy with this as your legacy?” Asking her directly wasn’t getting anywhere, so I played up to her notorious ego instead. 

She rolled her eyes, as if she was addressing a particularly stupid child. “It wouldn’t have been a legacy if someone didn’t break everything.” Gesturing both her bound hands up at the collapsing telescope, she added, “My baby wasn’t supposed to go off for another hour. It’s why it fell apart. Had to speed up the firing sequence when you arrived.”

“Irrelevant. The only fact that they’ll remember is the infamous String Theory being taken out by her own weapon,” I challenged, hoping the fear of losing her reputation might force her to reveal a solution. 

She shrugged. “The world will mourn the loss of such a valuable intellect, but I’ll get the satisfaction of bringing down one of the Protectorate’s own founders. Only two of you left these days, you’re getting quite rare.”

She turned away, face tilting up towards the sky in an almost wistful expression. “It’s not quite the moon, but it will do.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

For a moment, something melancholy flickered in her eyes. It was gone almost as quickly, leaving me doubting if it had ever been there to begin with. 

“I guess I am.”

I turned my back on her. She wouldn’t help, no surprise there. It had been a long shot anyway. 

A quick glance showed that her bolt had reached its apex, reversing direction to shoot back down towards us. I didn’t really understand how that worked, but I’d also been in the game long enough to never question the ridiculous stunts determined Tinkers could manage. 

Dooring out wasn’t an option, not without abandoning half a dozen innocent men and women to their deaths. I saved people. Always had, always will. Maybe I’d turned a blind eye when I should have paid more attention, but I wouldn’t willingly abandon someone to their fate. Especially when they wouldn’t even be in this position if I’d been more thorough with the blasted weapon. 

Focus. I can still act. All’s not lost yet.

Time dilation would have to stay. Take that away and my options dwindled to zero. The plasma tendrils retracted instead, vanishing from sight as I discarded one ability. The dwindling leaping power went with it. Two spaces, freed up for a miracle. 

The blue lightning was slowly gaining ground, the forks splitting faster and faster. Two replacements rose to the fore, both Mover powers. Neither of them would let me evacuate everyone in the room. They went into the void immediately. 

Another pair of powers, another pair of discards. I looked up at the encroaching strike as it parted clouds, and whispered to my agent, “I’m not leaving. Pick something better.”

String Theory glanced my way, but offered no comment.

Two more. The former granted me an armoured body, the latter a personal forcefield. 

“Right direction, but not good enough. Try again.”

The faint sound of crackling electricity became distinct once more. I was losing my grip on the time dilation, its effect weakening as it started to slip through my fingers. 

I almost threw away both new powers on reflex, only to stop as I processed what they could actually do. The first wasn’t particularly useful, a regenerative ability that affected myself and organic matter. That only worked if there was something left of me to regenerate from. 

The second wasn’t much better. Some form of protective shell that might cover all of us, a harder outer shell with softer internals. Almost egg-like in how it felt. 

Twenty years ago, I would have received the perfect solution to this problem in one power, instead of kludging two together and hoping they might do the trick. 

Now came the hard part. 

I closed my eyes and waited. Not focusing on the bolt, or the civilians, or the oddly subdued supervillain. Just letting that familiar feeling well up inside, an ability reaching its full potential. Anything less and we’d all be vaporised in an instant. 

Clangs of metal starting to ring out as the pieces of falling debris closest to the ground finally made contact. 

And I waited. 

Screams slowly became audible, separated from the din. 

“Come on. Just a little more.”

The air stirred, and I could almost taste the static on my tongue. My eyes opened, and I grabbed String Theory, yanking her across the room. She seemed too dumbfounded to protest. 

In one smooth motion, I pushed her down on top of the civilians as they returned to normal speed. Crouching down next to the group, I spread my arms, trying to encompass them all. 

Static tingled all over me. I didn’t dare look back. 

A silent prayer escaped my lips. Lord I hoped this worked. 

The time power fell away as I released my grasp, and braced for impact. 

Chapter Text

“Are we dead?” a terrified voice called out in the dark.

“Would you be able to ask that if you were dead? Can’t believe you call yourself a scientist,” answered a familiar patronising tone.

Somebody groaned, and it took a moment to realise that someone was me. Things were digging into my side, and it was dark enough that I couldn’t tell whether my eyes were opened or closed.

I tried to push myself upright only for my arms to remain stubbornly motionless, held in place by a thick layer of something that squelched whenever I shifted. Thoughts of the Meinhardt girl briefly flashed through my mind, a little bubble of panic welling up at the thought of being trapped inside there again while a man wearing my face decimated my life’s work...

“Hey, jolly green dumbass, you still alive? Don’t particularly want to be stuck in here forever.” 

String Theory’s voice cut through the haze, and I pushed those other thoughts back into the recesses of my brain where they belonged. There were people nearby. It wouldn’t do for them to hear Eidolon lose his composure.

Quietly, I exhaled and then pulled the power inwards. A rather disgusting sucking noise followed, like pulling your boots free from a thick patch of mud, as we all tumbled out onto the earthen floor.

“Non-conductive gel layers with some kind of supercharged rubber for the outside. Hm. Neat trick.”

String Theory loved the sound of her own voice too much. My helmet slowly turned to the side as she continued to babble, and the last of our protective cocoon retracted as the ability slipped away.

“The gel doubled as a kinetic absorber, but how did you account for the heat? No wait, I see it. Regenerative tissues, that’s cheating…”

“Quiet.” 

Miraculously, String Theory shut up.

With aggravatingly slow motions, I pulled myself upright. String was a few feet away, hands still cuffed behind her. She’d rolled onto her side when the cocoon spat her out, and didn’t seem capable of turning over alone. The observatory employees had gathered themselves in a small circle, gazing outwards. None of them had eyes for me, which seemed a little bit strange. Normally civilians were all about hero worship and getting autographs after being helped, but perhaps this was better. There were more important things to do today than giving out signatures.

Then I turned around, and the weight of what happened here finally crashed over me.

“Good God…” 

Barren. Stretching out as far as the eye could see, all the way to the horizon, was just brown barren dirt. There had been an observatory here, once. Now there was no sign that it had ever existed. At the end of a battle there was always some memento of what had occurred, scars on the landscape or fallen to bury. But here, a patch of the world had just been peeled away and discarded. No rubble or remains, none of the things I’d witnessed dozens of times before during S-Class engagements, there was just nothing.

The little river that ran alongside the observatory had evaporated entirely, leaving behind an empty dirt trench. It wasn’t even wet. Flash-dried by a bolt from the blue.

Hills that used to surround the north end of the town had been flattened down into an almost perfectly straight line, now devoid of anything that had given the area a semblance of identity.

The town… 

My head snapped around as I hunted for any sign that it had survived. I knew what I’d find. I checked anyway.

Gusts of air blew past, stirring the dirt below.

Someone choked back a sob.

The part of me that had grown callous and cold over the years tried to face the situation logically. Two miles, gone in an instant. It could have been so much worse than a little village in the middle of nowhere. What if she’d shot at New York, or Houston, or Toronto? How many lives had been saved by my swift actions here? 

How many had been ruined? 

That little voice was drowned out by the cries behind me. Rationalisation could wait. Right now, these folks needed a hero. So I did what heroes do.

“I warned the police upon my arrival. Told them to evacuate the town. There is still a chance that the people who lived down there made it out in time…” I trailed off, looking at their tear-stained faces. They knew the odds of surviving that as well as I did.

The dam burst, and one by one, I offered them a shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t much. But there were some things even powers couldn’t fix.

When the helicopters and Dragoncraft finally arrived, they found me still standing in that crater, muttering empty words of comfort to those unlucky enough to survive.

The steady sound of aircraft rotors faded as heavy boots slapped against the earth, PRT officers fanning out around us to secure what little was left here. Medics swarmed past me, and I left the civilians in their hands. Better off with them than with me.

Rime, still dressed in her fur-lined costume despite the summer heat, was directing two capes in costumes I didn’t recognise towards String Theory. Together, the three of them pulled her to her feet, and bundled her towards the back of the largest Dragoncraft. A handful more stood around awkwardly, flitting between trying to help the civilians and staying out of the officers’ way. They’d clearly come in expecting a fight, and ended up with this instead.

She sneered as they dragged her through the crowd, her eyes drinking in the scene. Her escort had dragged her into the back of Dragon’s ship before she saw me, her sneer twisting into a savage smile. Metal panels began to slide into place, and before she vanished from view, String Theory mouthed two words to me.

“Nice try.” 

Engines sparked to life, lifting the largest of Dragon’s vehicles into the air. I watched them go until they were faint specks in the distance.

“They’ve rigged a cell for her in the Guild Headquarters. Keep her out of trouble until everyone’s certain the Birdcage is secure again.” A familiar starburst helmet crossed my vision, coming to stand alongside me.

“Hm.” 

Exalt tilted his head away from the crater. “Walk with me?” 

I wasn’t contributing much standing in the way of trained medics, so I followed. Exalt seemed to stop arbitrarily a short distance away from the crowd. Reading the air currents to see if we were out of earshot, if I wasn’t mistaken. A clever talent, honed by a man whose power left him very little in the way of everyday use.

“What the blazes happened here?” he hissed.

“String Theory’s cannon.” I glanced back at the crater. “She finished it faster than any of us could have predicted.” 

Exalt’s hiss became more strangled with his reply. “It was operational?”

I nodded. “Had I not arrived when I did, it would have fired off far more than a single shot.”

He ran a hand over his head. “How did it go down?” 

Exalt held his arm up as I began to recount the story, the armband’s microphone recording the details. More thorough paperwork would obviously need to be filed later, but this would do for an initial assessment of events.

By the time I’d finished, the last of the civilians had been loaded into the helicopters and flown away to safety. Exalt puffed out a sigh and crossed his arms, one hand reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Sounds like you had it rough.” I gave a slow nod in response. Rough was somewhat of an understatement. “We didn’t see anyone on the flight in, but I’ll give the order to search for those cops and any evacuees that might have survived.”

“Good.” 

“You’ve also got some new marching orders.” I perked up at that. Chevalier must finally be starting to see reason.

“Head back to Houston. Rest up. Now that String Theory’s immediate threat has passed, we can take things from here.” 

My thoughts ground to a halt as I processed what he’d said. Exalt kept talking, likely trying to deliver all the orders he’d been given before I could question them.

“Legally you’re no longer a member of the Protectorate, and while extenuating circumstances can be taken into consideration...” He left the statement hanging in the air, inviting a response.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust myself not to curse if I opened my mouth.

Exalt continued speaking quietly, and I was acutely aware of him watching my every move. “We’ve got a perfect circle two miles across where everything inside has been wiped out. By your own admission, yourself and a certifiably insane Tinker are the only ones who know exactly what happened here.” 

“The civilians can corroborate my story.” 

Exalt levelled a glare. “Including everything that happened inside that time bubble you mentioned?” 

Our discussion swiftly turned into a staring contest, and as always, Exalt blinked first. He tried to put forward a firm tone, but I could hear the fragility behind it. “Look, I’m just trying to lay out the facts as we know them. First you vanished from Houston without a word as soon as we heard about the breakout-” 

“Hardly uncommon.” 

“By itself, sure. You’ve got a history of charging after trouble. But then you show up at Zero, pretending that nothing had changed and you were still part of the team-” 

“I went there to help.”

"Then,” Exalt bulldozed over my explanation, “the next time anyone sees you is in the middle of a damn war zone, surviving something that should have, by rights, killed you.” 

I frowned, trying to figure out exactly what point Exalt was making. I’d always been an outlier, surviving things that should have killed other capes was fairly standard for me.

He sighed, and leaned in closer. “There are… certain people who think you might have staged the whole thing, to try and fix your rep after you know what.” 

I couldn’t stop my voice from turning frosty at the accusation. “Explain.” 

“It’s mostly rumours and hearsay, but it’s gaining traction in a few circles. They’re pointing at you leaving us behind in Houston as proof, claiming that if me or Dispatch or anyone you normally work with had been here sooner, we would have seen through your plans.”

No. That’s… no. I knew my credibility in the cape community was no longer at its peak, but to accuse me of such a thing… “That’s preposterous.”

Exalt didn’t respond for a long moment. “Maybe, yeah.”

“You can’t seriously believe that I planned to cause this?" I gestured at the ground around us, still charbroiled and devoid of anything but the dirt. A couple of officers looked our way at the noise, and I forced my voice back down into a whisper. “I’ve worked with you for ten years. Do you really think I’d attempt to pull something like that?”

“Would we be able to stop you if you did?” Exalt murmured back.

The air stirred as I fell quiet. Once again, my ex-second in command decided to fill the silence instead. “What could we do, if you were lying? It’s impossible to contain you, fighting you is a losing proposition that would shatter the public’s hope in us, so our only choice is to take you at your word because we don’t have an alternative.” 

He gestured out at the barren plain. “If you did try a Hail Mary to fix your reputation, what would we be able to do? That’s the argument folks are making. That despite everything, we’re still neutered when it comes to you. And as long as you’re a part of this operation, nobody will be able to focus without worrying that’ll you be behind them, attempting another war crime in the name of some shadowy conspiracy or your own damn ego.” Exalt’s voice strained to contain his words to a whisper. 

“Then why did Chevalier accept my assistance in the first place?” I growled back.

“Because no matter how deranged you are, you’ve never tried to blow up the moon.” Exalt glared as he spoke, “And we’re so dangerously low on manpower after all the revelations from Brockton that we had to let a wolf loose to hunt a bear.” 

Neither of us spoke as his speech lingered in the air. I could have reached for a power to point out holes in what he was saying. My agent was already settling a Thinker ability into place, one that focused on the connections between words.

And all that would do was prove him right.

In the end, I settled for a simple response. “I see.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re telling the truth. The information adds up, and Watchdog should verify your claims before too long. But right now, you’re a lightning rod for disaffected capes.” Exalt’s voice had returned to its usual practiced tone, the emotions hidden again.

Perhaps it was hearing this speech for the second time that made it sink in. I looked back at the other heroes, watching them move throughout the scene without a single one sparing me a glance. Some had sprinted off, searching for survivors. Another few stood with the officers, forming a defensive perimeter. Tinkers scanned what they could, taking soil samples along the way.

One of them looked towards us, a kid in red and gold armour. He looked away as soon as his visor landed on me, suddenly more interested in the dirt.

They had this in hand.

“Very well.”

Exalt’s shoulders sagged with relief at my concession.

Only then did I notice how the other heroes had arranged themselves. The ones that sprinted away had formed a patchy ring around the pair of us, while the capes examining the dirt had attempted to subtly reshape the landscape to provide some quick cover. Most were trying extremely hard not to look at me, fingers twitching next to their weapons, or angling for a good shot with their powers.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, they could spin the story, limit the damaging aspects, tell the public that I had been taken out by String Theory's blast. The average Joe hadn't questioned it when they'd told the world that the Simurgh had poisoned Alexandria's mind, why would they start asking questions now?

Yet despite everything, I could only respect their dedication. They knew they would lose. They were willing to try anyway, just in case I was the monster they thought me to be. No matter. I'd already come to a decision, and their impressive crossfire would be unnecessary.

With my mind made up, I stepped back, leaving the heroes behind. I could be the sacrifice again, if it kept them all functioning at their best. If it kept the Protectorate functioning at its best. The greater good came first, always.

I took two paces away before Exalt cleared his throat, halting me in my tracks.

“You’re still wearing the armband.”

Oh. So I was.

The clasp seemed harder to remove now than it ever had. Exalt held out his hand, and I gently lowered the band into his palm. His fingers seized it and tugged the device away, before he strode off towards the other heroes.

For the second time that day, I walked away from the organisation I’d helped build from the ground up.

Somehow, it hurt worse than before.

Chapter Text

“We’re going live now to Julia Andrews, our correspondent on the scene. Julia, have there been any changes?” 

The news anchor handed off to a video feed, showing the same appalling scenes they’d been parading around for the last three days. I rubbed my eyes, debating if it would be better or worse to watch them again. 

“Thanks, Simone. We can’t get much closer than this, they’ve cordoned off most of the area, but we’ve still seen a laundry list of heroes coming and going throughout the day. Any avid cape watchers out there can tick these off their bingo cards…”

I muted the television, silencing whatever dross they were about to start spewing. The major news networks had been filling the airwaves with round the clock coverage of the breakout ever since someone saw a known Birdcage prisoner standing in the middle of a city centre. String Theory’s light show hadn’t helped either.

The PRT had been putting out public relations fires the entire time, hosting press conferences with various directors and the handful of heroes who hadn’t been drafted into helping. More than a few requests for interviews with me had been sent to the Houston office, after word got out that I’d been involved in the calamity. Those had been firmly rebuked by the department, who stuck to the line that Eidolon’s assistance was a one-time thing, and that they had the situation under control while I ‘enjoyed’ my retirement.

With little in the way of tangible facts, most of the media coverage had devolved spectacularly quickly into speculation, with a healthy dose of paranoid fear-mongering. What would happen if X prisoner made their way into the White House? How many lives could be lost if prisoner Y attacked a town? Here’s a graph showing deaths that hadn’t happened, but might if the stars aligned and the pundits somehow predicted something correctly for a change. Watchdog had some of the best Thinkers in the nation; if they couldn’t figure out the motivations and destinations of all the escapees then some hack journalist in an ill-fitting suit certainly couldn’t. 

Images of a desolate crater rolled by yet again. There had been a couple of recorded incidents with other escapees since I fought String Theory, but they were smaller events. None of them quite appealed to the general public’s love of visceral destruction in the same way as flattened hillsides and barren landscapes.

It probably didn’t help that I’d spent much of those seventy-two hours watching my own version of the events, as the laptop balanced on the arm of the chair rewound my helmet camera’s footage yet again. 

As hobbies went, it wasn’t the healthiest. Reliving every fight, memorising each misstep until they became so ingrained that they would feature in my dreams… 

But what else was I going to spend my time on? Knitting? 

The video started up again, giving me ample time to argue myself in circles about failures both real and perceived. Should have moved through the observatory faster, but if String Theory had left any other surprises behind they would have caught me unawares. Should have waited for the reinforcements, but they wouldn’t have arrived in time and what could they do against her weapon once fired? Should have destroyed the weapon immediately, but that would have left the drones free to act against the hostages.

Speak of the devil, one of the hostages appeared on the muted television screen, another pre-recorded segment that the news insisted on trotting out every half hour like a show horse.

The sound came back with a click, and I regretted it immediately.

“And did you work here?” The reporter had shoved her microphone so far into the civilian’s face that they were practically eating it. All to ask the most pointless of questions.

The man wearing a lab coat and an ID badge from said observatory nodded morosely. “Yeah, yeah I did. Three, almost four years. Yeah, would have been four years next Tuesday.” 

I groaned and rubbed my eyes again. I’d barely slept for the last three days, and my reward for staying awake so long was listening to a two-bit journalist drill a traumatised man for pointless details.

Not keen to let her prey go, the reporter swooped back in with more inane questions. “And were you a local? Did you know the people who lived here?”

Typical vulture. Find out if the man had lost friends or loved ones, maybe make him cry on television, all to add a slightly more emotional twist to a wrung-out story.

My hand fumbled with the remote before he could answer, but the look in his eyes was telling enough. Thank you for rescuing me, Eidolon. Thank you for keeping a meagre handful of people alive instead saving everyone like you’re supposed to. Thank you for making me live with this guilt for the rest of my life, wondering why you saved me instead of so many others.

Another old habit of mine. Some people exercised; I beat myself up on a regular basis.

This time, I couldn’t even soothe the ache with the old mantras. There was no extra well of power, waiting just out of reach for me to tap into. Nothing to push me that little bit further when the chips were down. Echidna had proved that.

This was as good as I was ever going to be, and every day I’d wake up a touch less effective than the day before.

Maybe that was why I’d had difficulty sleeping. A misguided belief that if I kept a closer watch on my powers, never closing my eyes, then I’d be able to stop them from dwindling.

My stomach chose that moment to remind me that self-flagellation often worked up an appetite. Part of me wished I could mute that, too.

Heaving myself out of the armchair, I wandered through the tiny living room and back into the kitchen. Weird smells were coming from the fridge again, I should probably clean that out at some point. The freezer was predictably empty of everything bar ready meals. I flicked one box out, and found the expiration date had been some time in the middle of 2008. A few old take-out containers littered the counter tops, but those had been emptied of everything resembling food.

Eventually, I settled for cereal. Frooty Toots, part of a well-balanced breakfast. It hadn’t been all that long ago that I’d featured on the front of the box, one of Eidolon’s last marketing campaigns. It was aimed towards a much younger audience than myself, but something had possessed me to get it. Publicity stunts like that used to irritate me a little, but after a lifetime of seeing my cape persona on billboards, in newspapers, on television... maybe the thought of never seeing it there again had made me buy the sugary food.

In went the cereal. In went the milk. I took my culinary masterpiece over to the sink and ate a slow spoonful while watching the street outside through the window. A reflection in the glass showed the clock behind me. 3:00pm.

Scoop. Raise. Chew. Lower. Repeat.

Some kids were playing in the street, throwing a ball around and whooping whenever one of their friends failed to catch it.

Scoop.

The steady hum of the air conditioner permeated throughout the house.

Raise.

A dog started barking two doors down. Another howled back from the opposite end of the street.

Chew.

There were some birds in the sky. I didn’t know what breed. 

Lower.

This cereal absorbed the milk too quickly. Now it was all mushy. Maybe I should order a different brand next time? 

Repeat.

Why on earth was I still doing this? 

The spoon clattered against the side of the sink as I emptied out the bowl, watching the remnants swirl their way down the drain. Was this it? My glorious ending? Eating cereal over the sink, watching the world go by and concerning myself with nothing but inane mundanities? 

Three days must have been long enough for the Protectorate’s cooler heads to prevail. I could contact them, get them to… 

To do what, exactly? To beg that they give me my old job back? To politely forget everything my doppelganger revealed? 

I’d always helped, hadn’t I? No-one could have handled the String Theory debacle better. They still needed me. They wouldn’t admit it, but they still needed Eidolon.

I still needed Eidolon.

Heroism was all I’d known. Piece by piece, I’d sacrificed David’s life to let Eidolon do what the world needed him to do. Hobbies, and relationships, and love, all of it had been given up in the name of doing what was right. Sleepless nights spent at the office, trying to track down a serial killer before they struck again. Always being the first into a natural disaster and the last out, spending hours combing through the wreckage to find people trapped beneath. Never complaining, being the good soldier that they needed me to be.

It had been worth the sacrifices, every second of it. Because the people out there, they spent their days in a world that did its best to break them. In terms of raw strength and versatility, none of them could match me. Most didn’t even have powers of their own.

But they still woke up every day, and they went to work, or to their families, and they lived. Knowing at any moment, a parahuman warlord could take over their homes, or they could be an unfortunate casualty of a cape fight. They still went out and tried their best, because they knew when things seemed darkest, the man in green would be there.

That’s what Eidolon had been. A symbol, in the classical sense. Something that gave people hope, that let them forget about the troubles of a dying world and smile for a change.

I’d spoken with the others about the idea of legacy before, but I didn’t think they’d truly grasped the idea. It wasn’t about having statues made or crowds singing my praises.

It was something more intangible than that. A beautiful feeling, that things would work out in the end. Knowing there was someone out there holding back the worst of the world and making everything a little less bleak. So that even a kid, trapped in his own body, in a backwater town that thought him little more than a useless cripple, could find a reason to smile.

And now it was gone.

The public’s faith was wavering. They’d been watching me grow weaker for years. We’d hidden it as best we could, but they were starting to draw conclusions. String Theory had only accelerated the process.

Now I would never get the chance to fix that. Exalt had made the Protectorate's position there extremely clear. All those years of service, giving up everything I had and then giving up even more, until I gave up the only thing that still mattered. His words came to the fore, driving the other thoughts from my mind.

"You’re a lightning rod for disaffected capes.” 

He’d been right. That was the worst part. The Protectorate needed to be at their best, and that meant they needed me to stay out of the way. Publicly I was retired, and walking away again must have been the correct decision.

It had to be the correct choice. I couldn’t afford to be wrong at this juncture.

But despite all the arguments I’d made over the last three days, it still didn’t sit right with me. There was a crisis out there, a clear and present danger to millions of people, and here I was eating fruit-flavoured garbage and hoping that abandoning them had been the best choice.

There had to be some way to contribute. Maybe I could go out into the city, patrol the streets and free up resources that way.

That idea was entertained for all of three seconds before I snorted in derision. The notion of the world’s strongest hero skulking around in alleyways waiting to catch muggers was flat out laughable.

I sighed. Standing here wouldn’t accomplish anything. I needed a distraction, something to clear my head and stop the circular thoughts. Ideally before one of the neighbours caught me staring out the window and mistakenly took that as a sign to start a conversation. Small talk was not one of my specialities. Especially when I’d been ‘living’ next to them for the better part of twelve years, and still didn’t know their names.

Perhaps a phone call? That seemed to distract most people.

Ten minutes and far too much searching later led to me finally locating the old contacts book, which had been tucked away in the bottom of a shoebox for some reason.

Paper ruffled as I flipped through the pages. Well, page. Singular. A double side of A5 held all the contacts I’d ever written down, and the rest of the book was as empty as the day it had been gifted it to me.

One by one, my finger tracked down the list, crossing off names along the way. The paltry handful of people who were both trustworthy and provided enjoyable company had been whittled down over the years, lost in the never-ending struggle of defending civilization. Even more had been swallowed by the ravages of time. I drifted back to that first generation of capes, back in the eighties when we were on top of the world, and wondered just how many of us were still around.

A single name stood out from its counterparts, and I found the phone already in hand before common sense caught up. 

Of all people, I doubted he would want to talk to me. Keith had cut ties with us after the Echidna fiasco. We hadn’t tried to contact him since. Maybe if we’d told him what the inner circle was doing years ago, he wouldn’t have been so upset about being kept out of the loop.

Perhaps he was feeling as adrift as I was. Losing Rebecca, the breakout so soon after retiring, forced to watch as others did the work we should be doing...

Maybe time would have helped? A few weeks to process things, to clear his thoughts. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to mend that fence? 

The number was entered before I could talk myself out of it.

The dial tone sounded on the third ring.

I slid the phone into its cradle, and went back to the armchair. The helmet footage was still paused where it had been left, watching a lightning bolt shoot up into the sky. Mute figures danced on the television, gesturing at a graph nobody cared to read.

Once again, I looped the video back to the beginning. It was better than doing nothing. The background noise of calamity was soothing, in an odd way. It washed over the room, almost letting me forget the horrible truth that I’d spent three days trying to ignore.

A liability to Cauldron. Ostracised from the Protectorate. A hero in name only. Nobody to even talk to.

What was I supposed to do now? 

Chapter Text

Great metal beasts circled overhead, their wings solid and inflexible. Preprogramed subroutines guided their flight across the mountain pass, a little invention of his own, designed to cover this entire section of the wilderness without a single drop of wasted fuel. Ten ships decorated in a variety of colours, the future of parahuman warfare, brought out to face one hell of a crucible.

Like birds of prey, they bided their time, patiently waiting for a chance to swoop. Part of him, a shameful part that he was still learning how to temper, felt a swell of pride at the sight.

The Dragonflight, assembled in all its glory. They’d even rebuilt the Azazel in record time.

Engines roared as he continued onwards, hacking back the undergrowth with the tip of his spear. He didn’t bother looking up as the Cawthorne Mark Four and the Kulshedra sped away through the sky. Their positions would remain marked inside his helmet regardless of distance.

A hissing noise spooked a nearby hare, who turned and ran as vents opened across his suit. The stored heat dispersed as he surveyed the clearing. Grass hadn’t been trampled. Only heartbeats detected belonged to animals. Sonar bounced off too many trees to be of much use. Tracks had vanished three hundred feet back. 

Another hiss and the vents sealed. His eye cursor selected the first contact in the list, and placed the call.

“Dragon? I’m running blind out here.” 

Text immediately appeared in the bottom right of his display. Her speech was still impaired after the clusterfuck in Brockton. He’d made a few tentative steps towards fixing that, but every tiny change he made could hurt her. Make too many wrong changes, and she could end up beyond his ability to help altogether. As if he was trying to perform open heart surgery with one hand and defuse a bomb with the other.

The trepidation he felt only worsened knowing that Saint was still out there, especially after the bastard had hurt her in such a public way. He’d volunteered for the team being sent to track the Dragonslayers down, and been firmly rejected. Too close to the situation had been the cited reason.

Too likely to wring Saint’s neck had been the subtext. Even he’d picked up on that.

In an ideal world, he’d be out there and she’d be somewhere safe, away from this manhunt.

In the real world, he knew she was her own woman, and any attempt on his part to stop her from helping would either be politely dismissed or ignored outright. They were wired too similarly to just sit back and watch.

I see. Mind if I double check your helmet footage?

The file had already been sent before she’d finished asking for it.

“I think some wide area surveillance might be in order,” he said, acutely aware of just how empty his sensors were.

We’re inbound. Our specialist says she’s ready.

He left the window open, his fingers flexing around the haft of the spear. Another set of scans ran in the background as he let out a breath. Four days of continuous hunting was starting to take its toll, even on him. Despite their best efforts, the results were still mixed.

The PRT did now have a sizeable number of recaptured prisoners to boast about, showing an increasingly vocal public that they had something resembling a handle on the situation. But for those in the know, most of those inmates had been the easy captures. The ones that ran headlong into the defensive line, or the idiots who had been so drunk on escaping that they didn’t cover their tracks. But a large majority were still out there, and those remaining villains were either tough pieces of work, or smart enough to duck out amidst the chaos.

Someone would have to sweep the country to unearth the craftier monsters before they managed a repeat of String Theory’s performance. He didn’t have any other plans.

The digital window lit up again as gusts of air began to buffet the trees around him, leaves swaying in the sudden breeze.

Dropping the payload. Mind your head.

This time he did shift his gaze towards the air, the sky obscured by bright red panels lining the undercarriage of a larger craft. His lips twitched upwards as the Melusine Mark Six descended. Dragon’s humanoid body would be at the controls.

A panel on the side retracted, and the air filled with buzzing. Hundreds of flying insects poured forth from the gap, the swarm rapidly thinning as they spread out across the woods.

Defiant’s smile faded. Dragon wasn’t the only person onboard that craft.

Wide area surveillance initiated. Care to patch into our communications?

“No,” he replied, perhaps a little too forcefully. Talking with the newly dubbed Weaver was challenging at the best of times. He’d flubbed it back at the high school, his apology coming across as rushed and insincere, but given the circumstances he’d cut himself some slack there. Then he’d messed up again, trying to play hardball with her after Alexandria’s moronic gambit. After that, she’d been in prison and he'd been rather preoccupied. Trying to talk to her now, when Dragon couldn’t whisper in his ear about all the pitfalls he’d inevitably walk headlong into sounded like a recipe for disaster. 

I can’t play intermediary between you two forever, you know.

“Understood.” 

You could at least tell her it was your idea to let her help out here. She still thinks it was mine.

“I’ll take it under consideration.” 

He could have sworn the Melusine’s engines sighed as the ship repositioned, following his heavy footsteps through the forest. It hadn’t taken long to get the higher ups to sign off on letting Weaver accompany them. Some of the Directors had wrung their hands, but legally they didn’t have any grounds to deny the request. Weaver was officially a Ward, and in times of crisis, Wards could volunteer to assist.

The problem was that they’d tried to deny it at all. Dragon’s reputation had taken a major blow as the news of the breakout had spread, and some of the more opportunistic ladder climbers in the PRT had begun trying to oppose her in little ways. Even now, supposed ‘specialists’ were examining the Birdcage, searching high and low for any way to blame Dragon over imagined negligence.

She’d served them dutifully for years, and the organisation was happy to throw her under the bus if it gave them a convenient scapegoat.

His gauntlet creaked, his fingers tightening. No, it wasn’t right to think like that. The idiots who thought Dragon was responsible for this mess were the minority. Chevalier had come out in support of her, and the rest of the Protectorate understood her worth. Wilkins and her ilk were rightfully outnumbered. 

Another deep breath, as he allowed potential solutions to the problem to fade away. He’d been tunnelling again. At least he was starting to recognise when it happened.

Shifting the spear, Defiant continued on through the trees, letting his focus switch back to the current goal. One of Watchdog’s thinkers had reportedly had a tummy ache when examining this cell of the map, which warranted cape intervention. Appraiser had backed up the claim, saying that the whole area felt crimson. Experience had taught him that most likely meant whoever was hiding here was not an immediate threat, but potentially problematic if they weren’t nipped in the bud. 

Weaver says she’s got something. Southwest of your position.

“Got it. Thank you.” Defiant turned on his heel and paced further into the forest, paying no heed to the brambles scratching harmlessly against his suit.

Thank her, not me.

“She can’t hear me.” 

That can be easily fixed. Shall I patch you in to our communications?

Defiant gave a humourless chuckle. Dragon could be awfully stubborn when the mood took her. Not that he could throw any stones in that department.

Natural light became harder to find as he advanced, the canopies above intertwining and growing thicker. The ground beneath him was littered with roots and fallen leaves, yet none of them appeared damaged. All factors pointed to a prisoner being here, yet there wasn’t a single shred of physical evidence. Two conclusions could be drawn from such information. 

Option one: Watchdog, Weaver, and his own intuition had been wrong.

Option two: he was walking into a trap.

“Dragon? Possible Master situation. I think my perceptions are being messed with.” His spear unfurled to its full length with a series of clicks. “Use my suit’s cameras. I’ll need you to be my eyes.” 

The remote access request popped inside his display and he accepted without a second thought.

Keep going. Thirty metres straight on.

What little light remained slowly evaporated with each step. His implants itched.

Turn your head, I need a better view.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Perfectly normal trees in a perfectly normal forest.

Switching to thermal.

A beetle landed on his shoulder. He didn’t brush it off.

Do you see that?

His gaze swept through the trees. They looked just like every other tree he’d passed.

There, tucked away in the branches. Don’t look up, you’ll spook him.

Keeping his helmet pointed towards the wrong tree, Defiant watched as a red targeting circle blinked into view, marking a location partway up an empty pine. Deliberately stepping the wrong way, he twisted a hidden panel on the spear’s body, lowering the weapon to keep its reforming head out of view.

Four metre fall from that branch. Painful, but not lethal.

He thumbed the trigger. 

Please try to be gentle with him.

“No promises.” 

In a single fluid motion, Defiant spun and fired the grappling hook from his spear, the tines snapping open mid-flight. He wasn’t surprised when the chain went taut and a nasally curse ripped through the air.

Instantly, the forest shifted, leaves tearing free of their branches to spin rapidly around him. A cocoon of greenery enveloped his little slice of the forest. He watched idly as every leaf swirled around the chain, several touching the grapple but none managing to dislodge the device.

He wasn’t impressed. Another press of the trigger and the chain began retracting. The nasally scream ratcheted up a few decibels.

The whirlwind of greenery stopped just as quickly as it’d started, and the forest finally resolved into clarity. His scans began returning the signs he’d been hunting for. Crushed twigs, torn roots, all the trademarks of a man on the run who had no idea how to conceal himself without powered assistance.

A pained whimper drew his attention, and Defiant finally released the grappling hook’s hold. Pale blue eyes lined with dark rings glared up at him from the ground, a sallow face decorated with a patchy moustache. A sharpened stick, its end roughly carved into a point, had landed nearby. Amateur hour ambush tactics.

Dragon had already opened the databases before he even opened his mouth to ask. Facial recognition pinged their prisoner easily enough. Marcus Redfellow, age thirty-nine, used to go by the name Hoax. A rogue who focused on performing shows and other parlour tricks.

About time our luck changed.

He nodded, scrolling through the rest of the entry. A known Master whose power was labelled as sensory distortion. Sight, sounds, smells, touch, even the tastes that others could feel were all within his capability to adjust. A strong power, but still limited in many ways. Namely, he had a fixed radius. Anyone viewing his tricks outside of that range would be unaffected.

Dragon had the man’s number from the moment they’d stepped into the forest.

His hands went to work, cuffing his latest captive and reading him the abridged version of his rights through the suit's speakers.

The final log in the database entry popped up as he pulled Hoax to his feet, the gaunt man swearing and screaming the entire time. Arrested in 2007 for attacking the headquarters of a rival entertainment company. Reports from the event showed that Hoax used his powers in the middle of the workday, before blocking the doors and setting the building on fire. Twenty-eight men and women perished, completely oblivious to the danger until they passed out from smoke inhalation.

Defiant cinched the cuffs a little bit tighter.

Wait. Weaver says she can still detect someone.

Hoax was roughly shoved back to the ground as Defiant’s spear magnetised, leaping to his hand.

Borrowing your sensor suite again. Sorry.

“You never need to apologise. Where are they?” Defiant whispered, even though no-one else could hear him with the vents shut.

Hiding in the sagebrush. Your nine o’clock.

A shimmering glow enveloped his left calf as the nanothorns activated, severing the vegetation between them in a single kick. The spear jabbed downwards, eliciting a muffled shriek from whoever was hiding there.

Defiant turned on his speakers. “Out. You’re under arrest.” 

Trembling hands rose from the remains of the undergrowth, held above the head of a woman with very pale skin. Golden blonde hair framed vibrant green eyes, already filled with unshed tears. Odd protrusions stuck out of her head, and Defiant paused for a moment. A half-recalled memory tugged at his mind.

Oh, Paige...

The singer. Now it all came back to him. Dragon had been furious over the young woman’s incarceration, a frequently discussed topic that Colin was wishing he’d paid more attention to at the time. Back then, all he’d felt was mild annoyance at the pop star’s plight taking valuable time away from their collaborations. He’d uttered some meaningless platitudes, made token attempts at improving Dragon’s mood, and not so subtly tried to nudge her back towards working on his combat prediction software.

He lowered the spear. She didn’t seem relieved. Her shoulders hunched a little more, tension still seeping through her body at the knowledge of what would be coming next.

Four days of being hunted, the closest thing to freedom she could reasonably expect to have for the rest of her life, before returning to the cage.

A beetle crawled over the leg of her prison garments. Paige yelped before slamming her jaw shut with an audible click.

Defiant holstered the spear entirely, pulling out another set of handcuffs. Her composure wavered, and the first tear in the flood fell free.

I’m cutting the visual connection. I can’t watch this.

“It’s okay. I’ll handle things from here,” he subvocalised. At his normal volume, he addressed the singer.

“For what it’s worth, we’re both sorry things turned out this way.” 

Paige hung her head, scrunching her eyes shut.

“Dragon still doesn’t believe you deserved to be imprisoned there. I’m in agreement.” 

A choked sob forced its way out of her sealed lips.

“Some fucking help you were! Useless prissy bitch! Couldn’t even stop the fucking Tin Man!” Hoax writhed in place, face down but still exceedingly vocal. The words washed over him, the corner of his brain that cared about jeers long since reassigned to more important tasks.

Then he stilled. One step away from Paige, who had ceased trying to hold back the tears, Defiant stopped.

Dragon was still connected. She wasn’t looking through the suit cameras anymore, but the audio link was there. He glanced back at Hoax. It’d be a stretch, but if he could pull it off...

Hurriedly blinking through the relevant documents, Defiant called out for his partner's attention.

“I have reason to believe this is not the real Canary.” 

The young woman opposite him looked up through a veil of blonde locks, eyes still shining.

What?

“Dragon, historical records indicate that Hoax was a solo operator who was notoriously difficult to work with. It’s highly unlikely he’d partner up with another cape.” 

Well, that’s true, but not exactly relevant right now.

Another request for visual access came through. This time, he denied it.

“Witness accounts of Hoax’s crimes from 2007 show strong evidence that his distortions can continue to affect someone’s perceptions for up to fifteen minutes after the initial use of power has subsided. Correct?” 

That’s been confirmed, but what does that have to do with- oh.

“And of all the Birdcage inmates that have been recaptured so far, have any of them surrendered peacefully? Without making an attempt at resisting?” 

Colin, that’s sweet of you to try, but it won’t work.

Another camera request. Another denial. He’d need to give her some plausible deniability for this to work.

“Humour me. How many?” 

None, so far.

“Okay. According to Hoax’s files, while his powers can affect all five senses of those around him, they cannot mimic the more esoteric abilities of other capes. If this was the real Paige Mcabee, she would have used her own power by now.” 

Colin, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do, but that’s a fragile argument at best. No-one would believe it.

Underneath his helmet, Defiant smiled. Hoax was still cursing up a storm in the background, but the singer was staring at him curiously.

“One more question. According to Parahuman Response Team regulations, what are the correct protocols for dealing with a probationary hero who has encountered an enemy Master?” 

...I could kiss you right now.

PRT handbook, page 287, subsection three, an addendum to the infamous Master and Stranger protocols. His old self might have been a stick in the mud, as a certain teammate used to say, but he’d been a stick who’d memorised the entire book cover to cover.

They’d come up with a similar plan in the event that Weaver was sentenced to the Birdcage, using his probationary status and Dragon’s reputation to do the right thing. It had been unnecessary in the end, but the idea had stayed fresh in his mind.

“As such, I intend to escort the confirmed prisoner back to the nearest secure site, before submitting myself to immediate personality testing.” 

As the nearest on duty hero, I hereby agree to your proposal. Selecting a landing zone.

Subsection three explained in no uncertain terms that probationary heroes, after engaging an enemy Master, were to report back to their superiors immediately for examination. Too many supposed heroes had broken their parole, only to claim after the fact that they had been Mastered into breaking the rules against their will. The addendum had been a rather ham-fisted way of dealing with the problem, but he wouldn’t fault it now. 

The rule could be waived if there were still enemy combatants nearby, of course. But if there was just an illusion left behind, then the rule applied. It wasn’t a watertight argument, but it did give him just enough leeway to work with. More importantly, it spared Dragon from any further fallout in this prison break fiasco. She’d tried to view the scene through his cameras, it wasn’t her fault that the clearly mentally afflicted hero on probation had refused her.

Besides, the PRT had been watching them like a hawk ever since they’d threatened to walk in the wake of Weaver’s identity being outed. They couldn’t rightfully complain if he was too willing to follow their own rules.

“We’ll have to keep the Melusine grounded and restrict further operations in this sector until we can be certain of my mental state.” The beetle left his shoulder, wings fluttering.

Weaver’s pulling her swarm back. I might have left Canary's court records on an open terminal. She didn't seem happy reading it.

Nodding in approval, Defiant yanked Hoax upright for a second time. Canary hadn’t moved, staring dumbstruck at the half of the conversation she’d been privy to. 

She hadn’t deserved what had happened to her. Paige wasn’t a soldier in the perennial war between heroes and villains. She was a civilian who just wanted to sing. A bystander caught in the crossfire, railroaded into a hellhole for a genuine accident. 

That shouldn’t fly, not anymore. This new Protectorate was supposed to be better, free from the rot that had corrupted the original. The old Armsmaster would have slapped her in cuffs and marched her away without a second thought. 

But what was the point of everything he’d been through if he just sat back and watched this miscarriage of justice all over again? 

Canary still hadn’t moved, staring wide eyed at him. Hoax started writhing around in his grip, screaming the entire time. Good.

Barely audible above the screeching of a maniac, they growled out a single word.

“Run."

Defiant didn’t look back, forcing his way out of the undergrowth with a single prisoner in tow. Hoax didn’t make it easy, struggling every step of the way, until he was eventually lifted up like a ragdoll and placed in a fireman’s carry.

The Melusine was already on the ground by the time they made it out of the woods, a ramp extending from the side of its cockpit. Two figures waited for them at the top, standing on either side like an honour guard. The one in green nodded as he passed. The one in white simply stared.

He was barely over the threshold before the panels closed, cutting off the natural light from outside. LEDs embedded in the floor illuminated with each step, and the glow of a half dozen monitors cast long shadows behind him.

A thick metal bulkhead opened, allowing entry to the larger rear portion of the craft. Transparent walls divided the area into six neat cubes, with a thin corridor running down the middle. He knew the specifications. Five airtight cells, shock-absorbent, flame-resistant, a rapid response containment facility.

They were all empty right now, after dropping off their last batch of cargo. Carefully, he set Hoax down inside an empty cell, sealing the door shut behind him. One sixth of the ceiling’s sprayers activated, coating the chosen cell with white foam. The sound quality in the room improved dramatically.

A soft gauntlet against his shoulder caught his attention. Her hand shook slightly against his suit. Still stuttered.

His fingers gently latched onto hers, holding her steady. It was the least he could do.

Thank you.

She was wearing the verdant helmet along with the rest of the powered armour, but he liked to think she was smiling under there.

Light footsteps echoed across the hall, and Defiant reluctantly looked up. Weaver stood at the doorway with her arms folded. She was still outfitted in the basic costume they’d thrown together for her press conference. Light grey fabric, sleek armour panels that Dragon had 3-D printed only moments before the new Ward had gone out on stage, electric blue highlights with matching lenses for the mask. He could just about make out her pupils through the lenses, a far cry from the dull yellow orbs that had never given a hint about the person underneath. She had one of Dragon’s armbands on her left arm, almost concealing how the fabric of her costume bulged at the wrist, hiding her monitoring bracelet.

“Why?” 

Weaver hadn’t raised her voice, but that didn’t stop her question from reverberating across the room.

That was the question. Why had he let Canary go? Why had he contributed another lie to an organisation that was supposed to be built on truth and transparency? Why, with her hatred of both him and those same lies, had she recalled her swarm? 

Such a powerful word, why. A thousand possible answers stemming from a single syllable. He approved.

Silently, he released his partner. The spear detached from his back, and he pressed it into Dragon’s arms. Metal clanged against metal as they walked towards the sixth cell. Sturdier than the others, reinforced to a greater degree, with electromagnetic defences and a Faraday cage of their own making. A haze of heat covered the entire cell, a superheated layer on top of the walls, like the inside of an oven. They had been making progress on the cooling systems, but for now heat remained one of the few viable counters to the nanothorns.

Dragon opened the door and he headed in without complaint.

Weaver stared at him with what he guessed was curiosity. He never could read her properly.

When he finally answered, it was quiet, the words meant for them and them alone.

“Because some people need a second chance.” 

The cell door sealed shut, and Defiant settled in for a long wait.

Chapter Text

“Two visits in a single week? I must truly be blessed.” A voice, warm and aged like mulled wine, filled the little church. 

I whispered a farewell to the Lord, and opened my eyes, silently shuffling over on the wooden bench. Father Prescott sat down heavily in the vacant space. He took his time sorting himself out, and I was thankful for the extra few moments to get my thoughts in order. 

In all honesty, I probably shouldn’t be here. The good Father knew I only dropped in sporadically, in times of great need. An unfortunate necessity on my part. Couldn’t risk building up any kind of relationship, lest he connect the dots and figure out the man behind the mask. The Doctor would argue that I’d probably told him too much already. 

But his words were always soothing in times of doubt, so just this once, I’d made an exception. 

“Father, I’m sorry for intruding so often,” I said quietly. He rolled his eyes fondly and waved his hand dismissively. 

“Apology accepted, even though it’s totally unnecessary. The door is always open.” Father Prescott brought a finger up to his chin, and tapped away as if deep in thought. “Although that would explain why it's always so cold in here.” 

I nodded, more out of habit than anything. 

“Still feeling troubled? I’ve got some more platitudes somewhere, if you’d like?”

I smiled slightly, a sad smile that didn’t reach my eyes. Sometimes I didn’t know what I’d do without the old vicar. Maybe the Doctor had been right and there was too much of a rapport here already. 

Or maybe I could have one thing in my life that wasn’t all doom and gloom. 

“Not this time. My problems are bit much for kind words to fix.” 

The vicar nodded, his face the picture of understanding. “I’m happy to listen if you want to talk. Or I can disappear if you’d like a private word with someone else.” He tilted his wrinkled head towards the raised altar, and the large crucifix hanging on the wall behind it. 

“Talking sounds good.” Better than arguing myself in circles for another day at any rate. 

Father Prescott didn’t rush me, waiting patiently as I put the words together in a way that made sense. There were powers that could do the same thing far more efficiently, but using one of those would defeat the purpose. 

“Do you remember what we spoke about? On Monday?” I asked, glancing over to meet Father Prescott’s eyes. He nodded once. 

“Things have gone downhill since then.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been the most generic answer possible, but Prescott sounded genuinely apologetic. 

“There’s a problem that’s been consuming my time and focus. I guess you could call it a loose end from my old job. Something that... I want to tie it up. Leaving it as is doesn’t feel right.” 

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Part of the reason why I always enjoyed my infrequent trips here. There was no pressure, nobody pushing you to do or prove something. 

“I made an honest attempt to deal with it, but things didn’t really work out. My old colleagues weren’t happy that I’d come back to try and fix it, so now the problem is still there, unresolved, and I can’t do anything about it without upsetting a lot of people.” 

The wooden seat creaked underneath me as I shifted in place. 

“My hands are tied, and everything I try would just make things worse. Never liked feeling so... powerless.” 

We sat there for a while, under the eyes of God. I could only hope that the unfortunate souls String Theory had caught in her blast had made their way to him. When all was said and done, I’d have to find a way to apologise to them. Them and too many others. 

“Blessed is the man who perseveres in trials because, for when he has been proved...” Father Prescott uttered, looking at me expectantly. 

“He will receive the crown of life that he promised to those who love him.” Not the first time I’d heard that verse. 

“Sorry. It seemed appropriate for the moment.” 

I shrugged off Prescott’s apology. “Appreciate the intent. But it’s rather difficult to find solace there right now.” 

“Then, if I may, would you mind if I bent our no-advice rule? Just this once?” He sounded so earnest when he asked that I couldn’t find it in myself to refuse. 

“Just this once.” 

“Thank you. It’s the same advice I’ve given to, well I’ve lost count how of many people by now, but it does the trick.” 

I quirked an eyebrow. 

“David, it’s unheard of for you to be here twice in a week. Whatever this is, it’s clearly eating away at you. So go back to this problem, confront it head on, talk with these old colleagues of yours. Because I don’t think you’ll be happy until you do.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Because we have a way of overcomplicating everything. Everyone does. But you can’t just bury your head and hope it’ll go away. You’re stronger than you think, and even if the journey is painful, it will all be worthwhile once you reach the end.” He smiled, and I chuckled mirthlessly. I wanted to believe that, I really did. 

“Now go, face your problems, and come out the other side happy and healthy.” Father Prescott nudged me with his elbow, and I went with the flow, pulling myself upright. 

“Thank you as always, Father.” 

“It’s what I’m here for.” Prescott did offer me the chance to stay and enjoy the peace while he set about printing off some new pamphlets for the church, but I’d taken enough of his time already. Ten minutes later, I was in the back seat of a taxi, running his words over in my mind. 

The newfound feeling of determination almost lasted the entire journey back to the house. Almost. 

Clouds were covering the sun by the time I finally stepped out of the car. Not that it did anything to stop the humidity. July in Houston was not a pleasant experience. 

Air-conditioned breezes were a pleasant relief once I opened the front door, a momentary reprieve for the weary.

Then it was back to the same four walls that had taken it upon themselves to become my new friends. An opened jigsaw puzzle sat on the kitchen table, still in pieces. The last straw before I’d gone to church. Someone had missed the memo during a secret Santa one year and actually bought me something. A cardboard home for the ‘04 line-up of the Houston Astros, staring out at me in a thousand pieces. 

I didn’t even like baseball.

It had sat on a shelf gathering dust in the years since, until I’d finally dragged it out into the sunlight. There wasn’t much else to do after deep cleaning the house, watching reruns of an old show that hadn’t aired for a decade, and analysing recordings of my old encounters until my thoughts ran in circles. 

I’d even ordered new furniture. It had been decided that I’d be spending a lot of time here from now on, and the usual airbed wouldn’t cut it anymore. Made a change from sleeping at the office, I supposed. 

Idly, I flicked the television on for some background noise. The talking heads were trying to stir the pot some more, but it was clear to see that they were running out of material. The twenty-four seven news deluge surrounding the escape was still ongoing, but most of it was repeats with the previous day providing little in the way of new tragedies to exploit. Public opinion must have been wearing thin with all the speculation too, because they’d resorted to replaying the same handful of interviews over and over again. 

Most of those involved PRT spokespeople pointing to the statistics of all the dangerous prisoners they’d caught, boldly ignoring questions from the savvier reporters who actually knew how to count. 

They also deliberately did not mention how most of the recaptured inmates were merely dangerous, while most of those still free were catastrophically dangerous. If I recalled the old files correctly, we’d only apprehended a single cell block leader. 

A wave of my palm, and the jigsaw pieces flew back into their box. No, not we. They. I wasn’t a part of this anymore. They’d made that abundantly clear. 

My hand rubbed at my scalp. Couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel angry anymore. I could understand the decision. If Rebecca had still been in charge, she would have made the same call. Cutting loose a single cape to preserve the strength of the entire organisation. 

Cold comfort that was. 

The jigsaw box returned to its dusty home as I slunk away from the kitchen and settled back into the armchair. Lacking anything better to do, I clicked the remote a few times and dismissed the constant stream of barely-news for something a bit more distracting. 

Steve Harvey was staring blankly into the camera as a game show contestant made their answer into an innuendo. An update on a charity scandal; apparently the Moonwalkers were in trouble for taking another unexplained absence. A pyrokinetic proudly displayed his burnt pizza to some unimpressed judges. The road shattered as one of Hollywood’s pretty boys fell off a bridge into the arms of someone who looked a lot like a Narwhal rip-off. 

As a cartoon me danced on the screen and the Protectorate Pals theme music blared, I finally gave up on channel surfing and just shut my eyes. It wouldn’t help. I’d reached the stage of boredom where even sleep was unappealing. But it was better than letting my brain melt from watching this nonsense. 

I didn’t want to admit it, but perhaps that was all I could do now. As much as I appreciated Father Prescott’s advice, I couldn’t confront this problem head on. The Protectorate wouldn’t want me back on the manhunt.

Focusing on preserving myself, trying to stay in the best condition possible for the next two years, that might be all I was good for now. I’d balked at the idea before, but having some kind of goal had to be better than sitting here glassy-eyed at the idiot box. 

Might as well book myself in with a taxidermist. Here’s the stuffed Eidolon, prepared and waiting for a single chance that might never arrive. 

Cartoon me reminded the audience about the importance of recycling. Whoever they hired to do the voice was a terrible impressionist. 

Maybe I could have done something differently with String Theory. But that way lay madness. I’d end up going over every decision I’d ever made, just as I had so many times before, pointing out each failure that could have had a slightly better outcome. Eventually, I'd end back at the decision that started it all, wondering if perhaps I should have refused the Doctor. 

My train of thought drifted as the Doctor came to the fore. Perhaps Cauldron had a task that needed doing. I was a liability to them on Bet, but there were countless worlds out there. Maybe I could help people on a few of those. 

I could practically taste the rejection of my proposal before I’d even left the seat, but I went and suited up anyway. They wouldn’t want me spending my powers at all, but I’d feel better making the attempt at using my time constructively instead of watching those tacky shows. The channels changed as I pressed the remote’s buttons telekinetically, back to the news. 

I was halfway through fitting the cloak when something ragged caught on my fingers. The hem had been damaged along the side, a tattered edge instead of its usual straight line. Must have happened back at the observatory. I frowned at the sight.

The mild annoyance at my costume being less than pristine fled as cartoon me gave a thumbs up to a small child after they learned the importance of friendship. The remote was already flying as I fastened the helmet. 

“Door me.” 

The block of cheap plastic slid into my grasp, but nothing else happened. I glanced around. No hole in the fabric of reality. 

All three powers fell away on instinct. This didn’t feel right. The Clairvoyant had never failed to pass on my requests before. 

"Door me,” I requested again, taking care to enunciate each syllable.

Nothing. The same four walls looked back, uncaring. The hairs on my nape picked up. 

Had something happened to Cauldron? An invasion, removing our mobility? It worked as an opening move. Take out the Doormaker, the organisation would be crippled. Contessa was presumably next, the clearest danger to anyone assaulting the compound. If they could get past her then we really would be in trouble. 

My fist clenched, still clutching the damn remote. 

“We’ve just received word that Director Maladkar of the San Francisco PRT is about to take the stage with an update on the current situation.” I glanced over at the television; an interviewee was being hurriedly cut off as the news anchor chased this latest story. The scrolling banner proclaimed that another PRT conference was about to begin. At least it would give them something new to talk about. 

“We’re going live now to our parahuman correspondent, Thomas Vale, out on the trail in California. Tom, over to you.” The anchor disappeared, replaced with a shaky camera feed. 

Two men stood in the shot. The one on the left was a slender male, dressed in a skin-tight costume and a pair of large mechanical gauntlets, sweating visibly as the camera shook. Bloodstains were visible on his suit while the gauntlets sparked and hissed. 

But my eyes were drawn to the one on the right. A bundle of muscle, with extremely broad shoulders and a shaggy beard, wearing a sleeveless workout shirt and pants that seemed a size too small. 

“Afraid your boy got a bit side-tracked on his way to the conference,” a brusque voice with just a hint of an Australian accent called out, the camera shaking from the force of his words. “And now ol’ Thomas has come down with a terrible case of neck pain, so I’ll be delivering your latest report!” 

An alarm was ringing in the video, so loud that I barely heard the whimpers that followed. Frequent shouts rippling in the background didn’t help either. The smaller cape scrunched his eyes shut and whispered something the camera didn’t catch. He forced a smile onto his face before opening them again. 

“G-good afternoon. I’m Pugilist, with the Protectorate Garrison Division...” he trailed off, swallowing hard, “and we believe it’s time we came clean about some events.”

The name tickled a memory in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place him. 

“And don’t think about cutting the connection, otherwise I’ll get mighty cross.” The mass of muscle let out a throaty chuckle. “Now Pudgy boy, why don’t you tell the people what we’re doing?” 

He was enjoying it. Every word. The sadist. 

Sweat beaded off the hero as he tried admirably to maintain his composure. “W-well, Gavel wanted to use this platform to spread the word of his noble work.” The larger man nodded along as his ego was forcefully stroked. The camera dipped slightly, giving a glimpse of two more heroes standing just off to the side, holding hastily scribbled out teleprompter cues. One of them was sucking in breath, a massive indent on their chest having shattered the armour there, while the other was very clearly placing all their weight on one leg. 

“And he claims it is time for America to deal with the villainous infestation that we have allowed to grow unchecked.” Pugilist's eyes were darting every which way, looking for an escape route. 

Gavel grinned, a toothy smile that didn’t match the look in his eyes. “Bingo. You cowards have really let the country go to the dogs. Villains have gotten bold since I’ve been gone. Never would have handed over an entire city to some teenagers on my watch.” 

“It is d-disgraceful how the PRT keeps sweeping these problems under the rug. Hiding them away instead of solving them.” Pugilist spoke in fits and starts, reading prompts that were being written slightly too slowly. 

“Too bloody right mate.” Gavel slapped the hero on the back, and a spray of crimson erupted from their mouth. He kept talking as they fell to all fours, coughing and spluttering. “Like my good buddy here. Pudgy was a very naughty boy, weren’t you Pudgy?” 

Wet, hacking coughs filled the silence. 

“See, Pudgy told me a lil’ story. About how he liked to skim a bit of cash here and there. Take some of that good ol’ tinker made stuff the Protectorate had and sell it under the table.” 

Another cough and a sickening groan answered. 

“Sure, it made him a bit of spending money. But then it all went wrong, didn’t it? Some of that gear was used to knock over a hospital. And that spending money gave them a trail straight back to Pudgy.” 

Gavel looked directly into the camera, the smile sliding off his face. “Should've gone to jail. ‘Cept the PRT doesn’t really care about that. They sent Pudgy off to this dingy corner of the states, tucked away out of sight, and hid as much of the mess as they could.” 

His eyes swept over to the side, staring down the two capes with cue cards. “Same story with these bastards. Should’ve been punished, and they got a free holiday to sunny California instead.” 

He gestured, his massive fingers pointing down the lens. 

“They’re criminals, plain and simple. And I think its past time that you all got a good reminder of a criminal’s place in this world. It is not upright, with their boot on your neck.” 

Gavel raised one large boot to demonstrate his point, resting it on the prone cape.

“It’s not down on their knees, begging for mercy.” Gavel crouched and grabbed at a length of rebar. Tugging it forwards, the two cue capes toppled into frame, crying out as oozing wounds on their legs became noticeable.

“It is six-foot underground.” He raised a gargantuan arm, his palm filling the screen. Someone screamed.

When Gavel came back into frame, he was the one holding the camera.

“The Protectorate might be too chickenshit to get their own hands dirty, but I still understand what it means to stop a villain. You don’t hide them away and pretend everything is hunky dory.” 

He tutted, wagging a giant finger from side to side. “You make an example of ‘em.” 

Gavel lifted the camera overhead, and the remote slipped from my hand. Great walls of concrete and steel, a domed city sealed away from the rest of the country for the danger it posed.

I knew that place. I’d helped build that place.

“This little message goes out to all the villains thinking they can rise above their stations. That ain’t gonna cut it anymore. So run back to your hidey holes, and pray that I don’t find you.”

The camera lingered on a large white two painted on the side of the wall, and the sudden realisation of where I knew Pugilist’s name from hit me like a truck.

“Because if I do, you’ll meet the same fate as this chump, thinking he’s safe in his little government funded utopia.”

Gavel shifted his weight, and the transmission abruptly ended as a final snap rang in my ears.

The television cut back to the news studio. The presenter didn’t speak for a long moment, their mouth slightly open in shock. When the words finally returned, they spewed out a torrent of apologies to viewers before I stopped listening.

Father Prescott had been right. I needed to be there. If I ignored this it would eat away at me forever.

This wasn't me re-joining the manhunt. This was me responding to a crisis situation. I could still do that. It was different. Besides, the Protectorate would understand. Their response time wouldn’t be fast enough. They’d appreciate the help. Perhaps they’d even forgive me if I handed over Gavel and his target.

“Door me. Now." Finally, the request was granted. Not an attack on Cauldron. They must have seen this coming, denied my earlier attempts so that I’d catch the broadcast. They could have at least warned me.

I stepped out into open air, and gazed down at a domed town in California. No matter. Assigning blame could come later. Right now, the world needed a hero. I finally had a goal again. 

Stop a homicidal lunatic before he reaches a second homicidal lunatic.

Because if Gavel made it to Pastor before me, then this entire situation would suddenly get a whole lot worse.

Chapter Text

Dust billowed in small circles as I touched down, landing silently amidst the blaring alarms ringing across the landscape. A gargantuan construction of steel and concrete stared back as I stepped forwards, walls sixty feet high supporting a reinforced domed ceiling that encompassed an entire town. 

Elevators and covered staircases sat on this side of the wall, providing access to a large ringed platform that circled the dome. The security garrison could watch the interior from there, providing advance warning if a group was getting too close to the walls. Scissor lifts and motorised cages were installed at regular intervals around the ring, allowing access to the very top of the dome. I couldn’t see it from here, but at its very apex the dome contained a large shaft, designed to let the quarantine teams drop padded crates or packages of supplies through. Small parachutes would slow their fall, stopping the items from crashing against the ground. When not in use, solid titanium shutters would slam closed to prevent anyone accessing the shaft from within. 

Dumping food through a hole in the roof like a zookeeper throwing meat into a lion enclosure wasn’t my first choice for a solution, but it was either that or abandon those still trapped inside. 

Especially since back then, nobody had really understood the need for quarantine sites. The public had only had the site in Indiana to compare it with, a city infamously plagued by riots, where three villains would pop up for every one you arrested. There had been shock, certainly, when the walls first went up there, but it had come after months of intervention from the National Guard, the PRT, and eventually the military. Protracted legal campaigns and media blasts had let the idea germinate in the public’s mind, letting people understand the rationale behind sealing up an entire city. 

In contrast, this second site had started off as a rush job, the walls being thrown up as quickly as possible while we evacuated as many of the inhabitants as we could. Instead of calmly explaining why certain steps had to be taken, we were forced to backtrack and tell the public that an entire town had been effectively removed from the map. Villains numbering in the triple digits could capture the imagination, but here we could only point to one man being responsible for the quarantine. Our public relations teams hadn’t even been allowed to give all the details about Pastor himself or how his powers worked, in a bid to stop religious extremists and so-called ‘cape chasers’ from trying to reach him. 

Not that it had really helped. The secrecy only fanned the flames, and we’d been surrounded by civil rights groups demanding that the walls come down. They’d argued, not entirely incorrectly, that the people inside deserved better than to be trapped like animals. When their legal challenges had eventually failed, they started organising raids of the dome instead. 

We’d had to flood the entrance facilities with cement after too many people tried to get in, and the shaft at the top had been our next best solution for supplying those inside the town. 

I looked down from the ring, towards the two bunkers that sat flush with the ground, clearly reinforced to a greater degree than the others. The entry facilities themselves. Inside those had been a labyrinth of corridors, security checkpoints, and multiple vault doors built in a similar manner to those used by Endbringer shelters. 

It said a lot that we’d scaled up from the shelters when building this place.

It said even more that the maniac I was chasing had taken one look at the sealed doors, decided they weren’t enough of a challenge, and broken through the wall instead.

I glided towards the breach, sparing a glance to my right along the way. In the distance I could just about see the hazy shapes of a barracks, surrounded by barbed wire fences. The resting quarters for the garrison.

Halfway between the wall and the barracks lay an abandoned news van on the crest of a small plateau, a hole punched clean through the hood and down into the engine block. Half a dozen bodies lay around it, but my eyes were drawn to the two oversized gauntlets, shredded and broken as they were, littering the wreckage.

There wasn’t anything I could do for them now.

Someone yelled in pain, followed by the tell-tale deafening blast of a flashbang.

But I could still help their comrades-in-arms.

Precious seconds ticked by as I glided to the site of Gavel’s incursion, the Californian plain already transformed into a battlefield. If I recalled PRT doctrine correctly, the officers should have sealed the breach with containment foam while the capes held back any powered opposition from inside the quarantine site. Not a long-term solution, but enough to buy some time for more permanent measures.

Globs of foam certainly clung to the shattered wall, a vain attempt to seal a hole large enough to drive a car through, but most of the substance had hardened into mounds on the ground. Muffled cries came from the forest of foam stalagmites, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what had been encased inside.

Quarantine Site Two, its security overwhelmed and defences shattered by a single man. An entire Protectorate team, rotating squads of PRT officers, and he’d blown through all of them. A part of me was almost disappointed in how little they’d managed.

Only four PRT security officers were still standing amidst the concrete dust, working in tandem to take cover behind fallen chunks of brickwork or fire what few armaments they had left. Two members of the team had the foam sprayers on, but they were being conservative with the shots. Running low on ammunition, perhaps. One other was firing a handgun through gritted teeth, the recoil of every shot shaking a limp shoulder. The final member of the quartet had ditched professional weapons entirely and was swinging a piece of shorn rebar, a wild eye visible through a cracked helmet.

Their crude baton collided with a crunch against the skull of something that could almost pass for a jaguar, if seen from a distance. Up close, there was no mistaking the elongated claws, or the misshapen face. Four bulbous eyes swivelled in separate directions, two tracking the prey in front of them, the others watching for danger on the beast’s flanks. The skin underneath each eye was cracked, creating jagged lines down its head where no fur grew. Fangs too large for its mouth kept the creature from closing its jaw all the way, yet that didn’t stop it from catching the officer’s arm between twin sets of scimitar teeth. It started dragging the man backwards, ignoring the gunshots pinging off its side as it retreated with prey in tow.

Wild Eye screamed as the jaguar’s drool sizzled against his armour, tiny holes visible in the hardened material. His rebar swung recklessly back and forth until it collided with the jaguar’s snout. The beast growled in response, dropping the arm to snatch the steel bar instead. Jerking back in shock, the officer scrambled up as the jaguar shook its head violently, flinging the metal away. 

“I’ll take that.”

Every face turned as I twirled the rebar in my right hand, the left already wreathed with a green hued energy. Wild Eye let out a sigh of relief at the sight that trailed off into an almost hysterical laugh. 

The jaguar abandoned its hunt and immediately pounced for me instead. Fangs snapped at my face, the drool sizzling as it splashed near my feet. I didn’t blink.

Its claws swiped at my midsection, and I almost laughed. Too easy. 

Something cracked, and the jaguar howled. Its claws had been chipped; the force of its blow redirected back into its own paws. I’d learned from Behemoth just how useful kinetic energy redistribution could be as a defence. 

A second attack, its paw aiming for my head. The kinetic shield wasn’t the only power that activated as it made contact, and- 

The air feels different today. Warmer. He tastes it against his tongue, lolling from the side of a mouth that’s too big for his face.  

Warmth tugs at his insides, and makes his head hurt to think about it. Warm and bright and beautiful. That’s what father had said. When the promised time comes, it will be warmer than he’s ever known, brighter than he could imagine, and so beautiful that the world would cry happy tears.

Father had tried to help the world, make it warmer himself, but all that did was upset the monsters.

So he'd told them to be patient. Their family would grow in ones or twos, until the day they could all face the monsters together. There would be laughter and singing, and the world would sing along. They would all be happy together.

One big happy family.

So why did it hurt to think about? 

-Touch-based postcognition, to round out the trio. A power so unexpected that I’d held onto it to figure out what on earth my agent had been thinking. 

Paws firmly on the floor again, the jaguar readied itself for another strike, two of its eyes wincing as it placed too much weight on the shattered claws. 

Fortunately, its next attack fizzled out before it had begun. The muscles in its legs twitched, and its misshapen face twisted in exertion. Another twitch, and the limbs began to buckle, collapsing in place as it became unable to peel its legs away from the ground any longer. Almost as if the force of gravity was steadily increasing on its body.

It hadn’t been all that long since I’d last had a gravity power, but this one felt weaker than the one I’d employed in Brockton. As if I’d be lucky enough to get a stronger variant. 

“Harris, Argyle, bury it!” The officer with the dislocated arm bellowed out to their fellows, and the two foam officers hurried to comply. Fur began to recede as they approached, but the four eyes and tangled maw of overlarge teeth remained. A man sat where the jaguar had once been, considerably smaller and lighter than his bestial counterpart. 

A nice attempt. Most Changers relied too heavily on their changed body. Gravity’s hold on him weakened to prevent an injury, but by then the foam had already started to coat his prone form.

Only once the jaguar man was well and truly covered in a solidifying block did I let the verdant energy dissipate.

"Now, put your hands above your head.” I turned to the officer with a dislocated arm. The helmet was distorting their voice, but they sounded female. 

“Are you in command here?” 

She paused a little too long before answering. “As of now, yes. Corporal Jessica Monroe. Hands, air, now.” Her gun came back up in an instant. 

“A pleasure,” I replied without any emotion, ignoring her request. “Lock this area down, I’ll deal with the situation in there.”

“I said hands above your head!” she shouted. 

Keeping my arms down, I tilted my head at her. “Why?”

She jerked her head back, the gun pointed at me all the while. “You saw the big cat. Pastor’s people have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. Can’t be certain that you aren’t one of them.” 

In any other situation, her caution would have been commendable. Right now, it was just infuriating. 

“I don’t have time for this.” Every second she wasted let Gavel pull further ahead. Assuming a slight delay on his transmission, the time it took to safely descend and extract the officers... perhaps Gavel had five minutes on me. I briefly considered discarding the abilities, but gravity manipulation, kinetic redirection, and postcognition could all be game-changers in their own right. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I almost didn’t register the running footsteps behind me. 

“Unknown parahuman, I am ordering you to stop!”

I glanced back at the Corporal, and saw her gun still levelled at my spine. Wild Eye and her two foam spraying subordinates hurried to flank her, but they clearly didn’t understand what was happening. 

“This is lunacy. Stand down, all of you.”

One of the foam officers lowered the barrel of his sprayer. His voice had more of a Californian accent than the others, presumably the only local in the group. 

“Ma’am, are you certain about this? It’s Eidolon.”

She stood her ground, body turned slightly to hide her injured arm. “It’s someone who looks like Eidolon. That’s no guarantee.”

“But he helped us. Stopped the thing that tried to eat Sullivan.” Foam sprayer gestured the barrel towards Wild Eye, who frantically nodded in agreement. 

Corporal Monroe moved to shrug, then thought better of it. “A ploy. Gets us to lower our guard, gain our trust by turning on his friend.”

“They aren’t that intelligent, are they?” Wild Eye chimed in, a hint of shock in his voice. 

She shook her head at the comment. “You’re still treating this like Ellisburg. We aren’t containing monsters here, we’re containing people. People can be smart. They’ve pulled stunts like this before, chased their own members to the walls to sell the ruse.” Her voice shook slightly. “Then they grab whoever they can reach and pull them back inside.”

I assumed she was speaking from experience.

“But wouldn’t we see the gashes?”

“Sure. If he removed his helmet.” The corporal’s voice lifted slightly, phrasing it as a question. 

I slowly shook my head. Not an option.

The gun steadied in her grip.

“But he hasn't got anyone, right? If he’s going back in the dome alone, then...”

“You really want to chance letting him run loose? After everything’s that happened today?” She growled towards the foam sprayer, who looked suitably abashed even in a full suit of combat gear. 

“I just don’t understand how that helps if he is one of theirs,” questioned the subordinate, his voice more subdued, clearly torn between following a superior and potentially threatening the most powerful man in the world.

“You think I understand either?!” Corporal Monroe’s head snapped around to her subordinate, but the gun didn’t move. “You think I understand why a freak ran riot through our squad and broke through the walls? Or why Eidolon of all people made it here before any of our support teams? None of this makes any fucking sense, so you’ll forgive me for not letting the strange cape out of our sight!”

Gavel was still on the move. This needed to be resolved quickly.

Some unspoken thing passed between the four of them before I could defuse the situation, and the other foam spraying officer stepped forward.

“Look, I’m sorry about this, but she’s right. If you are the real deal, then we’ll apologise profusely, but right now there’s too many unknowns.” To his credit, he did at least sound apologetic. 

He hefted the device away from the breach, back towards the open plains. “Our comms centre got a little busted up, but we did manage to contact the Protectorate. They’ll be here soon. If you want to wait, I’m sure they can vet you...” The anxious invitation hung in the air, unanswered.

If I left now, I could bring Gavel back to the heroes in chains, reseal the quarantine site, and maybe get a few of those in the Protectorate to reconsider their position on me.

Or I could stay here, watching impotently as heroes twenty years my junior flailed around in a situation they were unprepared for. It could be anywhere from ten minutes to an hour before they arrived anyway, and all that time Gavel would be having a field day.

I hadn’t come this far to sit back and watch.

Between one moment and the next, the four officers slumped, as if they’d read something in my silence. The unease was plain to see, despite the full suits of armour. 

“Even if you are who you say you are...” The corporal started her sentence, pausing to choose her next words carefully. “PRT or Protectorate personnel would be the only ones allowed inside. No independents.”

None of them could muster up the courage to look at me after that.

My patience finally ran out. Gavel had enough of a lead already, and I’d entertained this farce for long enough.

I made for the breach, hearing the click of safeties behind me.

“We don’t want to fight you.”

“Then don’t.”

I could almost feel the palpable weight of my reputation in their minds, torn between their duty and their trepidation at potentially shooting the most powerful man in the world. 

In the end, their hesitation made the choice for them. A shame. Indecision in this line of work could be a death sentence, yet they still couldn’t bring themselves to pull the trigger. I might have respected them more if they’d been willing to see it through. The courage to make the tough calls was an admirable trait to have. 

Eventually, their last reserves of foam fired to fill the hole, expanding and sealing the way out. A few stray droplets splattered against my cloak; the dark green material stained in spots by whiteish-yellow liquid. 

It didn’t matter. I was already through. 

Artificial clouds in a manmade sky. Yellowed grass sprouting around telephone poles that connected to nothing. Air slightly too cold and consistent to be natural. 

For the first time in over a decade, I stared out at a domed town, and pondered on the irony that its name was Freedom.

Chapter Text

Clouds drifted lazily by, without any wind to push them. No two were the same, some small and fluffy, others so large that the lights inside dimmed as they passed. Sleight of hand on a massive scale made the false sky look further away than it really was, a charming backdrop for those inside. Just for a moment, someone could believe they weren’t trapped in here. 

But look at them for too long, and a cloud would reach the edge of the dome, suddenly vanishing from sight as the projections ran out of space. Then the mirage shattered, and the cold realisation would set in once again. 

The thought kept me company as I stepped carefully through Freedom’s streets. It wasn’t just the artificial sky that sold the ruse. The entire town was in on it, presenting a veneer of normalcy just barely draped over the horrendous truth. 

Single storey houses sat on the edges of the town, with the kind of sizeable gaps between each of them that you just couldn’t find outside of rural communities. The paint was peeling on every one but signs of life were still there. The windows looked empty, but that was no guarantee. 

They lined the edges of what had once been the main road through town, broken tarmac marking the trail. Most of the free space next to the road had been given over to vegetable plots, small allotments or tiny farms. Except the light in here wasn’t natural, and the plants knew it. Little to nothing was growing in those plots, save for the sturdiest weeds. Despite that, the ground looked to have been tilled and treated relatively recently. 

Billboards were stuck to the side of a few larger buildings, still advertising goods that hadn’t been sold for years. They’d never been replaced. Another little nudge contributing to the lie. 

Trees bereft of their leaves stood at the side of the main path, leading the way into a few fields that had become trapped here too. Bark broke and flaked away as my cloak brushed against the nearest. It was surprising to see that they’d lasted this long. Perhaps they were simply too stubborn to die. 

A chain supermarket passed by, the only one in sight on the outskirts of Freedom. It had never been a large town, maybe five or six thousand strong at its peak, but big business had been slowly encroaching on it when the walls went up. 

The floor to ceiling glass windows had been shattered and the insides ransacked, shelves long ago emptied now thrown to the floor. There were holes in the exterior where sheets of metal had been torn out, leaving jagged gaps behind. The roof was missing entirely, the top of the building baring itself to the heavens. Had Gavel been here? 

The reasoning behind the postcognition finally clicked. Not the easiest way in the world to track someone, but I’d worked with worse. 

Part of me expected an ambush to burst out at a moment’s notice, but nobody intervened as I crossed the distance to the supermarket. On closer inspection, it was easy to make out the burn marks lining its metal skeleton, in the few spots where the struts themselves hadn’t been destroyed. Grass and weeds were soaking up what artificial light they could as they tried to fight their way through cracks in the floor. 

I checked over my shoulder once more, and reached out for the closest wall. My fingers brushed against the surface, and- 

Tension lies thick in the air, a haze of calm before the thunderstorm. I exhale, palm splayed flat against the top of the store. Something shuffles beneath me, barely audible unless you know to listen for it. The last of the strike teams getting into position, cloaked by a girl who grants invisibility to those she touches.

The situation couldn’t have come at a worse time. Protectorate Critical was being pulled in too many directions at once, thinning the coalition force that was supposed to handle events like this. Alexandria was stuck in her alter-ego's role, trying to provide international aid to the Chinese after Behemoth struck one of their cities, and being stonewalled at every turn. A roving band of murderous lunatics were slowly working their way up the east coast, keeping Legend in New York to act as a deterrent. Barely half the number of capes we’d had in Indiana, and top it all off, we couldn’t bring our nonpowered officers into the town itself. Not without risking a catastrophe.

I breathe out, and steady my footing. No matter. We’ve faced worse odds before.

Three beeps sound in my earpiece, a starting pistol tearing the silence to pieces.

My hand sinks into the rooftop, passing through the tiles like a stone through water, reaching out to grasp something that can only be described as the roof’s heart. I tug, and the roof retracts towards me, vacuumed up through my hand. Half a second later, I’m left hovering in mid-air clutching an orb the size of an apple, made of slate and asphalt.

Dozens of eyes gaze up at me, out from a supermarket now open to the elements. Their stunned silence stretches a single moment to an eternity. I look back, at the shoppers clutching their carts so tightly the metal bar is cutting into their palms, going through rote motions despite their legs sagging from exertion. One is halfway through placing an empty box into their cart, a smile plastered on their face even as their eyes glisten with tears.

Lining the edges of the store are the ones we were too slow to help. The men and women with deep cracks running along their faces. Dressed in employee uniforms, complete with name badges.

I throw the orb before any of them react, separating its parts mid-flight to form dozens of thin platforms. The platforms slide under the feet of every civilian I can see, scooping them up and lifting them out of the line of fire as the broken employees begin to respond.

Spheres of lava shoot upwards, into the airborne crowd, and I move with inhuman speed to intercept the projectiles. The barrage is unceasing, blobs of superheated material catching me in the chest and eating away at the armoured underlayer. I can feel the burning sensation on my skin before it suddenly reverses, my body and suit resetting themselves. My teeth clench, and I dive in front of the next shot. The pain was only temporary. I’d heal, they wouldn’t.

Some are still clinging to the handles of their carts, begging me to stop. They kick and scream, terrified out of their wits. A few are shouting about innocence and how they aren’t responsible for this, their words going unheeded by the faux employees.

I redouble my efforts, ripping their platforms upwards even as balls of lava melt away at my face. They’ll thank me later.

Metal screeches, something roars, but it's muted next to the screaming of a child. One of his minions has cottoned on to what is happening, a young man with the kind of muscles that could only be obtained through powers. He’s dressed like a shop assistant, wearing beige pants and a dark blue polo, both of them torn as his body keeps shifting outwards. A Hulk type cape, to borrow the informal classification system the officers used. We really needed something more official.

One of the last platforms to leave gets ripped apart, his gargantuan fist clenched around a small boy’s midsection. The supermarket’s walls detonate in places as the strike teams make their move, our own barrage of powers being brought to bear.

A golden blur streaks past before I can stop them from firing. Another lava ball arcs up and I leap in its way, my shoulder colliding with the store as the momentum carries me forwards.

The wretched creature sees the blur at the same time I do. It holds the kid in front of its face like a shield, while its free arm pulls back. Flesh splits and tears to let extra muscle through, its face contorted into a rictus of pain that it channels into another animalistic roar.

The blur bounces in mid-air, straight over the head of an awestruck child. It arrests its motion instantly, touching down behind them with no visible deceleration.

My flesh burns amid the sizzling lava, but that doesn’t stop the edges of my lips tugging upwards.

Light flashes and the brutish man hits the ground, shrieking as its exposed muscles bounce against the floor. It scrabbles away as the store buckles under the force of our strike team’s crossfire. 

The sun breaks through the clouds as the smoke clears, a heavenly glow illuminating a resplendent bubble made of miniature octagons that fades with the press of a button. Its rays glint off a golden chest piece as the man inside the energy shield rises to his feet. Ocean blue chain mesh crinkles as he blows imaginary smoke off the barrel of a laser pistol, his other arm wrapped tightly around the boy who stares back with naked wonder. He smiles softly, the pearly white of his teeth offsetting the burnished gold visor. His voice stands out in the calamity, soothing and gentle.

“You’ll be alright now, kid. The good guys are here.” 

 I roll my eyes. Hero was showing off again.

-My fingers ripped themselves away from the building as if they had been scalded. Vague memories, almost forgotten, returned to clarity. This hadn’t been Gavel’s work. 

For the second time, I’d been a first-hand witness to the evacuation of Freedom.

So many thoughts started to clash together in my mind that I barely noticed the supermarket fading into the distance, back into the past where it belonged. 

Buildings came and went, a cornucopia of chances for an ambush, but none of that seemed important any more. I don’t know how far I walked before my mind slowed down enough to think things through again. Evidently not far enough. Hero’s dazzling smile still lingered, a reminder that no matter how dark and desperate things appeared, it would all work out in the end. 

Except that easy confidence, that optimism, those had been stolen from us. His smile wasn’t dazzlingly white, it was bloodied and broken, the golden visor cracked as shock seeped through his body, and I try to put him back together again but his legs aren’t there any longer. There’s screaming and shouting, Legend’s trying to coordinate a response but I’m not listening because I can’t stop the bleeding and there’s just so much blood, so much that I can barely see where to aim before Alexandria crashes down on the other side of the street clutching her face... 

Wood shatters and I blink. A bench cracked and splintered, a bright green glow around my hand. 

I let out a ragged sigh as gravity releases its hold on the bench. It’d never been easy, thinking about him. Seeing Richard again like that, so vivid and colourful and alive... 

There was a reason I stuck to photographs of happier times instead of using these Thinker powers more often. They were too good at what they did. 

Despite the noise, nobody had come to investigate. Silently, I offered thanks to the Lord for that. Nobody could be allowed to see Eidolon in a moment of weakness. Even if they were trapped in this domed city, word would get out somehow. Couldn’t afford lapses like these. 

Humanity needed me to be stronger than this. 

I pushed onwards, drinking in as much of the town as I could. I’d even welcome a surprise attack. Anything to get out of my own head. 

Evidently, I’d walked far enough that the buildings had finally moved from sparse decorations on the landscape to something resembling a rural high street, all two-storey mom-and-pop shops where the owners would likely sleep in the second floor overlooking their stores. If you wanted to buy anything that wasn’t essential, you’d have to hope that the lone supermarket stocked it. Otherwise, you’d be facing an hour or two’s drive into the nearest hotspot of civilization. 

It reminded me of the backwater dump I’d grown up in. A place so remote that the concept of a black woman passing through was enough to turn heads. Even now I hesitated to call that cesspool home. 

An acrid scent wafted through the air, overboiled vegetables and burnt chicken making their presence felt as I spun to face the possible assault. 

The only thing in sight was the plastic door to a small home, banging gently against its frame. A sheet of metal with jagged edges hung in the space next to it, replacing a shattered window. Tense seconds passed before I lowered my guard. Caught unawares by a door and some cooking. Part of me pointed out that it wasn’t unheard of for parahuman abilities to have a scent component. That Ward, the power enhancer in the north east, she was proof of that. 

It was a feeble justification. I still wasn’t thinking clearly. 

I allowed myself a deep breath before cautiously opening the door, and peeked inside. 

The furniture was gone, save for a single folding deck chair. Most of the flooring had been torn up at some point, the planks ripped away so crudely that little pieces of wood still littered the ground. Chunks of the inside walls were missing too, wallpaper and plasterboard gone much the same as the planks, providing glimpses of the rest of the rooms. Even the frame holding what was left of the house together had been chipped in places, scratch marks clawed into the timber. 

A small pit had been dug in the centre of the mess where a blue fire burned. The lone chair faced inwards, towards the flickering flames. From the grooves in the dirt, it didn’t appear to have been moved for quite some time. 

It wasn’t much, but perhaps the embers brought them something akin to entertainment. 

An old bowl was hanging above the flame, suspended by a repurposed dish rack. The individual tines of the rack had been broken off to form a makeshift campfire spit, with two thin bars digging into the dirt while a third formed a horizontal beam for the bowl to hang from. Two clothes hangers supported the bowl, balanced inside their triangular shape as their hooks hung from the thin bar. 

Broth bubbled inside; a dark brown mixture that was steadily turning black as the ingredients broiled and burned. Little chunks of overdone chicken bobbed through the slurry, accompanied by flaccid stumps of broccoli. 

Tinges of green energy surrounded my hand and the makeshift kitchen, making the coat hangers rattle as their burden grew lighter, until it escaped gravity’s clutches and rose upwards. I caught the bowl, carefully moving it away from the flames, and-

Glass shatters, tearing into his exposed muscles. He barely finishes shrieking before I body-check him again, charging at the speed of sound. The second hit launches him through the damaged window, into the first floor of a house. The pain lingers for only a moment before I force the reset.

Hero dashes down after me, vents in the rear of his armour flaring and boots pulsing with a subdued light. His landing is considerably more graceful than my opponent’s. He glances my way, and I nod in return. Together, we vault the damaged window, him watching one flank while I cover the other.

“Ah, guests. Will you be staying for dinner?” 

Hero stumbles over the last few fragments of broken glass and I almost follow suit. A couple and their child are sitting at a posh dining table that fills most of the room, an array of crockery and dinnerware spread across its surface. The husband is looking at us with a forced smile, his chair at the head with his hand extended out, as if offering the men who just burst through his window a seat at the table.

The husband’s smile tightens another notch before I can reply. His eyes dart to the side, then back to me. Pupils to the side, back to me, to the side-

I lean back just in the nick of time as an overly-muscled fist smashes through the space where my head had been only moments before. My leg comes up at Mach speed, directly into the man’s stomach. A blast of golden light finishes the job before he can recover, slumping to the floor.

“You’ve really got to be more careful,” Hero mutters, his admonishment undercut by how he’s spinning his pistol before holstering it. At his normal cheerful volume, he answers the trio.

“Sorry, don’t really have time for dinner right now. How about a nice vacation instead?”

The icebreaker falls flat as none of them move. The dad seems torn between getting up and staying seated, the mother’s arms are shaking, while the kid refuses to look at us.

“Someone’s controlling them,” I mutter. Hero shakes his head.

“Look at them. Really look. Powers didn’t do this.” 

He slowly approaches the trio, his hands up in a reassuring gesture. I take his advice and focus, noting the small details. The husband warned us of an attack in his own way, still capable of moving and acting against the villains. The wife’s arms shake at irregular intervals, the movements slight and erratic, never falling into a pattern of motion. An abundance of knives litter the table and Hero isn’t facing his way, but the kid never takes the opportunity to strike.

I look again, at the abrasions on their wrists that haven’t healed. At the tone of their pallid skin, far too pale for people living in California. At the array of dishes laid out across the table, yet only one of them containing food. Nowhere near enough to feed three people.

He’s right. Powers didn’t do this to them.

Why is that more unsettling than the alternative?

I stay back, keeping an eye on the slow rise and fall of the musclebound man’s chest. Long seconds pass as Hero tries to explain the situation, all too aware that we can’t afford to stay here forever. He keeps running into the same verbal wall, that they weren’t allowed to leave and when others tried, they all suffered for it.

Something moves in the corner of my vision and I’m already in motion, enhanced speed pushing Hero down as a ball of lava flies through the shattered window. I catch it with one hand, pinning it tight against my chest to stop the spill over hitting anyone as my other hand braces me against the table, making a mess of the bowls and cutlery in the process.

The scorched flesh abruptly fades, and I glance around to check if any spits of flame had made it through me. Hero’s already upright, twin sci-fi pistols pointing at the window. I murmur to him as the family begin to move, self-preservation instincts finally winning against whatever horrors they’ve endured.

“Now who needs to be careful?” 

Hero chuckles, the warm infectious laugh that’s won over scores of interviews and talk shows.

“Not me. I’ve got Eidolon watching my back.” 

 Underneath the mask, I flash a little smile, and lead the way out.

-The bowl clattered to the floor, broth spilling out and seeping into the earth. 

Damn it. 

Damn this place. 

Damn Pastor for trying to play God. 

Damn Gavel for bringing his mad crusade here. 

Damn him. Damn that wonderful, shining, imbecile. Damn him for leaving us like this.

But most of all, damn me. 

The door clicks shut. The streets close in around me, growing larger as they build to an urban crescendo. The town centre isn’t far now. I can’t see the failed allotments any longer, the trees without leaves in the summer and the false sky is almost hidden beneath awnings. From down here, Freedom looks the same as any other rundown town. 

If only it had been content to stay that way. 

A far-off ringing echoes through the streets, a sound that should provide a modicum of comfort. A church bell, solemn and proud. But just like everything else in this blasted town, it had become warped, wearing its old skin to disguise what was lurking underneath. 

Pastor would be there. Gavel probably heard that too.

I broke into a run, trying to get my head into a semblance of order along the way.

Only when the bell’s chime had drowned out the sound of my own thoughts do I stop, breathing heavily a block away from the town square. I could see the church’s spire over the top of the buildings here, a dull eggshell white that’d long since faded.

Between a pair of buildings, a knickknack shop and a store that only sold hats, is an alley that’s concealed from view unless you were standing directly in front of it. I slipped inside, getting my breath back as the bell’s chime picks up in tempo, ringing in anticipation.

Wood banged against bricks as the bell finally fell silent. Voices rose to take its place, a chorus muttering words in unison that I couldn't make out from here. 

But for what? An event? No, Pastor didn’t think like that.

A service. His own demented take on a Holy Mass.

Part of me wanted nothing more than to break the man, force him to confront what he had done in the name of God.

But that wasn't why I’m here. The postcognition was starting to feel hollow, and I knew it was running out. I called on the power willingly, and slammed my hand against the alley wall, letting the memories wash over me-

“Come on! This way, head for the trucks!” Hero’s holstered his weapons to better direct the last few civilians to the evacuation point. I appreciate the show of faith, trusting me to keep them all safe. It's only me watching their backs now, the strike teams retreating while we pressed on to rescue any stragglers. A risky endeavour, but certainly worthwhile.

We finally caught the lava thrower, a young woman with deep cracks underneath her eyes and arms that had been melted down to reveal charred bones. She’s struggling weakly against her bonds, some handcuffs built from a gold alloy that only Hero seems to make. She hisses as the bones in her forearms make contact with the restraints, smashing her wrists against them in a futile struggle to free herself.

I can’t help her now. Focus on the others. Then gut the one responsible for all this.

As if on cue, two more of Pastor’s followers round the corner. An older couple, both with greying hair, and the harsh cracks in their skin that all his victims seem to possess. The man only has one good eye, the socket of the other glowing with an ethereal power, while the woman flickers in and out of sight. Every time I think I’ve got a lock on her she vanishes, only to appear somewhere else.

I grit my teeth at the sight. They just keep coming, and I can’t afford to drop my powers without someone getting hurt before the new abilities kick in. They’ve been slowing down, a decade of crime fighting taking its toll.

Shoving my arm into the wall of the nearest house, I tug at its heart to form another orb, the front of the building starting to compress, and

And  

And  

And  

When I come to, I’m on the ground. Hero is in a similar position, collapsed onto one knee. The vanishing woman is lingering over him, a long blade in her hands that’s slowly working on the lava thrower’s bonds. She laughs, and it sounds hollow, like an echo in a deep cavern.

Enhanced speed floods me, and I fail to move an inch.

A single glowing eye comes into view, the old man grinning with a smile of broken teeth. When he opens his mouth, the back of his throat is lit up with the same glow coming from his eye. An immobilisation power.

I cease struggling, and the old man cackles.

His jubilation is cut short as I force another reset, punching upwards before he has a chance to blink. He feels fragile, in the brief moment when my fist connects with his eye socket. He staggers, losing his advantage as I send him sprawling into a wall. The old lady starts to flicker but she’s too slow, age and whatever Pastor’s done to her ruining her reactions, and I tackle her into an alley, hitting the brickwork on the way.

She slumps, I reset.

“Containment isn’t working,” I grunt, pulling Hero off the floor. He’s still reeling, but his helmet shakes in response.

“Gotta stick to the plan. Get everyone out safely.” 

“We can’t cover the transports if we’re being knocked senseless every minute.” 

Hero grimaces, smoothing it out so quickly I almost missed it. "We’re almost done. Just have to hold on a little longer and we’ll be home in time for supper.” 

Before I can answer, wood smashes against bricks and we both look towards the town centre.

A congregation is steadily moving out of the church there, thirty odd capes all with the cracks in their skin, working their way down the steps and onto the streets. An honour guard, leaving the church empty.

“...We can end this.” I glance back at Hero, conviction starting to flood my voice. “We can finish this, right now. You and I, we can take him.” 

I’m already preparing to rush the church when Hero grabs my arm. “Too risky. If he does his thing again, we’ll be unconscious in the middle of a crazed mob." 

“We cut off the head of the snake, we can save everyone. Isn’t a proper victory better than this botched evacuation?” 

I can see the indecision warring underneath his visor. He wants to take the fight to the one responsible, but something’s holding him back.

“What aren’t you telling me?” 

Hero swears, pulling something out of his utility belt with his free hand. The congregation have all reached the street, fanning out. We won’t get a better shot at their leader.

“We can’t kill him,” Hero forces the words out, and I can tell he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He shoves something into my hand, a scrap of paper. I unfold it, and see writing that’s far too familiar for comfort. A stylised C, or the omega symbol tilted at an angle, underscores three words.

Pastor Must Survive.

“I found it inside my suit before we headed out today.” Hero reluctantly takes the scrap of paper back, a burst from his pistol incinerating it into ash. I look at him, and back at the tortured capes this maniac has created. The woman with her arms burnt down to the bone. The one-eyed man filled with an otherworldly glow. The young man at the supermarket, his flesh ripping away to let more muscle through.

I can only force out a few words of my own.  

“They want him alive?!”  

-and I let the postcognition fall away, its job done. 

We’d argued afterwards, about how the situation had been handled. Doctor Mother had pointed to Pastor as a necessary example, that his capture would be a greater boon for the young Protectorate’s reputation than a kill. When that answer hadn’t satisfied anyone in the room, she made the case that without Pastor, it might be impossible to reverse what he had done to the people of Freedom. His victims were still alive, but if we took further action, there was no telling if they would stay that way. 

Alexandria had expressed frustration at the Doctor for using her life's work as evidence for letting the man live. Legend was furious that we hadn’t managed to pull everyone out of the city. Hero, he’d been more subdued. 

He’d confided in me much later that he’d begun working on his own way to try and reverse Pastor’s power. It was leagues outside of anything he’d built before, a bio-tinkering problem rather than a mechanical one, but that hadn’t stopped him. 

The prototype still sat under lock and key, buried along with the rest of his work. 

Only after he’d gone to a better place had the Doctor decided to tell me the truth. Pastor was a potential asset. Another in a gigantic line of long shots that might have an effect against humanity’s extinction. His powers bent the rules a little, providing a sliver of a possibility of a chance that he, or one of his victims, could be the silver bullet we needed. 

That was all there was to it. He’d been walled away because someday, his powers might make all the difference in the world. 

It had taken time to understand the necessity of assets like that. Longer still to make any kind of peace with it. 

I finally understood the real reason behind my agent choosing postcognition. These little reminders, they were necessary. Because no matter how I felt about the man, or his fantasy town, or his debasement of the Lord, none of that was important right now. Cauldron wanted him alive, and if Gavel got to him first, then everything this town had suffered would be for nothing. It might sting, but I wouldn’t sully the sacrifices others had made by falling short now. 

As the chanting rose in volume, I uttered a simple chant of my own. 

I hadn’t come here to stop Pastor. 

I’d come here to rescue Pastor. 

I could only hope that Hero would forgive me. 

Chapter Text

“My faithful! My children! It is a blessing and a pleasure to see you all again!”

I slipped through the wide-open doors of the church as the fevered crowd cheered; a discordant wave of noise that only served to remind me just how badly Pastor had hurt his victims. Some cheers sounded distant, some bestial, a few hollow, yet all were too excited. 

“A day of remembrance, but also a day of hope. Remember the many years we have waited, cleansing and preparing ourselves for the journey ahead, and honour them with your actions today!”

An older woman raised her arms in celebration as I quietly seated myself on the end of the pew closest to the exit. Just a latecomer to the rabid festivities. 

Thick rimmed glasses sat on her nose with a shattered lens, but she didn’t seem to care. A young, athletic man was reflected in the broken glass, complete with deep cracks in his skin that ran from his eyes, wound around his shoulders, and ended halfway down his forearms. It would suffice as a disguise. Shapeshifting wasn’t exactly my forte, but I didn’t have time to wait for another power. 

I lingered on the mirror image for a moment too long, and the woman caught me staring. When she spoke, her voice seemed strangely drowsy, as if she were in a trance. 

“Almost time. Almost ready.”

Her smile seemed too wide to be natural, all molars that had yellowed from a lack of care.

Another cheer went up before I had to answer her. Over the heads of the raucous crowd in their wooden benches, I got my first look at the man himself. Pastor stood inside a pulpit near the front of the church, raising himself over others as he basked in their adoration. He looked heavyset without being fat, with fair hair that’d been roughly cut short, and skin that had gone pale from a lack of natural sunlight. 

But what drew my eye was the clothes he’d chosen. A cream ankle-length robe, the threads worn and fraying. He’d adorned it with a burgundy stole, a long strip of cloth draped over his back and cinched around the neck. 

Vestments. Holy vestments, the garb of a priest. 

He had the sheer audacity to pretend to be a holy man while unleashing demons on the world.

“Already our perseverance has been blessed. Our continued worship, so powerful and just, will finally be spread to the heathens!” 

I punched the air along with the others, grimacing on the inside. He’d learned about the breach. That could complicate matters. 

“The journey ahead will be difficult, but with my guidance, I know we shall not falter!” 

His voice wasn’t particularly charismatic, but it was loud, amplified by the acoustics in here. He reminded me of a televangelist pandering to his audience, twisting a few choice excerpts from the good book for his own gain. I could picture him now, offering false salvation with one hand and taking his follower's wallets with the other. 

“We have all suffered great hardships, each of us gathered here. Now our prize is within reach. I ask you, every one of you, will you reach out with me and seize our reward?!” 

The crowd’s response was more fit for a mosh pit than a holy sanctum. As they screamed their devotion, I glanced around the church, checking for Pastor’s possible escape routes if things went sour. 

His pulpit led down onto the chancel, a raised section at the front of the church. A few tiered benches lined the walls there, that would have hosted a choir once upon a time. I could just make out two recessed alcoves tucked away on the far side of the benches. Usually those would lead to the priest’s quarters or up to the bell tower, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Pastor had hidden a quick way out there instead. 

Past the alcoves, at the very back, sat the altar. It was cast partially in shadow from a large bronze crucifix mounted to the rear wall, looking out at the rest of the church. I let out a sad smile as the crowd roared. The Lord still watched over this house, twisted as it had become. I could only pray that he would provide succour for Pastor’s victims once this was all over. It was the least they deserved. 

My gaze started to wander from the altar, only to catch sight of the tapestry wrapped around its base. Most altars had some kind of cloth covering, often with simple decorations or a coloured trim, but there was something off about this one. 

From this distance and with so many people jostling in their seats, I couldn’t get a good look, but from back here it appeared to be roughly stitched together out of a myriad of spare materials. Most likely the leftovers from the supplies that were dropped weekly through the hole in the dome’s top. Burlap sacks were sewn to old clothing, torn up bedsheets tied to cuts of canvas, all looped around the altar. Little figures were visible on them, but I was too far back to make them out clearly. 

Pastor laughed, and his followers laughed with him. His speech had moved on while I’d tuned him out, and I almost missed the cue to laugh along. Thankfully no-one here had eyes for anybody except him. He gestured towards the side of the church, indicating another tapestry made in a similar manner. I’d dismissed them when I first walked in, thinking they were just part of the scenery. 

“For it was they who cast the first stone, the angels who lost their way! They who stole our families, our friends!” 

The little figures were easier to see on the wall’s tapestry. Crude drawings, growing fainter as ink steadily ran out, and replaced by whatever was left. Rough collages of people made out of torn food wrappers, or twine bent into a humanoid shape. When those had been depleted, they’d moulded handfuls of dirt to look like a person. 

Some of the images were drawn floating above their two-dimensional companions. Others fired blasts of permanent marker, or radiated splinters of wood. The day heroes came to Freedom, retold through some kind of midway point between an old comic book and a child’s art project. 

“These fallen angels do not feel remorse, nor empathy! They attacked our homes, jealous of our piousness and our way of life!” 

It struck me just how long it had been since someone had mentioned angels in a sermon. The word had been anathematized over time, to the point that even the most devout were hesitant to mention it. Attend a Christmas sermon, and you’d hear Gabriel referred to as a holy messenger, with no mention of the dreaded ‘a’ word. 

But Pastor wouldn’t know that. He’d already been trapped inside the dome for the better part of five years before Lausanne. The world had moved on, but Freedom hadn’t. 

“But God was with us that day! He gave us guidance, instructed us to create that holy barrier to keep the invaders out!” 

For the better part of thirteen years, these people had been trapped in here. Thirteen years, broken and shattered and stuck with the man who’d damaged them in the first place. Pastor hadn’t been idle for that time. 

He’d been feeding them a story. Freedom’s evacuation, viewed through the lens of a lunatic. He’d built a religion out of Christianity’s carcass and the Protectorate’s actions, with himself as the grand saviour. Deception after deception, crafting a semblance of what the town had once been with the promise that he could make it all better again. 

Someone stood up on the pew a few rows forwards. Even upright, they barely reached the heads of the people next to them. I felt my heart sink as they waved at Pastor. 

Young enough that their smile had gaps in it, missing baby teeth that had yet to be replaced. Wearing mismatched clothes too large for them, hand-me-downs full of little holes from years of wear and tear. Too young to have been here when we’d evacuated Freedom. 

Tiny cracks sat under their eyes, as they cheered along with the rest of his victims. 

The domed city and Pastor's lies had been all they’d ever known. 

Another cheer went up at Pastor’s words. The child looked back, and I bellowed along, letting the emotions wash away in the shout. Their innocent smile widened at the sight, and they stomped their feet in tune with the renewed chant.

I couldn’t kill Pastor. But he’d pay for this, somehow. 

“Already, our gracious Lord has seen fit to arm us for our glorious salvation! An apostle, sent to aid us! Just as Joshua broke the walls of Jericho, so too did his divine instrument!” 

One of the doors at the rear of the church slammed opened, and a giant of a man forced his way through a space too small for his bulk. A hulking figure of pure muscle, his stolen workout clothes slightly more torn than they had been in his broadcast, with a glassy look in his eyes. He had his own length of rebar in hand, torn straight from the walls, clutching it so tightly it was biting into his palm. The giant crouched as Pastor leaned over and patted his cheek affectionately. 

I’d been too slow. Pastor had reached Gavel before me. 

You could almost smell the smoke as my plan went up in flames. I’d hoped to intercept one of them before they found the other, facing each with three tailored powers. Instead, if something went wrong here, I’d be facing both and an army of followers. The shapeshifting would be worthless in a fight, the kinetic energy shield was purely defensive, and I’d been drawing on that plus the gravity manipulation since I arrived. They couldn’t have much left in the tank. 

I waited for the next cheer to duck out of the fervour while the room was preoccupied. At my prime it would have been child’s play to immobilise the crowd, shut down Pastor, and reverse whatever had been done to Gavel. Someone had to be controlling him, but this was a sizeable crowd, and I had no idea which of Pastor’s followers was capable of mastering others. 

Instead, I would be forced to sneak out like a coward, processing the new information along the way. Pastor clearly wasn’t in need of rescue - an error on my part. Gavel still had to be removed from the situation, but right now, things were stable. No need to rush into this.

“Already, the blasphemers and the sacrilegious, those who would deny our ascendancy, have come forth to pray at my altar for salvation!” Pastor proclaimed, and my head whipped back up at his words. Had he spotted me? 

Green energy began to swirl around my hand before someone else was forcibly marched out onto the chancel. Three others followed, escorted by even more of Pastor’s victims. One of them raked their four yellow eyes over the crowd, saliva dripping from a maw that couldn’t quite force itself shut. Clear drool mixed with the faded yellow of melted containment foam, the droplets hissing as they landed on the floor and melted through the woodwork. 

I stared up at the jaguar man, at the four PRT officers gathered next to him with their shredded body armour, and lowered myself back into my seat. 

“Yet salvation is not a gift, to be freely given. It is a struggle. Repenting your sins is but the first step on the long road-” Pastor’s head rocked to the side in shock, his speech abruptly cut short as a glob of spittle landed on his cheek. His victims turned towards the captive officers, watching intently as one of them stared daggers at Pastor. She was the only woman of the group, with light brown eyes and buttercup blonde hair that had been cut short to meet regulations. I could see bruises starting to develop across her face, but she didn’t seem to care, too focused on channelling every ounce of her fury into glaring at the false prophet. 

“Fuck your salvation,” she spat, her tone acidic. 

The corporal. The one who’d pointed a gun at me. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. 

Pastor blinked twice, too used to being surrounded by his devoted that he’d forgotten what dissent looked like. His voice shifted, the previous arrogance replaced with a degree of flustered frustration. 

“See? See how these heathens stray from the path?! They are in dire need of my guidance.” 

An older man with four arms shoved his way through the group at Pastor’s words, grabbing the offending officer. One set of arms pinned her wrists, while the others held her head still. 

“But before they can take the first steps into our glorious world, they must first be reborn!” A triumphant cheer went up from the crowd at Pastor’s latest remark. My mind kept chasing itself in circles, searching for any solution that wasn’t ‘start a massive fight.’ 

“We shall dash them like pieces in a potter’s vessel, and break them with an iron rod, before forging them anew!” 

It seemed so small in the moment, but a spike of annoyance passed through me as he used the book of Psalms to justify violence. He’d even misquoted the verse. 

“Come now, my child. Cast aside your old ways, and accept the gift of God.” 

The four-armed man forced the struggling corporal forwards, her expression mixed between fear and fury. The crowd had stopped cheering, every face fixed forward and rife with anticipation. Pastor smiled, a kindly smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and extended his hand towards the captives. 

I’d seen enough. 

Pastor’s arm slammed back to his side; a green glow looped around his wrist. Wood creaked as the crowd was forcibly seated, each of them falling under the sway of strengthened gravity. Jaws clacked as their mouths were forced shut, and more than one neck clicked as their heads were bowed towards the floor. 

No line of sight, no chance to move, unable to speak a command. It wasn’t perfect, but it should be enough to stop whoever was controlling Gavel from doing the same to me. 

I rose as they fell, green energy rippling from my body. The shapeshifting power reversed, and Pastor smiled wide as I resumed my normal appearance. 

“This charade has gone on long enough. Let them go,” I uttered, my words echoing through the old hall much as Pastor’s had. 

“This must be providence. After all this time, you have returned!” His tone spoke of genuine happiness, as if my appearance was confirming some long-held belief. 

“Surrender your hostages and we can negotiate a peaceful solution.” It was like trying to argue with a brick wall. Pastor continued his tirade, oblivious to the fact I’d said anything at all. 

“You were here at the beginning. It is only fitting that you should be here to witness our next step.” He tried to punctuate his speech by taking a physical step towards the restrained officers, only to notice the verdant glow had extended to his legs. 

He gave me a contented smile instead, watching as I processed his words, his eyes flicking back towards the tapestries decorating the church. I followed his gaze, studying the pictures.

White twine, bent to form humanoid shapes. They were running from a child’s drawing of destroyed buildings and flaming wrecks, rendered in black marker. Chalk etchings of stick figures were flailing in fear from a roughly human image, made from scraps of polished copper and solder that looked almost golden in the right light. 

Above them all were dark green shards of glass from shattered bottles, arranged in the shape of someone hooded and cloaked. The image reappeared throughout the tapestry, leaving two-dimensional devastation in its wake. Houses of matchsticks and scraps of foil were ripped to pieces, stick figures pulled into a swirling vortex as their counterparts on the ground tried to get away, unable to escape the ominous figure. 

Over and over again, throughout the church, the man in green was there. On yellowed tapestries made of actual cloth and drawn by steady hands, scrawled on fresher linens made of leftover scraps. I could almost measure the progression of time through how the fabled man in green was shown, growing more destructive and warped until he simply became a blur, a green smudge on the artwork that invoked the same primal fear of a natural disaster from the hand-drawn audience. 

Every story needed a villain, and he’d picked me. 

I looked back at Pastor, still with the smile on his face, not in the least bit upset by my actions. Eidolon, the ideal that I was supposed to be, meant so much to so many different people. 

In here, the man in green was a monster of biblical proportions. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d been vilified; it wouldn’t be the last. But the sheer lengths Pastor had gone to, building me up into this villainous idol for so many years, that gave me pause. 

Would this be how the rest of Bet would remember Eidolon when all was said and done? A monster in a story, who brought carnage in his wake? 

Haunted stares flickered through my mind, despondent men and women from an observatory that no longer existed. Seething glares and muttered words of hatred from those I had fought and bled alongside. A stranger wearing my face, in a jet-black costume that emanated a pale orange-red glow, plunging a knife into Myrddin's throat. 

Maybe it had already started. 

I shoved the thought away before it could take root. I might not be a good man, but I was a damn sight better than Pastor. He was living a fantasy, enslaving others to help him fulfil a zealot’s dream. My actions, each and every one of them, had been made to help others. When the time came for my judgement, the failures would pale against the successes. All the sacrifices would be worthwhile in the end. 

A refrain that felt less certain every time it passed my mind.

I let out a breath, and looked away. Pastor’s victims were still pressed tightly to the pews, preventing whoever had the master power from seeing me, and protecting the crowd from stampeding over each other if things went wrong. Gavel hadn’t even attempted to move, his eyes remaining glassy and unfocused. Either his puppeteer was incapacitated with gravity holding them down, or they were unwilling to act without their leader’s say so. Good enough. 

I clenched my fist, and the four-armed man’s limbs shot backwards as his hold on the corporal was forcibly removed. She scrambled away, to the relative safety of her comrades. The four took one look at the pews filled with hostile opponents, and started to limp back towards the side door instead. 

“This way,” I called out, as I drifted down alongside them. 

Not out of choice. The gravity power was starting to flicker. I’d drawn on it for too long. 

They hesitated, but eventually changed direction, following me through the centre of the church towards the large entrance doors. Dozens of eyes tracked our boots as we passed, those in the aisle seats struggling to catch us along the way. 

Pastor watched our retreating forms intently, his fingers twitching. 

We were over the threshold, but it was slow going. I debated for a moment if barricading the church doors behind us would help, only to catch sight of Gavel once again. Perhaps not. 

“Pick up the pace,” I grunted at the officers, as they limped down the front steps. They collectively shot me evil looks, heavy boots smashing against the cobbled path as they hobbled away. They’d been through the ringer, but it would all be for nothing if they didn’t speed things up. 

The green wreaths around my wrists sparked again, the last sputtering embers trying in vain to hold on for just a little longer. I could hear the crowd starting to struggle to their feet behind us, and the officers weren’t even a street away. 

Someone needed to stay behind to cover their retreat. I slowed my run, turning back to face the church. 

The officers took another handful of steps before one of them noticed. He looked around as the others kept moving.

“You’re in no shape to fight. Get out of here.” I didn’t listen to his response, straining to keep a grasp on gravity for a few more seconds. It didn’t help.

With a final flare, the green glow winked out of existence. Another option gone forever. 

The chanting began anew as the church roof shattered and a shadow fell across me, a snarling silhouette that blocked out the light. That was more like it. 

Gavel’s club whistled through the air, a starting pistol that signalled the main event. 

I pulled my arms up to guard my face, a boxer’s stance, ready for the next round. 

A storefront that had survived over a decade inside the walls crumbled as a glassy-eyed Gavel flew shoulder-first into the masonry, the force of his blow reversed into his own arm. The crowd didn’t spare him a second look as they began to march, their chanting sounding more and more like a war song with each footstep. He shook himself off, brick dust spilling over his shoulders, and casually slotted himself into the march as if he’d been part of the congregation all along. 

Pastor spread his arms wide, shouting encouragement from the backlines.

“Forwards, my children! Forwards, to our salvation!” 

I shook my head, letting something new rise up inside to replace the gravity power. My hands began to shake, tremors that started in my fingertips and worked their way up until my forearms were vibrating. Pointing one arm downrange, I raised my hand, palm upright, and let the vibrations fly. 

Dirt sprayed up as a thin trench was blasted into the ground. The shakes in my arm slowed briefly, entering a refractory period before speeding up again. Concussive force generation. Not especially strong, and with a need to recharge between shots. Part of me must care too much about Pastor’s victims if I was receiving a non-lethal power now, of all times. 

I looked out at the oncoming horde, almost driving themselves mad with anticipation of what lurked beyond their little town. Three broke away, dashing straight ahead. 

A woman with quills erupting from her body, her skin riddled with scars both fresh and old. A man, his nerves visible as electricity coursed around him. And a kid barely out of their teens, their run a lopsided gait as they tried to balance one musclebound side of their body with the other untouched side. 

Pastor’s victims, his congregation of the damned, they heavily outnumbered me. With their powers, it would be trivial to work around one man, cut off the retreating officers and make it out of the breach. 

The woman with quills ripped two of them out of her forearm, her palms bleeding as she wielded the sharpened instruments. 

Pastor had done something to them, not just to their bodies but to their minds. He’d stripped away the people they used to be, and built something new there instead. He’d built a story, telling his flock of the world outside the walls. Of himself, as a righteous saviour. 

But he’d miscalculated along the way. 

The man subsumed by electricity turned into a raging current for the length of a heartbeat. 

He’d made me into the villain of this tale. Fed his people the delusion of the invasion of Freedom, with me representing everything they’d lost. A large enough role that they’d made drawings of me, years after I’d last been here. He'd even labelled me a fallen angel, because Pastor was nothing if not melodramatic. 

Gavel's rebar banged against the ground as they marched, in tune with the chant.

They wouldn’t go around me. They needed to beat me, because that’s how Pastor’s story ended. They couldn't take back everything they'd lost if the man in green was still in the picture. 

The lopsided teen swung his oversized fist as the crowd charged. 

But I had a story of my own. 

His fist collided with my nose, and I tilted my head as he recoiled in pain. The others crashed forwards, a wave of frenzied zealotry against an impenetrable wall of me. 

It was the story of a man who fought monsters. Who battled demons and villains and the scourges of the world. 

The woman with quills sliced at my neck, the kinetic shield shattering their tip on impact. 

It was the story of a man who knew a terrible truth. Of how that man had dedicated the best years of his life, sacrificed pleasure and desire, friends and family, all in the name of stopping that truth from coming to pass. 

Lightning bolts ripped along the street, tearing through the paintwork of several houses and igniting what little wood remained in several places. Three of Pastor’s own people staggered from the electrical touch. 

It was the story of a man who bore the weight of the world, who only bothered to get out of bed in the morning because of the millions who could die if he didn’t. 

The blows kept raining down, and I stood there unflinching against them all. A symphony of shattered bones and shredded muscles as their own strikes were turned against them. 

It was the story of a man who had come too damn far, given up too much, to stop now. 

Gently, I brought my hands together, fingers interlaced, and fired the concussive power. The force bounced from palm to palm, reflected hundreds of times every second by the kinetic shield, unable to find a way out. The vibrations slowed, sped up, slowed, and sped up again, the power growing in strength as it charged, firing over and over again into a handheld cage until my arms finally stilled. 

My fingertips parted, and the shockwave tore the street apart. 

The smouldering flames were snuffed from the force, shattering windows and bowling over the crazed horde. The effects reached Pastor, still stood on the top step leading down from his church, and knocked the man flat on his back as the church doors rattled on their hinges. 

A sonic boom, in the palm of my hand. Not quite as subtle as gravity manipulation, but it did the trick. 

The poor souls that had been closest to me were writhing on the ground, clawing at their heads. Ruptured eardrums were never pleasant to deal with, but it would keep them out of the way. The ones slightly further back clutched at windowsills or low-hanging brickwork, slowly pulling themselves upright again. At the very rear of the group, the young child I’d seen before was crouched next to Pastor, helping the false prophet to his feet. 

“You fucker.” 

And then there was the seven-foot-tall mountain of a man, whose eyes were no longer glassy. 

Gavel calmly walked through the crowd, head sweeping from side to side, uncaring of where his gigantic footsteps landed. Watching him move was akin to watching a shark hunting for its next meal. 

He rolled his shoulders, and gave me a feral grin. Slowly, he looked back the way he'd come, towards the man on the church steps, still struggling upright.

My fingers vibrated as I cracked my knuckles. 

Time to see which of our stories would be coming true. 

Chapter Text

Ever since the first superpowered villain appeared, there had been people trying to understand them. The field of psychology had gone through a metamorphosis almost overnight, leading to a new breed of criminal psychologists determined to understand these strange and scary individuals. 

Theories were discarded almost as quickly as they were made, scientific models dumped in the bin the moment another villain emerged to re-break the already shattered mould. Pieces of the puzzle had been unearthed along the way, but any scholar worth the name would admit that they’d barely begun to plumb the depths.

Childhood issues, the allure of money, lashing out at an unjust world, misguided vengeance, all the old problems that led people astray, now turned up by a factor of a hundred the moment powers entered the equation. A thief could singlehandedly empty a shopping mall in a night. One cape’s lust for power could lead to them ruling an entire city. 

The unbridled hunger in Gavel’s eyes as he looked towards the church spoke of a different reason. In the old world, he might have lived his life repressing those urges, learned to work through them, or even received the help he clearly needed. 

But that wasn’t this world. 

“Guess I should be honoured. Didn’t think any of you cowards had the balls to follow me in here,” rumbled the giant, gently running his thumb along the edge of the rebar in his hand. 

Anorexic fingers scrabbled at the hem of his pants, as one of Pastor’s victims tried to pull themselves back up again. Gavel sneered in disgust. Idly, he shifted a gargantuan foot, bringing his boot down on the stick-thin limb without a care in the world. 

“Now then,” he said, a predatory smile on his lips, “you gonna fight me?” 

I brought my palms together, another shockwave beginning to coalesce within. He chuckled. 

“Always did like a challenge.” 

His footfalls thundered as Gavel turned and sprinted towards Pastor, ploughing through the recovering crowd to a chorus of cries and screams. I looked away, and saw the PRT officers were still in view as they hauled themselves down the road. Another impossible choice to add to the long line. Stay here and secure their exit, or save Pastor before he becomes a smear on the sidewalk? 

Four lives, against a chance at stopping extinction. If our roles were reversed, I hoped they’d make the same choice. 

I crouched, my hands next to the floor and a little bit behind me. Concussive energy roiled and writhed, desperate for a release. The kinetic shield still had enough juice left for a few good bursts. 

The next moment I was rocketing forwards, the sonic boom propelling me up and over the crowd, over the buildings, faster than even Gavel could move.

Redirected force lashed out on the landing, shattering the bottom step leading up to the church. My teeth rattled from the impact, the shield running on fumes. Pastor paled in the brief moment before the aftereffects reached him, sending both him and his child victim head over heels. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna live up to the famous reputation.” 

My flesh tingled, Gavel’s insult going unheeded as my third power went back to work. Cells divided and multiplied at the speed of thought, shapeshifting equalling the playing field between myself and the insane crusader.

When I turned, I stood head and shoulders over the mountain of a man, my enlarged palms already pressed tightly together. For once, my literal shadow matched my metaphorical one. 

Gavel skidded back a step or two, digging his rebar into the ground to brace himself as a larger shockwave rocked the length of the street. Several of Pastor’s victims left the ground for a brief moment from the gale force blow. 

Someone vomited as I clapped once more, the vertigo from being a rag doll in the concussive storm giving them nausea. Gavel forced his way forwards through the shockwave, making up ground only to slide back after each step. A stalemate. 

My arms were already steadying before I’d even finished the thought, my agent deeming the concussive force insufficient and drawing it back. 

I needed something to quell the crowd, a power to stop Gavel, protection from whatever mental compulsion he’d been under, a way to keep Pastor safe, a way to keep me safe while all of those abilities reached their full capacity... 

Never enough time. Never the right powers. 

Something new started to swell inside, potentially a partial solution- 

“Apostle! Your treachery will not go unnoticed!” Pastor wheezed, still winded. Gavel’s gaze flicked between him and me. 

“I’m gonna enjoy shutting him up.” 

Jabbing his improvised club into the dirt, Gavel used the length of rebar like a shovel, digging underneath the whimpering form of a young man with cracks beneath the eyes, and scooped them up into his free hand. They clawed at his face, overgrown nails slicing ineffectually against his skin. They could spend the next year trying to carve their way through him, and have nothing to show for it. 

When it came to raw defence, the Brute had won the jackpot. His powers limited the amount of damage he could take at any one time, as well as reducing what little damage did get through to a fraction of its original amount. Detonate a bomb in his lap, and he might end up with a sunburn. Coupled with his enhanced strength, he was the living definition of an unstoppable force. 

“Been too fucking long since I got to do this.” 

As if he was serving a tennis ball, Gavel tossed his latest prey two or three feet up in the air, and shifted his stance until he looked like a baseball player at bat. 

Then, with both hands gripping the club, he swung. 

Normally, a blow from someone as strong as him would shatter bones and liquefy organs. But Gavel liked to play with his food. 

He could choose to transfer his power to things he touched. Turning his rebar into a nigh-invincible club, which in turn could daisy-chain his damage reduction to anything it hit. His target soared through the air towards me, screaming the entire way. 

If Gavel was the unstoppable force, then my kinetic shield was the immovable object. I could see the terror in the projectile man’s eyes as the gifted immunity left him, in the half second before we collided. 

Pastor’s pale cheeks gained a healthy red blush from the shower of gore that followed. I staggered back a step from the collision, feeling the shield eke out a last gasp. 

“Tch. Aim’s off.” 

Stabbing the rebar into the ground, the giant rolled his shoulders and hefted two more members of the congregation off the floor, one in each meaty hand. 

I dropped the dwindling defensive power and moved before he could swing again, feeling my entire body tingle as I pushed the shapeshifting to its limits. Limbs lengthened, my torso stretched, until I looked more like an enormous serpent than a man, slithering down the steps. 

Gavel grunted in annoyance as I snaked my body around him, rubber limbs wrapping dozens of times around his gigantic arms, pinning him in place. Fingers turned into tendrils that wrapped themselves around the buildings on either side of the street, a verdant web with him caught in the middle. Couldn't swing a club without any leverage. 

Plaster flaked off of buildings as my fingers dug deeper into the brickwork, scrabbling to anchor myself in the crumbling storefronts. Gavel jabbed outwards with his elbows, two pains piercing into my sides, as he tried to push away the bonds wrapping around his arms. When that didn’t work, he began pulling at the edge of my contorted form, trying to rip my body away with just his fingers. I didn’t fight it, simply letting the shapeshifting lengthen my torso every time he pulled. 

By the time he’d cottoned on to what was happening, I was half again as large as I had been. The extra mass tightened like elastic snapping back into place, the new folds of skin squeezing around his neck. 

Despite his inhuman strength, he still needed to breathe. A lesson we’d all learned the hard way. 

His throat was almost as thick as tree trunk, and I could feel the tendons strain each time I constricted. Something new swelled inside, almost in response to his struggles. Waves of non-aggressive feelings pulsed off of me, an emotion power blooming to life. 

My elongated neck turned at angles that would have been impossible for a normal man to manage, watching as the riotous crowd began to lose some of their frenzied energy. An aura of calm, reaching out to those around me. Even Gavel started to slacken, his jabs losing their edge as the fight went out of him. 

I would have called it a victory, if it wasn’t for the devilish gleam in his eye. 

Moments before, he’d almost been on the verge of panicking. Then the aura’s pulse, my answer to pacifying him, the victims, and Pastor all at once, had given him a moment to collect his thoughts. A recurring problem with emotion powers, you could never tell exactly how they would affect someone. Especially someone as twisted in the head as Gavel. 

He sucked down as much of a breath as he could manage. I pulsed the aura again, calming the crowd even as I felt his leg muscles tense. 

Then he jumped. 

New holes were torn in the storefronts as my tendril fingers were forcibly pulled upwards, gouging lines in the walls for a painful moment until I yanked them back. Gavel let out a muffled chuckle, and I tightened the rest of my body in response. 

A wave of cracked eyes stared up in wonder at the flesh kite wrapped tightly around a laughing maniac. Pastor was shouting something, snapping some of them out of the enthrallment, but his words were lost in the rush of air. 

Shop rooftops blew past us, and for a moment I had a minor pang of concern that we wouldn’t stop without hitting the artificial sky. 

Thankfully, we started to fall without breaking the dome, Gavel twisting and turning all the way down. My eyes darted to Pastor, making certain that we weren’t about to crush the man I was trying to rescue. A small mercy that the leap hadn’t put him directly underneath us. 

A moment too late, I realised what was underneath us instead. 

“Gnnh!” 

Like a spit through a kebab, the rebar skewered my side as we landed. Gavel bounced off the impalement, earning nothing more than a small bruise on his exposed shoulder. He rolled away as I deflated, limbs retracting and torso shrinking until I was my usual size. 

Something squelched and a pained gasp wheezed its way out of me, like air escaping a balloon. Every slight movement drew another wince, my hands coming away slick as I tried to feel the wound. Red-hot lances speared through my mind, slowing any attempt at shapeshifting my way out. 

People were sprinting around me, the calming spell broken as my agent ripped the aura away, deeming it woefully insufficient. I didn’t have the breath to argue. 

Two Gavels... no, one Gavel, flickered through my vision. Flesh-coloured lumps were bodily throwing themselves against him, mimicking my attempt to pin him down. 

Not lumps. Pastor’s victims. I squeezed my eyes shut, the blurred images sharpening again when I reopened them. 

The pain was excruciating, but I knew, instinctually, that it would pass. I’d been shot, incinerated, scattered into atoms, and every time I bounced back. Once again, I placed my life in the hands of a higher power, praying that it would manifest the right ability. 

All I had to do was survive until it arrived. 

With an agonizing sluggishness, I gritted my teeth and grabbed for the bar. Slowly, embarrassingly slowly, I pulled at the corrugated metal, gingerly trying to lift myself off the stake. It was shaky work, and every breath rattled me to the core. 

For anyone else, that would have been enough. But I still had a mission here, and the congregation weren’t slowing Gavel down. 

Shuddering, I wrapped one hand around the rebar, fingers pointing inwards, feeling the edge of the shorn metal biting against my gloves. A second of screams passed from the crowd before I could muster up the strength to move its twin, hissing through clenched teeth as I turned over slightly, just enough to force my other arm underneath my body. 

My fingertips flared, bright red lasers cascading out and slicing through both ends of the embedded rebar. I toppled sideways, biting down a pained grunt as the metal vacated my side. 

Regeneration finally arrived, strands of flesh reaching out to their counterparts and entwining themselves, as if someone was knitting my skin. It wasn’t fast, but it was the best power that had been made available. 

Not that I could wait for it to finish.

The crowd threw themselves out of the way as the blazingly hot lasers scorched the air, smouldering against Gavel’s spine with a muted hiss. Half a dozen men and women were trying to wrestle him into submission to no avail, but it was the tiniest pinpricks of light and heat that drew his attention away from Pastor. 

“You just don’t know when to fucking quit, do ya?” 

He rumbled out a laugh, amused despite the small army baying for his blood. 

“Want a front row seat? Never took you for a spectat-…" Gavel stiffened, his voice trailing off as I launched five beams towards his face, the other hand pressed against the recovering wound. Pastor’s followers leapt off of him in fear of the lasers that had severed steel, but besides burning a few new holes in his workout top, Gavel seemed unfazed.

I kept at it, blasting a continuous barrage into his head and chest, whittling him down. His powers might limit the amount of damage he could take, but that amount wasn’t zero. Like a trickle of water breaking through a dam, it could eventually flood whatever lay beyond. 

He took a wobbly step towards me, and I brought my other hand to bear, trying to stifle a wince as the air made contact with the raw skin on my side. He kept coming, his steps growing in ease with each footfall. If he’d been a hero, I’d have commended his tenacity. 

Then something moved out of the corner of my eye. Pastor’s victims, trying to sneak up on me from the side. The lasers lost their concentrated focus for a single moment, but that was all it took for Gavel to bound over the remaining distance between us. 

A meaty palm went around my neck, lifting me clean off the ground as the air went out of my lungs. My fingers scrabbled at his hand, prying at his digits to relieve the building pressure. It was like trying to tug a toy out of a very possessive dog’s mouth. Didn’t matter what I did, his grip was a vice. 

I tried to shapeshift again, grunting in shock as the feeling of something tearing shot up my wounded side. The power that reshaped my cellular structure didn't play nicely with the power that was painstakingly knitting my body back together. Great time to find that out. 

Like a child with an action figure, Gavel grabbed my left arm with his right and pulled it up, holding it in a perfectly straight line away from my torso. No more concentrated lasers. 

Effortlessly, he carried me back to the church, a procession of Pastor’s victims following us. 

“Careful now. His death has long been foretold. Such an occasion should be savoured.” With stuttering movements, I forced myself to look towards Pastor as he stepped forwards, just off to Gavel’s side. But he wasn’t directing his words towards me, or to the supervillain trying to wring my neck. 

Someone snuck out from behind Gavel, and I cursed myself for not seeing it earlier. An innocent gap-toothed smile, a worn t-shirt too large for their frame, and an incredibly potent Master power. 

Pastor hunched over, placing his hand on the young child’s shoulder as he whispered reassurances and guidance into their ear. His victims hadn’t been throwing themselves at Gavel blindly, they’d been distracting him while the kid snuck up and tagged the man. 

One of their arms was held loosely out to the side, the other positioned almost straight up. Slowly, they clenched their tiny fist, and I could feel Gavel’s fingers tightening in response. I tried to restructure my neck, to expand my airways as much as possible, and felt the same feeling of being savaged by an animal as the wound tore itself open again. 

The pain brought clarity, and I hastily tried to piece together the specifics of the kid’s powers. Some kind of body mimicry, forcing Gavel to mimic their motions after touching him. They’d lost control earlier, after being on the receiving end of the shockwaves. A lapse in concentration could end the effect?

More importantly, why hadn’t the child done the same to me? A limitation of the power? Some form of rest period between uses? 

Or after a lifetime of being told stories about the fabled man in green, were they simply too scared to lay a hand on the demon that destroyed homes and stole their families? 

Gavel’s hand clenched again, an ugly mirror of my earlier attempts to choke him. I fired the only lasers I could still aim directly into his eyes. 

“Cease your struggles, angel. As you once presided over our darkest hour, now you shall bear witness to our ascendancy.” Pastor brushed himself off, and beckoned towards someone I couldn’t see. I ignored his request and kicked Gavel in the chest. 

It was like trying to kick through a concrete wall. Ignoring the throbbing feeling taking root in my foot, and the black spots starting to dance in my vision, I planted both my legs against the vigilante’s pecs and tried to push myself away. 

Nothing. Gavel didn’t react, and the kid mastering him just looked on curiously. My head was pounding, the burning sensation in my lungs growing worse with every failed breath. 

Without a second thought, I cast off the shapeshifting and the regeneration, hoping for something that could fix this. 

Then my sleeves started to inflate, and for what felt like the thousandth time, I cursed my inability to choose my own powers. In its infinite wisdom, my agent had ‘solved’ the problem of strangulation by letting me respire through my skin. 

With some air finally breaching the blockade of muscle, I started kicking Gavel again with renewed effort, ignoring the pain as Pastor’s victims took up their chant once more. I could guess why. Just made it even more urgent that I get out of his clutches. 

“And so do we give thanks to the Lord above, for delivering these sinners into our midst. For only with our support can they be truly cleansed.” Pastor addressed the crowd, and I slammed my foot into Gavel’s barrel chest. Something snapped, and it wasn’t Gavel’s ribs. 

“Bring them forwards, my faithful. Let them know peace.”

I refocused on the lasers, jabbing my fingers directly into his eyes. His retinas darkened, the effects of staring directly at something so bright for so long finally making an impact on his defences, but the child master didn’t let him blink. 

“Together, we shall guide them to a better world!” The crowd cheered, as they forced their prizes forward. The four PRT officers. They hadn’t run far enough. 

One of them, his eyes wild with terror, was dragged away from his counterparts. Gavel released my arm only to jab his fingers into my injured side, eliciting a pained groan. This kid was a sadist. 

“What say you?!” A roar answered, as a new ability of my own rose up. With my head next to Gavel’s ear, I hacked out a command. 

“Release me.” 

The fog in the giant’s eyes lessened for a moment before I felt the words rebound, rejecting the order. The new power wasn’t fully charged, the kid’s pre-existing control trumping it in its weakened state. 

Straining, I forced myself to face them instead, and got a gigantic hand to the underside of the jaw for my troubles, slamming my mouth closed with enough force that I almost bit through my tongue. 

“Now come, my child. Embrace the gift of God.” Pastor knelt down towards the struggling man, his hands outstretched, and I felt the last grains of the hourglass run out. 

Wild Eye writhed in place, his comrades struggling weakly against their captors. He started bucking wildly when no help appeared, cursing and shouting. 

The moment Pastor’s hands brushed the man’s forehead, a burst of white light shone where flesh met flesh, and the officer let out a scream that could have woken the dead. 

Most senior employees in the PRT had their ideas of what Pastor could do. They'd watched the leaked video from some of his captives, the one that first tipped us off to what exactly was going on in Freedom, and they didn’t look any further than that. He granted powers to others, they became pliable to his suggestions, and we sealed him away after his followers started kidnapping people for him to use. Fairly cut and dry, as capes went. 

But there was a fundamental misconception with that idea. He wasn’t a power granter. He was a power enabler.  

For most people, there were only two ways to gain superhuman abilities. The first involved a visit to the Doctor. The second, as it had been described to me, required a baptism by fire. Something had to break inside you after being pushed too far. It needed specific circumstances, specific timing, every minute detail had to be just right for it to work. In other words, it was a delicate operation. 

Pastor’s power let him try a brute force solution instead. 

I watched helplessly as the officer spasmed and twitched, white light so dazzlingly bright that it hurt to look at moving from Pastor’s hand to encase the officer’s head, undergoing the worst day of his life on fast forward. 

Like a hacker can enter every possible password to break into a computer, Pastor was able to try every permutation of the so-called trigger event on a person, forcing them to undergo the same stresses and fears that those who received powers from the golden man had once faced. 

Crushing loneliness, the knowledge that you’ll be alone forever despite your best efforts. The fear of being trapped in a burning car, all too aware that the flames can’t be far away from the fuel tank. An abusive marriage with no way out, being chased by something you can’t possibly fight, the lack of feeling below your neck after the paramedics pull you from the wreckage... Cauldron had recorded what natural triggers they could, and even they had barely scratched the surface. 

Pastor simulated all those feelings, down to tiniest detail, with his power. Pushed it into his victims, switching from one traumatic experience to the next without pause. 

The human mind wasn’t designed to deal with something like that. It would fragment, everything non-essential for survival cast off in a desperate attempt to keep the brain functioning. Personalities, memories, it all went. 

Their body wouldn’t fare much better. Brute-forcing a trigger broke a few rules, including the safeties that most natural capes received. I thought back to the lava-thrower I’d fought all those years ago, her arms burnt down to charred bones. 

If they were one of the lucky ones, the experience would be too much. The heart would give out, and they’d go to a better place. 

If they were unlucky, then their dormant Corona Pollentia would activate, and Pastor would gain another follower. 

If they were really unlucky, they wouldn’t be the only ones affected. 

My eyes darted over to the other three officers. Two of them were still on their feet, but the third was swaying. The white light brightened, a manmade sunspot, as one of the foam-sprayers let out their own shrieking scream. 

Scholars theorised that for every one person who gained powers, there were five more who had the potential to get them. We’d had the Number Man crunch the information, and if anything, that figure might have been on the low end. 

Something about the way Pastor enabled powers set off a sympathetic reaction in those nearby, kickstarting the Pollentia’s of others. A chain reaction of broken triggers. 

That we’d caught him before he grew bold enough to venture out of his town was a minor miracle. Catastrophic would have been an understatement if he’d reached anywhere with sufficient population density. Times Square sprung to mind. In a way, we’d been lucky. 

If only the same could be said for Wild Eye and his foam-spraying friend. 

I braced myself, knowing what came next. 

Twin beings spiralled through the stars, a vision that still haunted me all these years later. 

Gavel was upright as I came back to the real world, his master’s power forcing his body to remain stable. Pastor’s people, whether by luck or some quirk of his power-enabling, were immune to the blackout effects of the vision. A nasty surprise I’d learned the hard way the last time we were here. 

Wild Eye and his comrade took Pastor’s hands, rising to rapturous applause from the crowd. Deep cracks in their skin ran from underneath their eyes, past their noses, and culminated under the chin, like a pair of symmetrical tattoos. 

A patch of smooth skin had formed where Wild Eye’s mouth had once been, rendering the bottom half of his face flat around the cracks. I could see his jaw working as he tried to make a chewing motion, the muscles still intact, but unable to perform their job. The foam sprayer still had a mouth, but it hung slack, their jaw lengthened to give them an extremely large overbite. 

“Welcome to the family.” Pastor smiled at them both, embracing his latest victims. “Now bring forwards the rest of the sinners!” 

Wild Eye and the foam sprayer clapped along with the chanting crowd as their fellow officers were shoved towards the church steps. Pastor started a new speech, and I racked my brain for a plan. 

Fingertip lasers, bodily respiration, and a vocal compulsion power. The lasers might have damaged Gavel’s eyes, but he didn’t need those while the kid held his strings. The respiration was the only thing keeping me breathing. The vocal compulsions needed a chance to charge if it was going to bulldoze through the existing Master power. Even if it had been at capacity, Gavel was still pinning my jaw closed. 

But to hold my mouth shut, he’d dropped my other arm. 

The lasers couldn’t dislodge Gavel. Pastor was at the wrong angle for me to hit. Shooting into the crowd wouldn’t accomplish anything. 

So I aimed for the only target available. 

My left hand, the one recently freed, fired bright red lasers from my fingertips. Two hit the floor, smouldering out of existence. One went too high, catching an awning. 

The final two reached their mark. 

The kid took both lasers to the arm and fell back with a shriek. Gavel’s body mimicked the motion, his grip slackening as he threw me backwards, the fog in his eyes just starting to lift. I clipped the wooden door, tumbling through the church into a row of pews. Pastor broke off his speech and the crowd surged forwards. 

Then the sky exploded, and all hell broke loose. 

Chapter Text

The noise of a chaotic rampage just outside was oddly comforting, in a strange way. Like going home after a long time spent abroad, an environment you knew so well you could navigate it with your eyes shut.

Pastor was calling out for order, but his victims weren’t listening as they stared intently at the new hole in the artificial sky. His earlier success had come back to bite him, his frenzied followers too interested in leaving their holy land by whatever means necessary. 

The latest breach sat at the very top of the dome, where the large supply shaft had once been. When we’d been forced to flood the entrance facilities with cement to stop protestors getting inside, some bright spark had come up with a modification for the system, optimistic that Pastor would eventually pass on and his victims could be rescued. Explosive bolts had been added to the shaft, so that the entire thing could be dislodged and pulled out cleanly without debris falling onto the town. It had been compared to a fire escape, and the comparison wasn’t entirely inaccurate. 

Except right now, it wasn’t being used to get people out. It was being used to get heroes in.

Flying figures soared through the hole in the sky as tinker-made ropes and ladders descended behind them, designed to support the weight of powered armour. The Protectorate had arrived.

In any other situation, I’d be thrilled.

Shaking my head to clear the lingering daze, I made the mistake of trying to stand. The tearing pain in my side was accompanied by a throbbing feeling in my foot, putting that idea on hold. Kicking Gavel really wasn’t one of my brightest moments.

Close quarters brawling like that had been the opposite of how I preferred to handle fights. Hit and run with overwhelming force, disengaging to let new abilities reach their full potential, then coming back with fresh solutions to each problem. That’s how I preferred to... how I had to handle engagements these days.

Maybe I’d grown too used to having someone else around to draw an opponent’s attention. Good soldiers, working in formation to cover each other. 

I let the compulsion power go the way of the dodo, for all the good it had done. Photosynthetic skin went with it, my sleeves no longer expanding and contracting like a pair of bellows. Two new somethings began to swell, alongside the fingertip lasers. With any luck, one would be healing. 

For a moment, I simply sat amidst the splintered benches, watching out of the cracked door as Pastor’s flock experienced their first breath of fresh air in years. Thankfully, the man himself was yelling out nonsense about their ascension being at hand, keeping their interest firmly on the heroes even as he backed away from the incoming assault. 

A coward, through and through. 

Scanning the crowd as best as I could from inside the church, I saw no sign of the surviving PRT officers. They must have made themselves scarce at the first opportunity. One less concern to juggle. 

Unfortunately, I couldn’t see Gavel either. 

Pushing them all out of my mind, I tried again to struggle upright, the carnage of the Protectorate’s first wave reaching the congregation drowning out any noise from me. Fliers, some airborne through their own power, others with jetpacks and rocket boots, along with one young man supported by a high-tech hang glider, were dropping a mixture of confoam and flashbang grenades. Some of Pastor’s more daring victims leapt forwards to meet them, jumping with enhanced legs or telekinetically throwing their comrades towards the fliers, where they collided in the air. One of them was knocked clean out of the sky, grappling with a victim who fought like a spider monkey, wrestling all the way down as their opponent clawed at their exposed jawline. 

“Forwards! Forwards, to glorious salvation!” Pastor’s voice rang out, closer with each syllable. He was edging towards his church. Couldn’t tell if I’d been forgotten in the chaos or if Pastor was so far out of his depth that running away to his safe place was all he could think to do. 

Still, if he had the breath to rant and scream, he couldn’t be in immediate danger. Minor assurance in mind, I took my gaze off of him and heard the new powers sing, listening as they harmonised into an unpleasant melody that promised things would get worse before they got better. 

With one palm pressed tightly to my injured side, I winced and bent down, scooping up a handful of assorted detritus that had been knocked loose from the demolished pew. Clenching my fist around the oaken fragments and tatters of fabric, I rolled the debris through my fingers, feeling the sharp edges of a dozen splinters dull and fade away. In the span of a blink, the wooden texture disappeared entirely and my fingers sank slightly into the gelatinous slurry that remained. The sludge stuck fast as I jammed it into my wounded side. A moment’s concentration, and the gunk spread outwards, sealing the wound and repairing the damage with a fresh infusion of something that acted like stem cells on steroids. 

Two powers working in tandem. One to flip inorganic matter to organic, the other to reshape it into something my body could use. 

A chill shot through me as a second ball of slurry went inside my boot. All manner of parahuman abilities were raining onto Freedom, the silhouettes rappelling towards the town centre firing all the way down. The Protectorate’s ground forces were landing. 

Pale blue projectiles, no larger than a fingernail, collided with the street outside. The tiny crystals began sprouting gigantic icebergs, freezing glaciers that closed off the streets and hemmed Pastor’s victims in. The temperature difference fogged up the church’s windows, while the ice itself began spreading over the building. 

Seconds before the snap freeze sealed the church’s front doors, I saw him again. Pastor, his priestly robes flapping around him in a panic as he ducked back inside his sanctuary of sin, not even glancing my way in his terrified sprint. I forced out a breath, and half-ran, half-staggered after him. 

Tiles slid and crashed against the floor as we moved, falling through a man-sized gap in the ceiling where the exposed rafters could be seen. Some of the boards that made up the chancel’s floor had splintered inwards, leaving a sizeable impression behind. 

I pushed on, past the overturned pews thrown aside by the congregation in their haste to catch me and the officers. The little tapestries still decorated the walls, some of them catching the sawdust and splinters from the roof, but most remained undamaged. Unfortunately. 

Pastor was at the very rear of the church, pulling at one of the doors behind the tiered wooden benches. He finally caught sight of me and started trying to bash the door inwards with his shoulder instead. 

Despite everything that had happened, I was willing to count this excursion as a success so long as he stayed alive. 

He gave the door a final shove, dismissed it as jammed, and straightened out his robe instead. 

“Angel. Come to cleanse your soul?” Even now, he refused to admit that his prophecies had been wrong. Not a surprise, when I thought about it. He’d peddled his stories for so long, without anyone to say otherwise. Maybe his victims weren’t the only ones who’d lost a part of their minds along the way. 

“Seek your redemption in the Lord’s arms.” Pastor opened his own arms wide to embrace me. As if redemption would be so easy. 

“You can stop now,” I said, tilting my head towards the entrance. “The Protectorate is out there as we speak, dismantling your parish. I’m remanding you into their custody.” 

Like I should have done thirteen years ago. 

“I’m afraid I must decline. Bringing my light to the masses is important, but clearly they are not yet ready to cast off the shackles of the old world and-” Pastor scrambled back in fear as I took a step towards him. My job was done. Didn’t need to listen to his ramblings any longer. 

“Stay your hand, devil! You cannot silence my message!” Pastor squealed as I grabbed him by the scruff of his ill-fitting vestments. He thrashed in a blind panic, kicking out at random without any thought to his attacks. I watched indifferently as his piggish squeals turned into gasping coughs. 

“C-cease! You cannot do this...” Pastor trailed off again, and I thought little of it. Let the man scream himself hoarse. 

Ice cracked as a shadow fell across me, and it suddenly became clear why he’d stopped talking. 

“Fucking found you.” 

Standing in the church’s threshold, the light from outside blocked by his humongous form, was Gavel. Two walls of ice stood on either side of the man, cracks and fissures spreading outwards through the glaciers. Despite the flakes of frost in his beard and his breath coming out as a fine mist, he wasn’t shivering. Clumps of mottled red viscera clung to his arms, as if the ice wall wasn’t the first thing he’d pulverized with his bare hands. A scrap of fabric was stuck between his knuckles, held in place with congealing blood. 

It looked an awful lot like part of an old t-shirt, too small for an adult to wear. 

Acoustics designed for a choir amplified his steps, the steady pounding of boot against wood sounding almost orchestral. Pastor whimpered behind me, evidently believing that being arrested would be better than whatever Gavel would do. I discarded the healing powers without hesitation, felt my side recoil in agony, and let the fingertip lasers loose. 

Before, they’d been hot enough to cut through metal, and bright enough that they hurt to look at. Now, closer to their full capacity, they were miniature infernos igniting the oxygen in the air on contact, and so dazzlingly bright that they could have seared the eyes of someone glancing through the church’s windows. 

The thickening ice shell around the church had failed to stop someone from seeking cover inside, but it did a wonderful job preventing the heroes outside from being blinded. 

Pastor shrieked, clawing at his face. A shame that he hadn’t been outside. 

Gavel's reaction wasn’t quite so visceral, but no less impactful. The giant instantly stopped in his tracks, shielding his face with both hands and stumbled backwards through the already damaged pews.

Like a petulant child, he began thrashing around, launching benches and kicking pieces of the floor vaguely in our direction, imbuing each with his powers. Trying to get past him would inevitably end with one of us being flattened.

But perhaps that was the wrong way to think about it. He’d already taken the steadily increasing brunt of these lasers directly into his eyes over the course of minutes. His own powers would have limited the effects, but a continuous stream of searingly bright light straight into the retinas without being able to blink... 

Keeping my gaze fixed on Gavel, I cut the beams from one hand, and pointed my index finger at the inner door Pastor had been struggling with. A finger twitch severed the handle and the lock behind it, the inside door swinging open to hang loosely against the stonework.

Pastor felt his way over to the opening, whimpering all the way. I slowly followed, keeping up the stream of light until the last possible moment. If Gavel’s furious roar was any indication, he might have been a touch upset.

A set of stairs waited for us, stone that had been worn smooth over years of use, leading down towards a cellar. Pastor, hands groping for the walls, was already halfway down. I pursued, plunging into the dark. 

My bad foot caught on the last few steps and I landed ungainly at the bottom, my side twinging as I rounded the corner into an almost pitch-black storage room. 

No secret exit, but the gloom of the underground helped in a different way. 

Dark shapes that vaguely resembled boxes and crates lined the space, the same padded supplies that were supposed to be shared with the entire town. Of course Pastor had been hoarding. 

In a strange twist of fate, his selfishness might just save him. I shoved him into the storage space, all too aware of the stone dust starting to roll down the steps. As quietly as an injured hero and a crazed megalomaniac could manage, we crept across the room, navigating around dried foodstuffs and expired rations. Pastor was still whimpering, even as I yanked him down behind several stacked crates at the back corner of the cellar. 

Two new powers were swelling as the steps rumbled. The lasers stayed, as the fingers of my right hand fiddled with a switch tucked away inside the glove. With a flick, the pulsing green LEDs of my suit shut off, and we were cast into total darkness, the only light coming from the doorway. Down here, against a man whose sight had to be injured, we’d be almost invisible. 

Invisible enough to let a new solution present itself, at any rate. 

I waited in the gloom for long seconds, letting the new feelings swell up inside. No more grappling with a dozen conflicting priorities, receiving jack of all trade's powers instead of a single dedicated answer to the problem. 

Another second, and the meagre light filtering through the doorway was obscured, as a lumbering shadow blacked out the room entirely. I held my breath. Easier said than done when my throat was still tender.

“Wasn’t interested in you at first, old timer. Only wanted the vicar.”

One of the boxes closest to the exit shattered into a thousand pieces. 

“But you just kept getting in the way. Pretty rude, ‘specially when the news says you’re retired.” 

Pastor squeaked out a feeble noise and I slammed my glove over his mouth. The large shape turned slightly, leaning forwards to smash through a crate. 

“So here’s how this is gonna go. You come out right now, and we’ll settle this, man to man. If you win, I’ll let you keep what’s left of the priest.” 

The silhouette spun, a lariat that dug furrows into the wall and carved through a half dozen boxes. 

“Or I can tear this place apart with you in it. See how well you do with a sodding building landing on your head.” 

It came to a stop in the middle of the room, only a few steps away from our hiding place, and rested a limb made of shadow against another indeterminable shape. This one was taller, a thick black line running from the floor up to the cellar’s ceiling. One of the support struts. 

“But I did my research on ya, way back when. I know about that little performance issue of yours. Don’t want you pulling some body control bullshit like the pipsqueak, so that offer’s only good for the next ten seconds.” 

Smarter than the average brute, putting me on the clock like that. But his timing was wrong. Ever since he'd broken through the ice shell, I'd been preparing two new powers, both with the intent of denying him what he wanted. Today would end with another inmate arrested, and Pastor still alive, both hand-delivered to the Protectorate by me. That had to be worth some goodwill. Enough to reopen a dialogue, at least. 

I could feel Pastor quaking next to me. He wouldn’t survive the building coming down, but I could shield him. The two new powers thrummed in agreement, one strong enough to protect him, the other providing a weapon that even Gavel couldn’t defend against.

Better yet, if I lured Gavel away, back into the open where they’d be faced with undeniable proof that I was still fighting the good fight... 

My breath sounded deafeningly loud in the cramped space, as I stood and faced the large silhouette. It started to shift at the noise. 

Something skittered across the room, following the wall opposite us. Gavel swung, reducing the corner into dust.

The same noise, this time just inside the door. Edging around the far side of the room to us. Gavel swung again, sending splinters and shrapnel flying in the process. I kept Pastor's head pushed down behind cover just in case.

Someone muttered a curse, just loud enough that none of us could miss it, followed by the sound of two sets of footsteps bolting up the stairs. Gavel still couldn’t see properly, but he could hear just fine. The giant thundered after the sound, the quaking steadily fading from earshot as I let out a frustrated breath. I'd finally been prepared to face him with the correct tools, and the opportunity had been stolen out from under my nose.

Above the noise of the battle outside, another set of footsteps rang out against the stone. Lighter than Gavel’s, but they weren’t alone.

The first figure rounded the corner into the storeroom, and I fired a warning shot. Dazzlingly bright lasers illuminated the room, casting into focus the face of a man with deep cracks beneath his eyes.

“Woah woah, easy! Same team!” The man threw himself to the side, with better reactions than I’d expect from one of Pastor’s victims. 

Limping around the shattered supplies, I brought ten points of light into being, casting an eerie glow throughout the enclosed space. Whatever last ditch escape attempt Pastor was making would fail, and then I could finally wash my hands of this wretched place.

In the gloom, I watched as the cracks in his skin slowly receded, his arms and legs lengthening, the tattered clothes he wore being steadily replaced by a waxed, hairless chest. The proportions of his face shifted like wet clay, his nose lengthening into something animalistic and his mouth shifting to an easy smile.

No, not his mouth. His helmet’s mouth. The only part of his real face I could make out were two light blue eyes, exposed behind a goat’s head helm. 

“Is that how you greet everyone?” questioned Satyrical, as he brushed himself off and clambered to his feet. 

As if things weren’t frustrating enough already.

Chapter Text

Tiny flecks of dust gently spun through the air, flurries of miniscule flakes in the darkness. They would have been almost invisible if it wasn’t for the ten points of illumination, causing the specks to shine as they danced through the underground storage space. 

Two pinpricks of blue caught the same light, their gaze never leaving me even as Satyrical brushed the last of the dust off his shoulders. 

I dimmed the lasers at his display of feigned nonchalance, but kept hold of the power. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Sightseeing?” Satyrical offered with an indifferent shrug. 

The silence was only broken by the sound of Pastor’s pained whimpering. Satyrical tilted his head, looking over my shoulder, and nodded approvingly. 

“Alright, we’re here because of the ice queen. They’re rotating heroes through the defensive lines up north, and seeing as we’d been there since the start, they were gonna let us go back to Vegas to chill, get our heads back on straight, you know?” 

I nodded curtly in response. 

“’Cept then we got word that one of the, quote, priority captures, had made it down here and broken the quarantine.” 

A second, lighter set of footsteps rang overhead as something shifted in the darkness next to Satyrical. He didn’t seem worried. 

“Rime got her grubby mitts on every warm body she could, and instead of getting some shut eye on a private jet back home, we wound up in California.” 

The shifting space by his side finally resolved itself into the shape of a person, perfectly timed to coincide with another hero clattering down the steps and into the storeroom. 

A twenty-something man now stood in the previously vacant spot next to Satyrical, dressed in a black, sleeveless bodysuit and loose-fitting pants, with a golden lion-motif mask concealing his face.

A slightly older woman skidded to a stop behind them, wearing a costume of metal leaves and roots that would have just barely met the Image Department’s guidelines on public decency. Complimenting the skimpy outfit was layered hair so garishly pink that it stood out even in the darkened room. 

Leonid and Floret. The Vegas team had arrived en-masse. Which lead me back to my original question. 

“What are you doing here?” I repeated, irritation seeping into my tone. 

Satyrical turned to the side, his right arm obscured by his body. Floret and Leonid both nodded slightly. After a moment’s pause, their spokesman turned back to me. 

“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that I’ve been networking. And, hypothetically, one of those lovely contacts I reached out to might have sent me a little postcard,” Satyrical said, looking at me eagerly. 

I exhaled. Several things were starting to slot into place. 

“The contents?” 

“Oh, basic vacation stuff. Wish you were here, extract Pastor, conceal Eidolon’s involvement if you want to keep paying off your debt, yadda yadda. And then it melted. Neat trick by the way.” 

My brow furrowed. “Conceal my involvement?” 

I couldn’t see his mouth through his helmet, but the smirk was audible. 

“Awfully convenient that the dome’s top only blew after you were out of sight, wasn’t it?” 

A secondary extraction team, here in case I failed to save Pastor? Or a clean-up crew, keeping my presence secret and leaving the heroes unaware of what I’d done? 

I didn’t like the implications either way. 

“So you followed me?” 

Satyrical tilted his hand in a so-so gesture. 

“Yes and no. Dumbo and his amazing ears over there” -Satyrical jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards Leonid- “picked up on the commotion before we opened the dome. We made a bit of a stir, delayed things until he was certain you weren’t gonna be spotted straight away. After that we just followed the Aussie while he went on and on about killing a priest.” 

I vaguely remembered Leonid’s powerset, something to do with enhanced hearing in a certain radius. Crystal clear sounds, regardless of any obstacles in the way. Not that impressive on its own, but he could also manipulate sounds within that same radius, as well as teleport along certain audio frequencies. 

The muffled footsteps earlier, the whispered curses coming from nowhere that lured Gavel away... his doing. Teleporting in when Gavel spoke, fading out again before he got pulverized, steadily moving further and further away. The Vegas team had a penchant for subterfuge, and manipulating an opponent like that was par for the course in their part of the world. 

“Little different to be concealing someone like you,” Leonid said, his voice surprisingly quiet. “Cute redheads in tight catsuits, with night vision goggles and sniper rifles, pair of watermelons down their tops, that’s our usual...” 

Nobody spoke for a long moment as he trailed off. 

“And your friends were okay with this?” I asked, watching the suddenly sheepish lion man and the flowery femme fatale. 

“We’re a team. What I know, they know,” Satyrical said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

I glanced at the pair. Leonid was nodding as Floret chimed in, “We can see which way the wind’s blowing. Protectorate is a sinking ship, so we’re trying something new.” 

“Some would call you traitors.” 

“Bit rich coming from you,” Satyrical snorted, then held up his hands in mock surrender. “Kidding, kidding. Unlike Captain Cannonblade and the hypocrite brigade, these guys don’t really give a shit about shadowy conspiracies or how people get their powers.” 

“It is what you do with these gifts that matter.” Leonid said, adopting a sagely tone and clearly trying to recover from his earlier faux pas. It didn’t work, but I had bigger things to concern myself with than an imbecile from Vegas. 

Limping back to Pastor, I coaxed the man out of hiding. He shook as I pulled him upright, his irises now a milky white. 

My hand lingered on his shoulder, a part of me wishing that I could give him to the Protectorate. It would have been an imperfect solution, but I could have lived with that. A genuine problem would have been solved, Pastor would still be alive, his victims could have finally got the help they needed... 

And I could have shown the heroes that I was still on their side. 

But Cauldron had decided otherwise. Even with their influence in the west diminished after Echidna, they’d still brought a new team in solely to hide the fact that I’d been here. With the stakes so high, I couldn't afford not to follow their direction. 

Again, they’d made the choice for me. Just like they’d chosen not to save Rick, or Rebecca. All part of their grand designs to stop the enemy. 

I’d followed the Doctor’s orders for so long, and this is where it had brought me. I’d followed Chevalier’s orders, and String Theory had wiped a town off the map. Here, now, I’d come to Freedom to fulfil a choice made years ago by the powers that be. 

The closest I’d come to making my own decision had been to chase the Birdcage’s escapees, and even then, I’d needed Cauldron’s blessing. 

Just once, it would have been nice to make the choice for myself. 

Pastor trembled, hunching his shoulders. I loosened my grip. 

“You’re too late. Others would have noticed me.” My arrival hadn’t been inconspicuous, and it had only devolved from there. 

“Cameras are being taken care of. Any recording devices will have gone down and their footage corrupted from the moment Gavel entered the quarantine zone. Official records will note it as a power surge caused by one of Pastor’s followers gaining entry to the security rooms through the breach.” His voice had lost its light-hearted edge, as Satyrical discarded his carefree hero persona as easily as another man would change shirts. 

“We aren't amateurs. I was on top of that immediately,” Floret added, her voice lilting. Not a surprise. What little I recalled from her personnel records had shown she had an eye for details. She wouldn’t have missed something so obvious. She'd likely have something in mind to fool forensic evidence, too.

“Spur's still up there, dealing with the rest of the devices,” said Satyrical, acting every bit the professional. Keeping opponents on their toes, shifting between attitudes with ease to stop people getting a good read of him. No wonder he worked well in Vegas. 

Fortunately, I remembered his other teammate off the top of my head. Spur was one of the lucky few individuals whose abilities could swell in strength, depending on the situation. In his case, precognition that grew exponentially more powerful in response to chaotic situations. He thrived in the middle of riots or battlefields, identifying and solving potential problems before they spiralled out of control. He’d be having a field day upstairs. 

I’d studied his case files before, to find out if there was a link between how his powers fluctuated and any possible answers for why my own were draining. For a time, I’d had a vague sense of optimism that they worked in a similar manner, just on a different scale. The belief that there was another untapped well of strength out there, that I could only reach if I fought seriously enough, had been reinforced by powers like his. 

It had been a nice idea while it lasted. 

“Doesn’t matter if he removes everything from the surveillance system. I was inside the church when you all arrived. Someone would have seen me,” I countered. 

“Which is why we waited until Big Ears said you were hidden. We knew where you were, and none of us spotted you on the way in,” Satyrical responded. “Rest of the heroes were preoccupied with the angry mob. If we didn’t see you, then they definitely won’t have.” 

“Can’t see a needle in a haystack when the haystack is throwing lightning at your face,” noted Leonid. 

“Plus, the guys up there don’t really talk all that much,” Floret built on that, the three of them playing off each other in way you only saw with long-term friendships. 

“The officers. Four of them,” I paused, and mentally corrected that tally. “Two of them, from the garrison detail. They would have called in that I was here.” 

“Sure. Radio was buzzing off the hook for a little while. Lots of talk about someone breaking everything, followed by some very graphic gurgles, then static. Communications went silent after that.” 

Was Gavel really that savvy? Targeting the veteran officers first, then destroying their equipment to stop anyone else calling for help? 

No. I was asking the wrong questions. 

Was Gavel sadistic enough to let someone call for help, only to tear that lifeline away and leave them slowly dying in the dirt? Making them watch as he steadily dismantled their contingent of heroes, executing the people who were supposed to save them? Barbarous enough to then rub salt in the wound by broadcasting his location to the world anyway, rendering their sacrifice pointless in the process? 

That sounded concerningly plausible. 

“A moot point. They still knew I was here, even if they couldn’t communicate that.” 

“Dealt with.” 

“How?” 

Through the eyeholes of his mask, I could see Satryical quirk an eyebrow. “Trade secret.” 

Once again, I had no choice but to put my faith in Cauldron. They were making their move, and if they’d decided that the officers were potential liabilities, then I didn’t have any options but to follow their lead. My feelings on the matter were barely a factor in the grand scheme of things. 

Instead, I bowed my head like I had so many times before, and visualised what little I could remember of their faces. One pair broken by a madman; the others ‘handled’ by the Vegas team. Reunited in memory, to join everyone else I’d failed. That crowd swelled with every passing day. 

It didn’t bear thinking about how large that crowd could become. 

“What about Gavel?” I clutched at straws, knowing that Cauldron wouldn’t have sent people in without answers for anything I could say. “We fought. He’ll spread the word.” 

“Once we catch him, he’ll spend his days sedated up to his ears. Soon as the cage is secure, he’s going back in. Doesn’t matter who he tells after that, no-one will believe him.” 

“Risky.” 

“This ain’t my first rodeo, cowboy.” Even if he wasn’t quite as carefree as he appeared, Satyrical’s lack of concern grated on me. 

“’Sides, even if he does say he saw you, we’ve got a perfect answer right here.” He tapped his hairless pecs, and a tumour-like blob began to swell on his chest. It filled rapidly, like an overripe tomato, before it plopped off his body and hit the floor. Cells divided before our eyes, the tomato extending up as it sprouted limbs. Its colouration darkened, the fleshy red shifting to become a familiar green, until I was staring at a perfect copy of my caped self. 

“Pretty good, if I do say so. Had a lot of practice copying you,” boasted Satyrical. 

I folded my arms, unimpressed. 

He blinked behind the mask, and offered an unapologetic shrug. “Vegas attracts the crazies. Lot easier to make them give up if they think Eidolon’s knocking on their door.” 

Floret chimed in with a better explanation, possibly sensing my mounting annoyance with Satyrical. “More importantly, it gives us a grain of truth to work with, just in case we missed anything. Yes, an Eidolon was here. But so were half a dozen of his identical twin brothers.” 

“Some very detailed Alexandrias and a Legend or two are running around up there as well,” added Leonid. 

“Those weird guys with the messed-up skin have been losing their minds at the sight,” Floret whispered, as if she was imparting some tantalising secret. “It’s playing havoc with their heads.” 

“We saw the pretty pictures on the walls. Icing on the cake, really,” said Satyrical, sounding far too proud of himself. 

They were prepared. A solution to every hurdle I could think of. Part of me had hoped they would have missed something, tip their hand the other way, to come up with a different plan. 

I’d told myself I hadn’t come this far just to sit back and watch while others solved the problem. But that was exactly what Cauldron was asking for. To leave quietly, discretely, abandoning any chance of getting the Protectorate to reconsider their views on me. 

Another choice, taken out of my hands. Another sacrifice required of me. Being the good soldier they needed. 

My breath echoed in the enclosed space. I’d had doubts before, but they rarely weighed on me like this. 

Satyrical took a half-step towards his clone as Floret flexed her fingers, and I snapped back to attention. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Our jobs,” Satyrical answered nonchalantly. His hand twitched, sending Leonid back to keep watch near the door, while Floret stepped around us as if we were just another obstacle. It was hard to make out in the dim light, but she had an orb the size of a tennis ball in each palm, clear with a silverly edge. She placed one at the base of the room’s support beam. When it touched the floor, it unfolded like a flower in bloom, petals digging into the stone. She paused in thought for a moment, and placed the second orb next to the first. Two more were just beginning to sprout in her hands by the time the first pair had taken root, and she slipped upstairs without a word. 

She could generate those orbs and imbue them with a variety of effects, acting as motion detectors, or tripwires, or as I suspected here, explosives. The downside was that they took time to form, leaving her at the mercy of her opponents in a straight fight. An annoyance I knew all too well. 

Satyrical extended two fingers, and pressed them against the nape of his copy’s neck. It shuddered, the green cloak rolling upwards into its spine and the opaque mask twisting to form an actual face. When the flesh duplicate finished, it bore Pastor’s likeness instead of my own. 

“A perfect copy. Even fools dental records.” Just a hint of arrogance slipped into Satyrical’s voice as he examined his handiwork. 

“It won’t hold up. Your copies wither and fade.” 

Satyrical’s eyes lit up. “Sure, if it’s a rush job. But we’ve got a little way around that.” He didn’t elaborate any further until Floret re-joined us several moments later, a single sphere in hand. 

Without prompting, she held it up to the fake Pastor’s mouth, who obligingly opened wide and swallowed it whole. She smiled my way. “Little chemical mixture we stumbled on. Preservatives, something that’s technically classed as embalming fluid, and just a dash of good old fashioned powers bullshit.” 

“Slows the rate of decay to that of a normal body for a few weeks, instead of withering up. Plenty of time for any autopsies and a burial,” finished Satryical. 

I frowned. “There’s no evidence of that in your records.” 

“Who has time for all that pesky paperwork?” Floret answered with a wink. 

I knew the Vegas team was greyer than most, but they were faking a man’s death with such rote efficiency that I had to wonder how many times they’d done this before. 

“Time to go,” called out Leonid, lion mask twitching towards the steps. Floret turned to follow while I stayed in place, torn between doing the same or listening to Cauldron’s directions. 

“Now, are we walking you out of here, or have you got teleportation? Because we’ve got ways to get you both out unnoticed, but it’ll be messy.” 

I nodded unenthusiastically, knowing that my best chance of salvaging Eidolon’s reputation was rapidly fading. 

“Perfect. And hey, if you could pass on a good word about us to our mutual friends, we’d appreciate it.” With that, Satyrical made for the stairs, the False Pastor following his lead. 

I could do the same. All I’d have to do is ignore Cauldron’s wishes. 

Less than two years until the world was due to end. Ignoring their directions now could be catastrophic. The difference between beating the enemy and being slaughtered by it. 

Even if the odds of success dwindled by the day. 

I squashed the thought as quickly as I could. Two years. They could still find the silver bullet. If getting Pastor out quietly would help that goal, then... 

“Last chance. Get out of here while the getting’s good.” 

Satyrical’s call sent a shock through my system. I’d almost forgotten he was here, poking his head back through the doorway to check if we’d left. 

He took my silence as answer enough, sprinting back up the stairs and out of sight. 

Damn it all. 

I took two paces away from Pastor, frustration seeping into my movements, hitting the ground a little too roughly with my bad leg. 

“Door, abandoned Earth.” A whisper through clenched teeth, barely heard over the battle raging above. Leonid might have noticed, but if Cauldron were willing to use them in the field then it wouldn’t be long before they became aware of the Doormaker. Satyrical, at the very least, would know about him already. 

Pastor shivered as the room temperature changed, hands reaching out as he tried to identify what was different through touch alone. He whimpered as I shoved him through the spatial rip, jumping in mild shock at the feeling of sand beneath his feet. 

I paused on the threshold for just a moment longer than usual. My legs felt like lead as I forced myself through. 

Doormaker’s portal sealed shut, leaving Freedom behind me. 

Crystal clear waves lapped at the shore. Pastor groped blindly at the grains of the beach, while gulls circled overhead. The sky above was genuine, reaching out to touch rolling fields and hilltops. 

An entire world free of restrictions, and I’d never felt more trapped. 

The Doctor better have some good answers for all of this. 

Chapter Text

What would you do, if you knew how the world ended? 

Fight tooth and nail? Refuse to let it go out with a whimper? Make plans, as many as humanly possible, and then make more, all to stave off the inevitable? 

She’d thought the same, once. 

At a time when everything had teetered on the brink of collapse, she’d brought stability, security, building a house of cards out of the corpse of a monster. Engineering organisations to keep the globe turning, funding those with the power and the drive to keep the peace, all while searching tirelessly for a way to save everyone. 

But it was never enough.

It wore on her, trying to juggle the problems of innumerable Earths with her own two hands, fixing one catastrophe only to witness another three popping up to replace it. Measuring definite costs and potential benefits, analysing and re-analysing every possible decision, knowing all the while that sharing the load would result in devastation, with the wrong word or the wrong action at the wrong time nudging the biggest problem of all. 

Or worse, she could do everything correctly, only to face another decade and a half of watching parahumans destroy themselves. Their forces whittled down, a slow death of a thousand cuts, their collective efforts bled out until nothing remained to challenge the enemy. 

Successes slowly came undone while failures mounted. 

She’d grown cautious over the years, playing for time whenever possible, to fix one more problem, make one more vial, to find an answer that might just tip the balance. But things were collapsing faster than they ever could have imagined, and the thought of destroying themselves, a resistance so weak that they wouldn’t even be able to struggle when the time came... that was unacceptable. 

Two years. For the first time since she’d started down this road, she knew how few grains were left in the hourglass. Just enough to witness everything she’d built fall apart. 

Greater risks were needed. She’d already ordered stronger doses, less restrained by the balance concoction. Bolder, more public actions were being executed, sacrificing anonymity for better results. Cauldron was finally collecting on the mountain of owed debts. Time to reap what she’d spent decades sowing. 

The thought lingered in her mind as she gazed out through a window in space, down at a recently constructed village, deep in a valley on Earth Samech. The landmass had no counterpart on Bet, preventing anyone from blundering their way in. As of this moment, it only had three inhabitants; a bodyguard, a translator, and the clergyman who they would be protecting. Both of his assistants had been ordered to keep them appraised of any issues. Not that she expected any from a blind zealot, but it was always better to be prepared. 

Another potential trump card, safely hidden away from prying eyes. Perhaps this one would yield the desired result. 

She wasn’t hopeful. The allure of thinking the next solution would be successful rubbed off after crafting a million of its counterparts. 

Someone coughed beside her, and the Doctor let the portal close. Turning back to the sterile hallways and white surfaces of her home, she set the pace as her companion strode alongside. 

“You have questions,” she asked, rhetorically. 

“Several.” Eidolon’s voice was too calm. An old coping mechanism of his, falling back on his aloof reputation when he felt uncertain. You didn’t work with someone for as long as they had without picking up a few tells. 

“I’d be happy to answer them. Same as always.” The Doctor smiled; a reassuring closed-lip motion that had been practiced to perfection from years of comforting nervous clients. 

He remained silent as they passed through another portal, into one of the spaces often used as a conference room. Zero-Twenty-Three's work, one of her earliest successes, and a solution to a great many problems. The others who’d pledged themselves to saving humanity, they could be divided up between problem and solution just as easily. 

The Number Man had been a minor problem turned into a major solution. Some would argue the Professor had been the opposite, but she still disagreed. He’d remained a solution up until his untimely demise, albeit one of a different kind. Contessa had been a solution from the start. 

Like in most things, Eidolon was an irregularity by being both problem and solution. He’d been crucial in those early days, selling the idea of heroes to a world that was slow to acknowledge such a vast change. When the Endbringers came, he’d been invaluable again. Even now, he remained one of the strongest among them, potentially the trump card she’d spent so long searching for. 

But as much as she might assuage his conscience that he was still necessary, it was plain to see that he wasn't the answer they needed. Instead of being distributed to new clients, valuable vials had been given to him to top up a leaking bucket. She knew that they shouldn’t keep providing him with booster shots, not when refocusing their efforts on finding or making a new cape to replace him would be a better use of resources. 

For a long time now, she’d been forced to weigh his potential as a solution against the problems he brought with him. Those scales were far closer together than she’d like. 

A gentle breeze blew around them as she pulled out the white leather chair from behind a matching marble desk, and gestured for her guest to take the seat opposite. 

She waited patiently as Eidolon removed his opaque mask. Gathering his thoughts, showing he trusted her enough to appear more vulnerable in her presence, but still delaying the conversation for a new suite of powers to sprout. Little tendencies like that helped her gauge the tone of the upcoming talk. The longer he waited, the tenser he was. 

The Doctor gave him a soft smile as he finally let the hood fall, revealing the face of a man brought low by the weight of the world. He had a few extra crow’s feet lining his eyes, and the bags underneath seemed more pronounced than they had been when they’d last spoken. His hair seemed greyer now, in the places where it wasn’t thinning. Even his heavy cheeks seemed a little more gaunt than usual. He couldn’t have been eating properly, and he clearly wasn’t sleeping well either. 

“You knew.” Two words, drowning in disapproval. 

“About Pastor? Certainly,” she acknowledged. 

Eidolon’s hand dug into the padded arms of his chair. “You stopped the Doormaker from responding. Keeping me in the right place to watch the broadcast.” 

She nodded slightly. “Of course.” 

“Why?” 

“Would you have preferred if we kept the information from you?” she asked, genuinely curious. His eyes shifted minutely, watching her every move. Idly, she wondered which powered lens he was viewing this conversation through. 

When no response was forthcoming, the Doctor clasped her hands together and threw him a bone. “We had four reasons to send you, specifically. A concern, a plan, a mistake, and a gift. Which would you care to hear?” 

“All of them,” he replied, tersely. 

“Very well. After the, let’s call it an incident, with String Theory, we were concerned that the current crop of heroes did not have the resources to deal with a breach of one of the quarantine zones. Especially when the breacher was as formidable as Gavel.” 

Eidolon nodded, following the train of thought. 

“Our plan remains the same as it was when the town was quarantined. Pastor is an irregularity, similar to yourself.” 

“I’m nothing like him.” 

The Doctor held up her hands in conciliation. “I misspoke. His powers bend the rules slightly, as yours do. With his previous containment having failed and this new Protectorate craving a tangible victory, the safe assumption would be that Pastor would wind up dead.” 

She watched his face for any change of expression, as he no doubt did the same to her. “He represents an opportunity. If we wanted him alive, we had to extract the man.” 

Her lab coat blew slightly, a signal from the Custodian. The facility’s caretaker was uneasy. 

“Our mistake was admittedly minor, but it contributed. Two-Six-Five did manage to track Gavel moving south along the West Coast, but we miscalculated. I contacted our operatives in the largest population centres after we found him on the outskirts of San Francisco, expecting him to mount an attack there.” 

“But he went to Freedom instead.” 

She nodded. “With so many other variables in play, we couldn’t afford to keep a close eye on a single escapee. By the time we realised he wasn’t assaulting one of the cities, he’d already hijacked that news crew and was well on his way to the quarantine zone. You were one of the few assets available that could respond in time.” 

Predictably, Eidolon said nothing. She wasn’t certain if he was being stoic or simply simmering in frustration. 

Spreading her arms, the Doctor finished her explanation. 

“Finally, our gift was my idea, for you.” 

“Me?” Traces of shock edged their way into his voice. 

“A way to end things on a high note, after those troublesome matters with Echidna and String Theory.” 

“Why?” The shock faded, replaced with wariness. 

“It was always going to be a difficult transition, the three of you stepping down from those leading roles. For you more than the others, I think.” 

“So, this was what? A farewell present?” 

“In a way, I suppose. You were successful on all counts.” The Doctor started ticking points off on her fingers. “Pastor survived, the Protectorate are successfully corralling a blinded Gavel, they no longer have to waste manpower and resources on a defunct quarantine zone... I could continue, if you’d like.” 

Eidolon hung his head, no longer meeting her eyes. When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. 

“If this was supposed to be a gift, then why didn’t you let me stay? Stop Gavel, deliver him to the heroes myself?” 

“Because they wouldn’t believe you.” 

“You were protecting me?” There was a hint of disbelief in his voice, and for a moment he looked like the teenager she’d met so many years ago, strapped to a wheelchair and expecting the offer of a way out to be an elaborate prank. 

“If that’s how you would like to think of it.” 

“...I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that.” The thought faded, and she was once again looking at a man old before his time. 

“Come again?” she asked politely. 

“Do you mind if I’m brutally honest with you?” he grunted. The Doctor gestured for him to continue. 

She watched the rise and fall of his chest as his chose his words, following the movement of the fabric, glancing at a spot on his side where two pieces had been roughly reattached. 

“Maybe part of you wanted to help, I won’t deny that. But protecting me? That’s absurd. This was keeping Cauldron’s capabilities under wraps. You didn’t want anyone to know how influential we are, even now.” 

She remained silent, letting him get whatever this was off his chest. 

“And for what? Why are you bothering to keep the masquerade going? They already know about Cauldron, about the experimentation and us, so why... why couldn’t you just let me hand them over? Couldn’t you give me that?” 

The Doctor waited several seconds before she responded, letting his indignation fade. 

“Satyrical’s role in the extraction will be discovered before too long,” she admitted. 

Eidolon’s eyes snapped back up to hers, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

“The Protectorate will put the pieces together eventually. Some of them may have suspicions already.” 

She watched as realisation dawned across his features. “You were sending a message.” 

“Keeping our ‘influence’ under wraps isn’t quite the priority it used to be,” she said, by way of an answer. 

The public would celebrate over a phony corpse, while word would spread through the American heroes. A reminder that despite recent setbacks, Cauldron had still been able to leverage a crisis into an opportunity, snatching one of the most wanted men in the states out from under the Protectorate’s nose. It might just silence one or two more individuals who wanted to blow the whistle and reveal everything Echidna had shared, instead of toeing the line. 

“If our influence wasn’t the goal, then why hide me?” he questioned. She watched as his eyes briefly glowed blue. Reshuffling powers. The events in Freedom must have left lingering effects on his mood. 

“As I said, they wouldn’t believe that you went there to help. This way, their initial ire will be focused against Satyrical’s team, who they'll be reluctant to harm out of camaraderie, and against Cauldron, who they cannot reach. It should create less pushback against your appearance at the next Endbringer event.” 

Left unsaid was the fact that they had moved one of the most recognisable men in the world halfway across the country, with the heroes none the wiser until long after he’d left. Another little reminder to those who might try to push their luck. 

“And the Vegas team were okay with this?” he asked, incredulously. 

“They knew they were a contingency plan. Had you failed, they would have rescued Pastor. As it stands, they’ll gladly take the fall for this instead.” 

“Disposable assets,” he said. There was something in his voice, but it vanished before she could figure it out. 

"Not quite,” she said with a smile. Another risk. Another chance to claw a few grains back into the hourglass. 

“Expansion, then.” 

“There’s no choice in that regard.” She shrugged slightly. “Another consideration that went into Pastor’s extraction. Theoretically, he can produce capes as quickly as we can supply him with subjects. Willing guards for the rooms downstairs, another source of firepower for the armies, all delivered far faster than we could manage through the mixing process.”

And maybe, just maybe, one of those mass-produced subjects would give them the edge they needed for the end. 

Eidolon closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of his mask. The Doctor watched on impassively. 

“Just... just tell me that the people going to him meet our old criteria? The crippled, the deathly ill, the... the ones who wouldn’t have a chance at a life otherwise?” 

She didn’t respond. She wouldn’t lie to him, not now. 

His free hand came up to rub at his eyes. 

A slight breeze tickled around her right ear, and the Doctor glanced to the side. There was a folder on the desk, compiling updates from several informants across a number of worlds. 

“Now, if you’re out of questions?” There was a short silence before he nodded slightly. “Then I think it's time for you to get back home, David. We’ll call you if we need you.” 

The matter settled; she began flipping through the documents in front of her. A fresh round of bloodshed in Botswana, an assassination attempt against the US President of Earth Kaph had been foiled by her own operatives... 

“I can’t.” 

She tore her gaze away from the notes. Eidolon hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry?” 

“I can’t. I tried, but I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I need...” His hands clenched, as if he was grasping at something that only he could see. “I need to do something. Everyone else is out there risking their lives. I can’t just watch from the side lines.” 

He wasn’t looking at her, instead gazing into the faceplate of his own helmet. “It’s not in me to be a bystander. I have to help.” 

“You’re aware there’s an Endbringer on the horizon? Leviathan was over two months ago.” 

“All the more reason for me to help. Get this breakout wrapped up quickly.” 

“It would be the first fight without Alexandria. They’ll need you at your best, not exhausted from chasing down these prisoners,” she chastised, but it didn’t seem to take. 

“Then give me another booster,” he said, with more conviction than she’d expected. 

“David, it hasn’t even been a week since the last shot.” 

“Our old methods aren’t working. We need to change things, that’s why you wanted Pastor. So give me another booster. A shot or two more, and I can turn this around.” 

In a way, he was right. Recent events had backed them into a corner, and the older, subtler ways weren’t enough anymore. The only way out was through greater risks. 

But the boosters were a known quantity. They’d provide a burst of potency that faded faster and faster with each dose. When she could gamble that same vial on a new candidate, potentially creating another asset on par with Shatterbird, or the Siberian, or even a successor to the man across from her... 

“Our knowledge of the vials isn’t perfect. Now isn’t the time to see if you can overdose.” Not a lie, but also not the only factor in her refusal. 

His voice became just a little bit harder in response. 

“If I’d been faster, it would have made a difference.” 

“No. Not with the situation like this.” 

“I need it.” 

“What you need is rest. I can hear the fatigue in your tone.” 

He didn’t respond, and the gust of wind blew around her ear again. She dismissed the Custodian with a flick of her hand. 

The breakout had brought with it a wave of opportunities, but it had also brought a share of frustration. If Eidolon had had a chance to settle into a new retired routine, then convincing him to leave the situation alone would have been easier. But instead of peacefully stepping back, the escape had lit a fire in him. 

Sending him to assist Pastor had been the best choice out of a series of bad options. One last hurrah before he settled into a new life, something to keep him placated for the foreseeable future. Whatever had transpired there must be affecting him far more than he was letting on. 

Back when they’d first started, she would have taken as long as required to console him, explaining the necessity of holding him in reserve for the benefit of everyone. 

Sometimes, she missed those simpler days. But nostalgia was a luxury for others to enjoy. 

Another roll of the dice, then. 

“I won’t give you a booster,” she began, watching as his face fell before adding, “but perhaps arrangements can be made for you to continue heroics for a short time.” 

He nodded immediately, so eager that he was almost pleading. 

“We’ve been tracking some of the more hostile inmates. Several of them are closing in on major population centres, and with most of the Protectorate deployed already, there are only a skeleton crew of heroes watching over the cities. If you’re willing, I can put you in touch with some of our clients in these locations.” 

“Stopping them?” he asked, hopefully. 

“No. You'll be waving the flag, making your presence known while others handle the prisoners.” She knew her contacts could handle themselves, but it would give him time to cool off while she worked on the root of the issue. 

“...It’ll make a difference?” 

She smiled. He didn’t take much time to decide after that. 

“You’ll have to remain away from the PRT and the Protectorate, of course. They’ll have too many questions.” 

He nodded, considerably less enthusiastically this time. 

“When do I start?” 

“Immediately, if you wish. The individual I’ll be putting you in touch with is currently preoccupied, but they’ll be instructed to reach out as soon as they can.” 

The portal on her wall, the one that often displayed an eclectic mix of landscapes, lengthened and shifted to a night sky where the stars were outshone by the lights of a thousand buildings. Eidolon stepped through, mask reattached and shoulders slightly less hunched. 

The view shifted again as the portal changed destinations, showing an office not dissimilar to hers. The Number Man emerged from within, recognising the door for the invitation it was, holding a tablet computer under one arm. 

“How did it go?” 

She exhaled through her nose. 

“That well?” he replied, drily. 

“He listened. That’s enough for now. Better than sending him back to Texas in the state he was in.”

“Speaking of Texas,” he said, handing her the tablet. She read the scrolling news banner aloud. 

“Houston’s PRT Director steps down. Hardly a surprise after the last few weeks.” The Director had never been one of their agents, but she doubted any of the capes would care. Maybe their subordinates had refused to work for someone that had held office alongside a disgraced hero. 

“Do we have a replacement tapped?” 

She shook her head. “No point. There’s nothing worthwhile there that we can’t obtain from someplace else.” 

“Which leaves the elephant in the room.” 

She flipped over another report, ideas whirring through her mind. When she spoke, half a dozen plans had already begun to form. 

“Eidolon... his methodology isn’t simplistic, but there is a pattern to it. He won’t be happy until the biggest threats are arrested again, and to him that means the individuals named as priority targets. If we deal with them, his anger will fizzle out.” Her fingers tapped against the marble desk, considering her options. 

“Cutting off the fuel from the fire?” 

“It’s either that or Two-Nine-Three.” 

“The slug? Bold,” he responded, without a trace of judgement in his voice. 

“And if I thought it would work, I might have considered it. But it's resting now, and with his powers, there’s no guarantee the effect would take.” 

They lapsed into silence, the only sound a rhythmic tapping of nail against marble. It faded after a few moments, and the Doctor looked up. 

“Before all this jailbreak nonsense started, you and I had a discussion. Do you remember?” 

The Number Man gave a short nod. “I do. You wanted me back in the field.” 

“If you’re still willing?” 

“If that’s what’s needed.” That was that. No argument, no need to reassure his conscience. A very useful solution. 

Pulling open a desk drawer, the Doctor withdrew a blank sheet of paper, and held her other hand out expectantly. The wind blew a pen into her grip. With practiced motions, she noted down a series of instructions in shorthand, and brandished the note towards the retreating accountant. 

“Deliver this before you leave,” she requested. More risks. Something that might help hold Bet together for a little while longer. 

“Of course. And what will you be doing?” 

Before she could respond, the Custodian blew around her head, washing over the nape of her neck. She was being surprisingly insistent, which usually meant something was wrong. 

Hot air burst forth as the portal on the wall changed destinations once more, revealing a gigantic server room. It housed their online operations, monitoring the internet of Earth Bet, and tracking those trying to buy powers. A way of sorting the curious from the dedicated. 

A monitor at the front displayed the programme responsible for watching those patterns. It had been set off four times in quick succession, and was currently registering a fifth, all from the same encrypted location. 

Someone wanted her attention. She glanced at the Number Man. 

“Getting answers.” 

Perhaps they weren’t the only ones taking risks after all. 

Chapter Text

It was a clear night, but the stars had been swallowed whole by the lights below. I hovered between the two, a green horizon dividing the city beneath and the twilight sky above. 

From up so high, the early risers and those trudging back home after a long night out were barely distinguishable over the artificial haze, a collection of specks and dots moving through an urban anthill. 

A shame that they would never get to experience the world like this. 

Down there on the streets, the transparent lines that divided up this metropolis were obscured by a neon glare and drowned out by the thrum of electronic billboards. The little differences and details were lost amidst the chaotic barrage on the senses. But with some perspective, you could peel away the plaster of light and sound to reveal one of the most disorderly cities in North America.

You could see it in the roads, not quite uniform, the grid pattern knocked askew by hills and valleys. You could see it in the buildings, a few dozen houses built the same way here, while an entire block or two had been constructed in a different style over there. Little anomalies, repeated over and over as the town had grown to swallow all around it. 

Not a cohesive whole, but a million different stories, all jostling with each other in a desperate bid to be told. 

There was no mistaking it for anything other than the infamous city of angels. Although they had been trying to disassociate themselves from that nickname for a while now. Being linked to a creature that sapped the free will of innocents, turning even the purest into something unrecognisable, cannot have been good for business. 

Although if half the rumours about Hollywood were true, then perhaps that comparison wasn’t far off the mark. 

Dawn’s first rays pierced through the artificial blanket Los Angeles wrapped itself in, accompanied by an itch around my eyes. Several nights of poor sleep followed by twenty-four hours with none tended to do that. Especially when I’d been pushing myself in Freedom. 

I wanted to say it was a good tiredness. The kind you get after a job well done. I wanted to say it so badly that I ached for it. 

Or maybe those aches were coming from my growing list of injuries. Muscles I didn’t even remember having were grumbling in protest, to say nothing of the soreness in my side, or the dull throb in my foot. I clutched the feeling tighter, letting the fading wounds bring clarity to a weary mind. 

Turning in the air, I looked out towards the coast, at the sandy beach and the waterfront properties, just starting to be kissed by sunlight. Staring at a point slightly above the cresting waves, I waited silently as the rays crept forwards, until the trickle of dots and specks became a steady stream pouring forth from their luxury hotels. 

Then in the blink of an eye, I was no longer floating above Los Angeles, but hovering at its edge, the water lapping under me as the sun rose over my shoulders. A long shadow swept across the highways as I spun to face the city. 

Already heads were turning, gasps of shock and wide smiles at the sight. But flight alone would only hold their attention for so long. 

The tide beneath began churning as I raised my arms, the steady ebb and flow now sending waves up instead of forwards. You could almost hear the shutters click as the liquid spiralled into the air. 

Two pillars of crystal-clear water framed my silhouette as dawn broke behind me, with a captive audience to record it all. 

The Doctor wanted a statement. Something to let people know I was here. Give it half an hour, and social media would be full of hashtag Sun-dolon or some other equally inane portmanteau. 

I held the position for several moments, long enough to let the cameras do their work without outstaying my welcome. Then, just as the first handful of spectators began to lose interest, I pushed the pillars of water even higher. The torrents rose above me, the light from my suit giving them a faint ethereal glow to complete the look. 

Then it crashed down, a cascading waterfall that obscured me from sight. Seconds later, the last of the droplets cleared and I was gone. 

A little touch of mystique to keep things interesting. The message boards would be awash with speculation already. 

The sceptical members of the crowd would already be looking for me, but I doubted they could see through half a mile of urban jungle as I perched on a rooftop several blocks away. Gambling websites would already be taking bets on which powers I was using. Hydrokinesis was a given, but what accompanied it? Teleportation? Levitation? Flight? 

Casually, I took a step off the roof, and began walking along the air. A blink, and I was across the city. 

Absolute positioning. Pick a spot, any spot that you can see, and you’ll be fixed there without worrying about little things like gravity or momentum. 

Technicalities like that were the sort of thing people worried about on the West Coast. They wanted to be precise when they wasted their money on a guessing game. 

The new vantage point provided a perfect view of the street below, a microcosm of L.A.’s peculiar brand of living. Cinema complexes and luxury hotels towered over juice bars and burger chains that could only be found in California. Gigantic commercial billboards served as the city’s mortar, patching up the gaps between buildings with promotions from whatever celebrity was most popular today. Most displayed heroes posing with energy drinks or wearing branded versions of their outfits. It wasn’t that long ago that I would have been up on those boards, advertising the Wards program or pushing the latest line of Protectorate action figures. 

But the crowds barely noticed any of it. The bright lights and the noise, the glitz and the glamour that was on display twenty-four seven, and they were more interested in their daily papers or cell phones.

News banners scrolled along some of the giant screens, providing bitesize chunks of trivial information. One banner moved so quickly that I almost missed it; a single sentence tucked in between updates about the latest movies. A section of Route One was closed due to a situation near the Cabrillo Highway. 

My fight with Gavel, everything Pastor had done, reduced to a travel advisory and a handful of pixels. In a moment, even that was gone, replaced with the news that some actress was separating from her cape boyfriend. A calamity had happened only a few hours' drive from here, in the same state even, but everyone was too wrapped up in their own world to care. 

I watched as they went about their lives, ordering fried chicken out of food trucks decorated with heroic bumper sticks, or riding electric scooters bearing the decals of local capes. They didn’t even glance up as I walked overhead. Some of them would have already seen the videos and pictures from my arrival, so why bother looking again? 

To the people below, the extraordinary had become mundane. A white noise of everything cape-related. Hence the need for the water show. If you wanted to stand a chance of being noticed here, then going the extra mile was the bare minimum. 

Part of me was glad to see it. Watching them as they bickered and laughed and threw their plastic cups into hedgerows when they thought no-one was looking. It meant that we'd succeeded, at least in part. The plan to integrate parahumans into society might not be finished, but it was far enough along to let people live their lives in peace. 

But it wasn’t enough, was it? 

I looked at the bustling streets again, and could picture the civilians below with cracks under their eyes, forced into a zealot’s servitude. Why did it matter that I’d helped them live peacefully when I’d condemned the same number to Pastor? 

The enemy. That had always been the reason. Every action taken with him in mind. Some suffered, some thrived, all in the name of saving everybody. 

I flexed my fingers, watching the world turn beneath me. 

The enemy that seemed more insurmountable with every passing day. I’d tried. I’d failed, time and again. The Meinhardt girl, String Theory, I’d fallen short against both. Even stopping that mad brute hadn’t felt like a victory. Call it a tactical retreat, call it completing the mission, the labels didn’t change the fact that I’d been forced to leave. Tantamount to running away. 

If I tried that against Scion, we’d all pay for it. 

Was that why I was here? A reminder of what we were fighting for? The Doctor’s idea of sending me somewhere peaceful to stop and think? 

Or was it a yank of the leash they had me on? It hadn’t escaped my notice that of all the places she could have sent me, she’d picked Rebecca’s old city. 

I people watched for a little while longer, thoughts awhirl as I examined what angle the Doctor could have taken. But all the theories led me back to the same place. 

Why did any of this matter? The plans, the schemes, the peace below and the crowd going about their day. In two years, nobody would care about the man buying a hotdog or the woman and her baby crossing the street. Los Angeles would be a mass grave, just like the rest of the world, and none of this would matter. 

We didn’t even need to wait two years to see our failures come to light. Another critical loss or two against the Endbringers, and we’d be finished. 

So why did any of this matter?

The heavens refused to answer. I bit back a sigh. 

At least it was better than going back to Houston. A few showy displays to keep people happy, staying away from the violent side of heroism to uphold my promise to the Doctor, and then... 

Then I’d do something else, I guessed.

I blinked, and the landscape blurred. Over malls and through the infamous valley, stopping occasionally to grab the attention of the locals. Water tricks and mid-air posturing did the job well enough. The third power, something defensive, I kept tucked away for peace of mind. 

My body fell into practiced routines. A bland smile under the mask, a few waves towards the adoring public, before blinking away again. I moved on autopilot, using incredible abilities without conscious thought. Calming the masses was something I could do in my sleep. Not that they seemed to need the reassurance. 

There were more than a few calls for autographs, along with some pointed questions about how I dared to leave the Protectorate at a time like this. I didn’t deign to respond to either, blinking away to entertain another group of civilians. Maybe a few would be irritated by my swift exits, but if that was the worst thing that happened to them today, then they should count themselves lucky. 

By the time I finally broke out of the trancelike state, the sun had reached its apex, and I could barely remember any of the stops I’d made on the journey here. 

A bustling high street spread out before me, opulent stores that sold useless junk at exorbitant prices, occasionally broken up by an extravagant hotel or two. A lovely view, if not for the plume of smoke. 

It wasn’t difficult to see where something had gone wrong. Tyre marks marred the road, burnt rubber that led to a small hatchback, the front end of which was currently embedded in a metal safety rail. A few people had their cell phones out, but it was an even split between those calling for help and those filming the wreck. 

Somebody had already reached the driver’s side. I started to blink, just in time to see the potential rescuer yank the car door off its frame with their bare hands. They haphazardly threw it over their shoulder, and reached in for the driver. 

With motions slow enough that they seemed exaggerated, the cape sluggishly pulled the driver out of the wreck, pausing every few seconds to adjust their grip. 

I scanned the area. Not to adjust their grip. The angle of their body was all wrong. They were keeping their right arm down, even though it would make for a faster rescue if they used both, and they kept looking off to the side as if to check on something. Almost as if they were on stage, making certain that the audience got a clear view of the actor at all times. 

Then I had it. Hovering at an angle above the wreck, in line with the top of the shops, was a small drone. It was practically silent, moving at some unseen cue to record new angles. 

Agonisingly long seconds later, the driver was finally moved to safe distance. The, I hesitated to call them heroic, cape seemed extremely pleased with themselves. They turned to walk away, and that’s when they caught sight of the man in the sky. 

They jumped and waved towards me. I didn’t stick around to exchange pleasantries.

Three blinks later placed me atop a two-storey building in one of L.A.’s residential areas. A momentary reprieve from the masses. Gingerly, I lowered myself against the edge of an air conditioner, feeling the warmth of the burning metal on the way down. Hydrokinesis removed the sweat beading under my costume, splattering droplets across the rooftop. 

What a waste of a day. 

It wasn’t that I resented duties like these. Letting people feel safe and secure was a noble goal. The rationale behind these ‘face’ patrols made sense, after seeing first-hand how certain types of crime dropped significantly after witnessing a cape out and about, or how approval ratings increased after a few handshakes and snapshots. 

But nobody here was worried. There was no one to reassure, because nobody here seemed to care. Was it the success of the PRT that let them live like this? The biggest fires doused before they became public knowledge, and the remains hidden under a tarp that read ‘Everything is okay’?

Was it a shared delusion instead that let them ignore what was going on in the wider world, out of a misguided belief that it would never touch them? 

Or perhaps people in L.A. were just self-centred. 

Closing my eyes, I let the thoughts wander. I could just rest here for a little while. Not sleeping exactly, just a little breather. A much better use of time than holding the hand of a city that didn’t need me. 

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just stopped like this. Maybe I was getting old. 

“Hey! Eidolon, hey!”

Someone cried out for help, and the first thing I felt was a twinge of annoyance. Definitely getting old.

Cracking an eye, I glared down at the road below. A taxi had just pulled up at the curb, its passenger spilling out of her seat in the rush to see me. A girl, if the ponytail threaded out the back of her mask was any indication.

Much to my disappointment, I recognised her. The 'hero’ from before. Had she been following me? 

No. Not her. That blasted drone. I could see it flitting between chimney stacks, almost skittish in how it moved. 

“I guess you like didn’t hear me earlier or something, that’s cool I know you’re busy, but I totally wanted to ask you something!” Her voice had the hallmarks of a stereotypical valley girl accent, so prominent in her tone that it almost sounded forced. 

“Hey! Can you like hear me?!”

Part of me was tempted to simply leave. I didn’t hand out autographs to stalkers. 

“Please don’t teleport again, I spent the last of my allowance to get here, I really totally just want to ask you a question!”

Holding back a sigh, I took pity on the kid and dropped from the rooftop, walking on invisible steps down to the sidewalk below. 

“One question. Make it quick.”

Her eyes lit up at the invitation. She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, tapping away at a few buttons. The little drone swooped in behind her. 

“Could I get an interview?”

Chapter Text

A bird chirped nearby. A car backfired somewhere down the street. I closed my eyes, and when they opened again, the young cape was still standing there with an eager smile, camera drone hovering over her shoulder. 

It wasn’t a very elegant design. Four large fans made up the bottom of the drone, contained in small cylinders that moved independently and pulsed with an electric green light. The fans themselves were silent, despite being only a few feet away from me. It might have been a tinker’s work, given the thing’s apparent manoeuvrability and how quickly it tracked me. 

That idea ran into a few snags when examining the top half of the drone, which was quite literally a handheld video camera that could be bought from any electronics shop. Grey, a small foldout screen on the side, resting in a little cradle on top of the four circular fans. A few strips of velcro held it in place, rustling slightly whenever it moved. 

“I assume you don’t represent one of the networks?” I asked, sardonically. 

“Pfft, who needs those old teevee guys. I’m the one who found you.” Her hand twitched as she spoke, as if she wanted to reach out and touch something but didn’t quite have the courage to go through with it.

Before I could get another word in, she pulled the ripcord on her motormouth. 

“I found you. I found you. Nobody else. And I’ve even got the video!” 

Her foot started tapping out an irregular beat against the sidewalk. 

“Like holy shit, this is insane. You’re... you!” 

What an astute observation. 

“It is you though, isn’t it? I mean I saw the air walking, so cool by the way, but is it really-” 

I flicked an arm up, and the sprinkler two lawns over suddenly shot its moisture in an elaborate figure eight, the water spinning as I rotated my wrist. 

“So cool.” 

The drone silently hovered in place. One of the velcro straps was peeling off. 

“The internet was all, that’s totally stupid, you’d have to pay a kazillion dollars to get a VIP pass to a convention, and even then he never does that kinda stuff-” 

“Breathe. You’ll feel better,” I instructed, crossing my arms. 

She nodded rapidly, completely ignoring what I’d said. The kid had put all her energy towards chasing me and asking the opening questions. Now she was manic, having never expected to get this far. 

Three more times she tried to charge back into the conversation. Each one was met with a stern glare before she finally calmed down. 

“I mean... wow. Never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered, so quietly that I wasn’t certain if it was meant for me to hear. 

Not that it really mattered. These little meet-and-greets usually followed a similar script. We were mercifully near the end, which just left the part where she’d inevitably ask me for something. Normally they wanted autographs or photos, but she’d already requested the interview so perhaps we’d skipped that stage. 

“Can I touch you?” 

Or perhaps not. 

“Just... like, y’know. For proof.” 

I debated leaving the silence to linger as she began to shuffle uncomfortably, but letting a new cape die of embarrassment wasn’t on the agenda today. 

“That wouldn’t look good on your interview.”

She winced at the reprimand, only to bounce back at the mention of more questions. “So you’re okay with that? Like wow thank you so much, this is huge-” 

I held up a hand to stop her tirade. 

“In order, I’m not currently available to comment on recent events, I have prior commitments that prevent me from appearing on whatever show you’re hosting, and if you wish to contact me then please get in touch with the Houston PRT.” The canned recitation had already left my lips before I realised the final line wasn’t quite accurate anymore. Like telling someone to mail a letter to your old address. 

“Well, this will technically be a recording, not a show, so that's okay.” Her mask bobbed up and down as she nodded to herself, not quite fitting securely on her face. Must be an off the shelf purchase. 

Looking at her, the whole ensemble felt like a series of bargain bin purchases. The mask was eggshell white, and covered three quarters of her head. It didn’t seem particularly padded, and she’d clearly taken a pair of scissors to it to cut a pair of eyeholes in the centre. Dark brown hair spilled out the back, tied up in a ponytail that just brushed the shoulders of her costume. 

The top half of said costume resembled a green long-sleeved shirt, presumably because it was a green long-sleeved shirt. Some effort had been made to stylise it, with a rushing wave pattern that swept across the top, but all that accomplished was drawing the eye to some strange bulges at the joints. Part of the wave wasn’t even visible, hidden behind a bandolier style pouch she’d slung across her back, with the strap going over one shoulder. 

The bottom half was much the same. Black leggings with more bulges at the knees, and a skirt that stopped at the same height. Was she wearing elbow and knee pads underneath? 

Perhaps the kindest thing I could say was that it wasn’t the worst first attempt I’d ever seen. 

“If you’re looking to talk to heroes, I’d suggest taking a tour at the PRT headquarters. You can schedule interviews with them there.” 

The mask started swinging from side to side instead. “Oh no, I don’t wanna talk to them, I wanna talk to you.” 

What little remained of my patience began to evaporate. “I would strongly recommend going to the PRT. Maybe ask them about the Wards programme while you’re there.” 

“No way, they trend way lower than you in all major demographics.” 

Of all the answers she could have given, I wasn’t expecting that one. “Major demographics?” 

“Yeah, like they do an okay job as a group, but none of them are really show stealers, you know? Sometimes they get in some juicy drama but compared to you they just don’t pull in the numbers.” 

I stepped forwards, and she almost jumped. “Let me make one thing clear. So far today you’ve ignored a civilian in peril so your flying pest could film a better shot, you’ve stalked me halfway across the city, and now you're arguing against meeting the Wards because they aren’t popular enough?” 

She spluttered, her motormouth missing a gear change. 

“You need supervision. That's why the Wards exist. Trust me, you’ll be happier for it in the long run.” 

She mumbled something in response, and I sighed. Judging by her costume, the kid couldn’t have been a hero for more than a few weeks, and here I was grilling her every choice. Maybe the Doctor had been right about resting more if I was being so irritable. 

A shame that the resources of the Houston team were no longer at my disposal. Time was there had been a whole group of personable faces that could handle these kinds of things, untangling the emotional baggage and hang-ups that teenagers tended to have while I went off to save the day. It had been a good system. I could get work done uninterrupted and the new kids would be impressed at being on the same team as Eidolon. 

Word through the grapevine had been that a number of PRT recruiters tried to get transferred to Houston, because telling new heroes that they’d have me watching their backs was a great card to play in negotiations. 

“...You could do it,” she muttered, eyes darting up to look at me. 

“I'm sure you can get directions to the building from elsewhere.” She didn’t need me escorting her there. 

“No, I mean... you could do it. Supervision,” she asked again, a twinge of hopefulness in her voice. 

The absolute positioning was still in my grasp. It took a test of mental fortitude not to use it as an escape from this conversation. 

“You’re unemployed now, right? So... we can have our interview while you show me all that stuff. I totally promise to be good.” Her eyes lit up, even though her mask was now partially covering one of them. 

“Retired, not unemployed.” 

“Then why were you running all over the city today?” she asked, bringing a battered smart phone up in her hand. Images of me across Los Angeles flitted through the cracked screen. Mission accomplished, I suppose. 

Wait, why was I still arguing with this kid? 

“You’re like, helping people, and I wanna do the same, so we should work together, y’know?” She continued to babble on, oblivious to my immediate desire to leave. 

“A fascinating idea,” I replied, bored out of my mind. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to turn it down. If you want to work with people that help others, go join the Protectorate.” The conversation finished, I stepped away and began to stride down the sidewalk. 

It wasn’t that I had anything against young heroes, it’s just that they were so... infuriatingly young. Naïve and hopeful in all the wrong ways. The Wards could handle that energy and raw enthusiasm, channel it into something useful. If she didn’t join up then that was on her head, not mine. 

Footfalls thudded behind me as the irritation started following, her requests changing by the second. 

“Okay, so interview and supervision on pause, how about a selfie? Wanna fight crime together? We could just walk for a bit while the camera rolls?” 

It was like trying to swat a particularly persistent fly. Every time I moved away, she’d pop up on the other side, buzzing away to her heart’s content. Only the years of experience dealing with paparazzi and groupies let me keep my voice level. 

“One autograph, then I really must be off.” There. That was usually enough to satiate the masses. 

She’d already pulled out a pen and a notepad from somewhere, thrusting them towards me. 

“Name?” I asked, pen already uncapped. 

“Oh right. I’m Amp!” 

My pen stuttered halfway through scribbling some basic pleasantries on the page. “Didn’t realise that one was available again.” 

She stared blankly. 

“I’ve met more Amps than I can count. Independent heroes that manipulated sound, villains that controlled electricity...” 

“Well yeah, it was super popular but nobody was using it right now, so, y’know, gotta take my shot.” 

“Most people left the name alone after the last Amp passed away. A sign of respect, you understand.” 

“O-oh.” 

"Two years ago. Wisconsin.” 

“Shit, they were at Madison? The online pools said the name was up for grabs-” 

“Then you should have looked harder.” 

“I didn’t know-” 

“This is why we have the Wards. To train individuals in every facet of heroism, not just the obvious parts.” 

Patience depleted, I signed my name, and shoved the notepad back into her hands. A blink, and I was at the end of the block. 

What an absolute waste of a day. 

The annoyance dug deep and found an extra reserve of frustration as she began running down the sidewalk after me, but I wouldn’t entertain her any longer. Another blink landed me at the foot of a commercial district, filled to the brim with weekend shoppers. 

Its job done, I let the movement ability drift away. This next part didn’t require such an elaborate power. 

I put one foot in front of the other, and waited. Those closest to the doors fell quiet first. Their companions turned, only to follow suit. Like a chain of dominoes, the hush spread outwards until a hundred faces were pointing my way. 

Some of them wouldn’t be interested. I’d just be another momentary distraction before they went back to complaining about the price of designer smoothies. For others, this was a repeat performance, their general apathy towards all things superhuman holding them back.

“Look Mommy. Its ‘dolon.” 

But there were still enough true believers here for my needs. 

The mother with a toddler in her arms was the first to approach. Cautiously at first, until she was certain that I wasn’t some crazed lunatic. That started the flood, with ladies and gentlemen of all ages tearing themselves away from window shopping to circle around me, each demanding their own memento of the day. This city might be self-centred and narcissistic, but now it worked in my favour.

A glance over my shoulder revealed a rather winded young woman wearing a ridiculous cape costume, who was now stuck on the outside of the throng. Gently, I guided the crowd away, leaving her far behind. 

By the time they eventually dispersed, my headache was long gone. 

Now all that was left was to kill time before- 

The resounding crack of cement snapping in two stopped my thoughts dead in their tracks. 

“Hey, I’m really sorry!” 

And she’d followed me. Wonderful. 

I turned back to see the young menace once again, as she dusted herself off and posed for that obnoxious drone. The picture might have even looked heroic, if it wasn’t for the paving slab directly underneath her. A sizeable fissure had spread down its middle, one that certainly had not been there a minute ago. 

Leaping tall buildings in a single bound didn’t count for much when you couldn’t land safely. 

“I trust you’ll be paying for that?” I asked, dryly. She looked down, a quizzical expression in her eyes. Then she looked again, and it was as if the life had gone out of her. 

“There’s... I mean, the city covers stuff like that, don’t they? Cape costs? I don’t really have to... do I?” She deflated, her motormouth spiralling between denial and pleading. 

“Are those expensive? They’re probably expensive. Do I really have to... I mean, it was an accident and nobody was hurt...” She trailed off at my unimpressed look. 

“First lesson of being a hero. How to take responsibility for one’s actions,” I replied. She wrung her hands as I continued, my voice deadpan. 

“Turns out I have a little time to supervise you after all.” 

Chapter Text

“Name here. And again here,” said the police officer, with a slight grin tugging at the edge of his lips as he flipped through the paperwork. The so-called Amp was getting a lot of practice writing her signature as she reluctantly followed his instructions.

I stood behind her in the interrogation room, nodding slightly as the officer reached the final page. To her credit, she had willingly followed me to the police station, and admitted to something along the lines of negligent behaviour while under the influence of heroism. At least she had the decency to take responsibility for her own mishaps. If only every new parahuman had the same integrity. Maybe then we wouldn't have spent two decades fighting an uphill battle to fit them into society.

“Excellent. Thank you for your co-operation in this matter. We look forward to working with you more often, Amp.” The officer swept up the last of the papers, handed me one from the middle of the stack, and left the room. I let her simmer for a minute or two as Amp fiddled with the zips on her pouch, the sharp hiss echoing off the concrete walls. 

“Mierda. Mierda, mierda...” 

The door opened with a click, and I ushered her back through the precinct, not saying a word while Amp moped her way outside. If she’d been paying more attention, she might have noticed the knowing smirks on the faces of several veteran officers as we passed.

It was only after the front doors had swung closed and the sunlight was streaming overhead once more that she finally spoke to me.

“I can’t pay for that! What the f-fuck do I do?!”

Flipping the form over, I read the charges aloud. “Two fines, one for reckless endangerment-”

“I didn’t hurt anyone!”

“-and one for destruction of public property-”

“It was a tiny crack on the sidewalk, that’s not destruction!”

“-with total charges being just shy of five thousand dollars,” I finished, neatly folding the paper. “Now then, what’s your next move?”

Amp threw her hands up helplessly. “I don’t know! I can’t pay that, what do I do? Are they gonna arrest me? Oh God I need to call my dad before they arrest me.” She unslung the pouch and began rummaging her way through it, pushing the sides so far apart that the seam threatened to burst. 

“How do you feel, right in this moment? Scared? Confused?”

She nodded frantically.

“I imagine that the people going about their day felt the same way when a young lady leapt over a three-storey shop and decimated the sidewalk,” I said nonchalantly.

“Okay, point taken!”

“Remember that feeling. It’ll help.”

She muttered something. It sounded petulant. 

“Would you say that you’ve learned a lesson here?” I asked. 

Amp nodded frantically, fingers tripping over the keys of her cell.

“Good. Because the truth is, you don’t have to pay a single cent.” With that, I tore the paper up and incinerated the fragments, letting the ash blow away in the wind.

She glared through the holes in her mask. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it isn’t. What it is, is a lesson for heroes who can’t keep themselves calm in the heat of the moment.” 

An old favourite of Alexandria’s; a scare tactic designed to cow the L.A. Wards’ more rebellious members. She used to personally deliver them to the police station, watching over their shoulders as they wrote out apologies and signed forms admitting their culpability in whatever minor offense they’d committed. Her reasoning had been that the thrill of a super heroic lifestyle, and by extension the PRT headquarters, often prevented them from taking in-house punishments seriously.

The media tended to be on her side whenever someone snapped a photo of the latest Ward in the station. People liked to know that their saviours were being held accountable for their actions. Something she undoubtedly would have factored in when making a plan to improve her team's standing.

Amp let out a shuddering sigh, closing her eyes. “Oooh... okay. Not in trouble. Good, that’s good.” She cracked an eye, looking towards me. “That is good, right?” 

“So long as you take something away from all this.” 

“Yeah, don’t break the sidewalk when people can see me...” she muttered. At my unimpressed look, she quickly added, “And be a responsible heroine!”

I exhaled. If she couldn’t understand the basics, then I was wasting my time here.

Leaving Amp behind once again, I turned and started the long walk back down the street, out of central L.A. The Doctor’s people should be in touch shortly, but until then I had my orders. Reassure several million people that nothing is wrong, even though none of them cared in the first place. Why should the world’s problems matter when they could buy shiny things and argue with similarly vapid individuals?

“Wait, that’s it?”

I glanced back at Amp, still rooted to the spot with her arms outstretched.

“You were expecting something else?” I replied, quizzically.

Her arms drooped, and the mask shifted as her mouth moved underneath. “Well... yeah?”

Before I could get a word in edgeways, she started off again. “Like, I get it, I might have messed up, but the fake arrest? That was so not cool. What if they, like, unmasked me?”

My brow furrowed. “Doubtful.”

“I didn’t know that!”

Was she afraid of the police? It seemed unlikely that a kid her age would have a criminal record, but perhaps a bad experience in the past had soured her opinion. That would be unfortunate. It was rather difficult for independents to make any headway in this business without liaising with law enforcement. 

“It was merely a lesson. A learning experience.” 

She hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, well it was a crap lesson. You can’t pull something like that and then just waltz off without a word.” 

She shook her head. “That’s not how it’s supposed to go.” 

“I’m not going to apologise for your actions.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” she groaned, throwing her head back in the overexaggerated way that only teenagers could manage. “Okay, yes, an apology would have been nice, but you can't just...” 

Amp made a series of aborted gestures with her arms, as she tried and failed to start another sentence. 

“Can’t just what?”

“Leave!” she cried. “Sparky tracked you halfway across the city, and when I caught up you wanted nothing to do with me.” 

My cape blew gently in the noon wind. “I gave you the same attention I give to every stalker.” 

“I only did that because you wouldn’t stop teleporting!” 

Murmurs were beginning to pick up across the street. Neighbours peeping out of their windows at the commotion, and pedestrians gawking at the sight of an independent arguing with someone like me. I stepped closer to Amp, only to hear her sniffling. 

“I know I fucked up already, okay? I had it all planned out and none of it happened the way it should have, but you can’t just walk away,” she croaked. “That’s not fair.” 

Hesitantly, I patted her on the shoulder. There were some aspects of being a leader that I’d never been comfortable with, and disciplinary measures were near the top of that list. It was why I'd delegated it whenever possible. Gauging how someone would react to such actions was always a gamble. Stubborn teenage rebellion or feigned nonchalance, those I could have dealt with. But this wasn't in my wheelhouse. 

The others would have handled this better. More patience, or a better read of her mental state. 

A different tack, then. Perhaps the city wasn’t in need of me, but at least I could reassure one girl. 

“When you put on that getup, you aren’t just representing yourself. You’re representing every hero, across the world,” I whispered. 

Amp glanced up at me. Her eyes were shining. 

“It might have just been a small scratch on the sidewalk, but it matters. People see that, and they begin to wonder what else you’re capable of. What you could do if you were pushed too far.” 

She blinked slowly. 

“That reflects badly on all of us. We’ve been trying for years to get societal acceptance for parahumans, and spectacles like yours don’t help.” 

She sniffed. Her mask rippled with the intake of breath. 

“But perhaps that learning experience was a bit much for a newcomer,” I thought aloud. “I didn’t believe you'd react so strongly.” 

No response. I didn’t expect one. 

“For what it’s worth, I apologise.” 

Slowly, I withdrew my arm, and waited. Eventually, a hiccupping laugh answered.

“That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard,” she chuckled.

I frowned a little. 

“Couldn’t you have started with that? Instead of, y’know, all this?” She waved her hands towards the reinforced building behind us. 

“Would you have listened without the extra shock?” 

Amp tilted her head and blew out a sigh. 

“Maybe not.” 

“Then you’re welcome.” 

She snorted, shaking her head slightly. “Thanks, I guess. For what it’s worth." 

Then much like a dog ridding itself of water, Amp shook herself. When the movement stopped, she seemed like a different person. With a newfound energy, she jabbed both thumbs towards her chest. “So just to check, definitely not in trouble?” 

The speed with which she could bounce from depression to joy could have been a power in its own right. “As long as you don’t do it again, yes.” 

Amp nodded thoughtfully, slowly enough that I thought the lesson might actually have sunk in after all. 

Then she pulled her bandoleer pouch around, and slid that obnoxious drone out. “So, how about making it up to me?” 

Great. We were back to that again. 

I inclined my head to the side and left the police station behind, with Amp following along like a lost puppy. When I looked back, she was inches from my face, pressing the camera drone up to my eyes. At this rate my agent would select a tracking power just to stop her sneaking up on me. 

“Sparky will be like totally sad if you say no.” 

Sighing, I reminded myself not to snap at the overly-emotional teen. “Drop the accent. You can’t conduct an interview if every other word is ‘like’ or ‘totally.” 

Her shoulders sagged, the strap of her bandoleer slowly sliding downwards to follow the motion. “Is it that obvious?” 

“The airheaded valley girl thing isn’t endearing. And you’ve broken character three or four times by now.” 

“...Mierda. Cape metrics said that it was a great way to stand out.” 

Some civilians on the other side of the street started pointing as they saw me. I raised a hand in recognition, and murmured back to Amp. “What metrics? Where are you getting this information?” 

She tucked the drone under one arm and thumbed through the cracked phone screen with the other. I waved to the passers-by as she flicked between pages full of fluctuating graphs that updated in real time. 

“Cape Metrics dot net. It’s one of the Parahumans Online offshoots that’s supposed to help newbies,” she answered, as if it was blindingly obvious. 

“Never heard of it.” 

“Well yeah, you’re not new. Some people hated how the Protectorate hoards all the good info, so they built it to help new heroes.”

“Sounds very reliable.” 

“It tracks trends online, and how to market yourself properly, and the best way to build up your brand, stuff like that.” 

“The PRT has entire departments dedicated to tracking and interpreting data of that sort.” 

Amp’s mask stretched, then she frowned. “Okay, I know, it’s not as good as the official stuff, but it helps.” 

“This is the same website that told you to use a fake accent?”

“Californian heroes who sound local get way better engagement online. More views, more subscribers, less likely to get arrested...” She gave me a knowing look at that last one while counting the perks off on her fingers. I held up a hand and she instantly stopped. 

“Take it from someone who has been around the block a few times. Gimmicks like that hurt more than they help,” I said, not unkindly. Amp didn’t venture a response.

A car slowed down to a crawl as it drove past, the driver rubbernecking me. I idly waved at him to keep moving. 

“If a local accent was that important, the Image teams would have had me sounding like a cowboy years ago.”

Thankfully, Amp let out a bark of amusement at that. Good. She wanted to be a hero, and I didn't want to crush that impulse. But if there was one thing I’d relearned today, it was that teenagers never reacted the way you expected them to. 

“You could wear a cowboy hat and everything,” she laughed.

I patiently waited a few seconds for her to compose herself before speaking again. “There’s more to being a hero than some cheap tricks. You’ll figure it out soon enough.” 

Her voice wilted slightly. “Hope so. It's kinda difficult to stand out with powers like mine.” 

“If your powers are causing you problems-”

“Then join the Wards, I know, I know. I can’t,” she groused, rolling her eyes.

“I was going to suggest finding a corporate sponsorship.” It wasn’t an ideal solution, but she’d receive some level of support, and they’d certainly hold her accountable for any damages incurred as a hero. Branded teams were even more stringent than the Wards in that regard. All it took was someone twisting their ankle on some rubble from a corporate fight, and the lawsuits would start rolling in. 

Amp didn’t meet my eyes when she eventually answered, sounding far too resigned and defeated for a teenager. “They wouldn’t accept someone like me.” 

“They’ve trained plenty of new heroes, if that’s bothering you,” I offered. 

"I wouldn't qualify for most of them. You need a perfect reputation to get into one of the good ones. Andromeda, Eminent, they wouldn't even look at my application.” 

"And the less good ones?" 

She chuckled morosely. "What, like Kings of the Coast? Thanks, but I prefer wearing clothes instead of swimsuits.” 

“How about-” 

“Could we just drop it? Please?” 

Against my better judgement, I kept my mouth shut. It turned out to be the right call as I glanced back and saw just how downtrodden she looked. Amp was barely watching where she was going, hugging the drone close to her chest like a safety blanket. Her emotions really were all over the place. 

At last count, the kid had messed around instead of rescuing people from a car crash, broken public property, and almost had a meltdown in the aftermath. At the rate she was going, it wouldn’t be long before she made a mistake she couldn’t recover from. She desperately needed someone to steer her onto the right path. Someone who wasn't an armchair cape 'expert' living in an internet chatroom.

This would be far simpler if she’d just join one of the organisations designed to guide young heroes. The Wards, or a corporation, or even one of those charity teams that divided their time between spitting on the government and begging for donations.

Unfortunately, she’d found her way to me.

I’d never really had much to do with the next generation of heroes. Always one crisis after another to handle, only giving fleeting lessons to those under me. 

But those crises were someone else’s problems now, the Doctor and the Protectorate had made that clear. Cauldron could plan for the end of the world, Chevalier and his team were handling the breakout, so what did that leave me to do? 

Here and now, there was an opportunity, and for once I had time to help. 

Amp could go on to save thousands, or she could be in prison for reckless endangerment before she turned twenty. 

I might not be a good man, but I hoped the people I’d saved could do enough good to make up for that. It was a different sort of saving than I was used to, but stopping a new hero from following the path of failure was still a noble goal. She could go on to touch countless lives, just as I had. 

Like ripples in a pond. 

And maybe a tiny part of me felt that I owed her another chance after publicly embarrassing her with the police. If someone had done the same to me when I was her age...

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Squaring my shoulders, I gave her an appraising look. She couldn’t appear more dejected if she tried.

Let’s see if I could turn that around. My legacy might be in shambles, but there was no reason for hers to end up the same way. 

“Come on then.” 

Amp glanced up at the sound.

“Unless you’d rather get supervision from elsewhere...” I trailed off as she shook her head furiously. 

“Then let’s go. I have somewhere to be.”

Excited footsteps followed in my wake, and the tiredness in my limbs seemed to recede just a little. 

“This is gonna be awesome! Can I film it?”

“No.”

“Just a little bit? Please?”

“No.”

“Okay, pictures only for now. Save the film for later, good idea!”

Or maybe I’d made a terrible mistake. 

Chapter Text

“So who would win in a fight, you or Dragon?” 

“Dragon is a formidable individual and a great hero. We wouldn’t fight.”

“Yeah, but if you did, who would win?”

“I don’t know.”

“See I think it’d be you, but this guy I know thinks it’d be Dragon, and we’ve been going back and forth on it for weeks, and I said he’s only saying that because he’s a tech nerd too so his opinion is kinda wrong.”

I let the words wash over me as Amp chattered on, describing the nuances of imaginary fights in excruciating detail.

“All those suits are cool, don’t get me wrong, but you have every power, you can’t beat that.”

“Of course.”

“Or you could do that thing you did against Grease Monkey, with all the gears flying everywhere? That was awesome.”

I nodded, not having a clue what she was talking about. Had I fought someone with such an atrocious name?

“There's a review of the fight on my channel, if you ever wanted to take a look?”

“Something to keep in mind.”

“I’ve got a bunch more on there if you’re interested. You versus Haus, that’s a popular one. Spliced it together from cell videos myself,” she proudly exclaimed.

“Mmh.”

“Tried to work through all your back catalogue. Thought maybe people would see the reviews and be all, hey this new girl is funny, I should watch her other stuff.”

“Hence the camera?”

“Exactly! But nooo, it’s always when’s the next review video, make more reviews, you suck for not making reviews. I’m trying to do something different, and it’s rare if I get more than three views on my own heroic videos, you know?”

“The best laid plans.”

“And my powers don’t even work properly without people, so it’s this really dumb loop of needing people to watch but they won’t do that unless I’m doing something interesting with my powers, but those won’t do their thing unless there’s a crowd!”

“Those are?” I prompted.

“Crowds?” she responded, oblivious.

“Your powers,” I corrected. Some form of enhanced strength, that much was clear, but powers were rarely so clean-cut.

“Oh.” Amp blinked. “I thought... didn’t I... that was meant to be step three...”

Her head hung so low that the chin of her mask touched her chest. “Mierda. I was supposed to have done that already.”

“You could always show me now,” I offered. She placed far too much emphasis on whatever this plan of hers had been. Another amateur error. Being a hero meant being adaptable.

Amp immediately perked up again, seemingly pleased that I was showing an interest. She took a quick look up and down the sidewalk, head bobbing whenever a passing civilian crossed her vision, before turning to face the nearest wall.

She huffed out a breath, making a show of rolling her shoulders and stretching her muscles. A noticeable draft overhead answered the question of why she was posing.

Pulling her arm back as far as it could go, Amp paused for just a moment to deliver a wink to camera. Then her fist lashed out, a blur in motion-

“Wait, am I gonna get in trouble for breaking public stuff again?”

-only to slam to a stop with her knuckles a hair’s breadth away from the bricks.

“So you do learn. Good.”

Her arm fell down limp while her forehead gently thudded against the wall. “Still not cool.”

“Learning rarely is.”

Amp twisted to face me, sliding her head along the bricks. A streak of orange dust smeared a line across her eggshell white mask. “You’re an awful teacher.”

On that, we agreed. Houston might have been one of the Protectorate’s major training centres, but I’d had little to do with that side of affairs. New capes kept getting sent there due to its relative safety, where they could test out their powers and work through any faults without interruption, but I’d left that to people more qualified than I.

After all, someone had to maintain the peace so the little terrors could learn how to throw a punch properly.

“You could always use your words instead,” I said, idly wondering if all young heroes were utterly terrible at explanations or if it was just another quirk from my new shadow.

Amp kicked off from the wall, promptly ignored my suggestion, and began thumbing through her phone. It was late afternoon, and the day still felt too long.

With a flourish, she flipped her phone sideways, and proudly displayed the cracked screen towards me. A very pixelated heroine stood there, her head and torso partially hidden behind a translucent triangle.

The real Amp tapped the play button with her thumbnail, and a male voice I couldn’t identify crackled through the tinny speakers.

“Demo reel, take... fuck what are we on now? Twenty? Fuck it, twenty. Demo reel take twenty, action.”

A handful of other voices muttered in the background of the video, too indistinct to make out. The recorded Amp didn’t pay any attention to the noise as she cheerfully waved towards the camera, before launching into a spiel about how important heroism was to her. She sounded like a beauty pageant contestant, albeit one heard through a short-range radio.

I tilted my head up to look the real Amp in the eyes. She was intensely focused on a rather interesting patch of floor.

“...That’s who I am, and this is what I can do!” exclaimed the recording, her speech apparently finished. Without wasting any time, she grabbed at something just out of shot. The camera quickly zoomed out, stuttered, and zoomed slightly back in again.

When the image stabilised, the pixelated heroine had hefted a metal dumpster over her head and was bench pressing it with ease. A few polite claps answered her physical display. I was mildly surprised that she hadn’t made the mistake of trying to lift a car instead.

Three of the indistinct voices groaned with exertion as another dumpster screeched along the ground. The one in her hands was carelessly placed atop it. Without hesitation, the digital girl squatted down and gripped the underside of the pair.

The real Amp flicked her gaze back towards me as the recording lifted both dumpsters without any trouble. Although the victory lap she took with them still held over her head might have been a bit excessive.

“Are we done now? Because the guys have got work to do,” complained the male voice, the footage shaking as whoever was behind the camera stopped holding it steady. Jerking around, the picture showed a short glimpse of maybe six or seven individuals watching the demonstration.

Amp tapped the phone again, and the playback stopped. “After that it's just ten minutes of me arguing with them to stick around longer.”

“Friends of yours?”

She shrugged, slotting the phone back into her bandoleer bag. “Friends of a friend.”

“Hmm.”

When it became clear that I had nothing more to say, she started scratching awkwardly at the nape of her neck. “So... what did you think?”

“I assume you put those back where you found them?” I queried.

“Really?! Nothing about how strong I am or... really?” Amp groaned, head tilting back and shoulders drooping. “Yes, we put the stupid dumpsters back when I was done.”

Maybe she wasn’t a complete menace to society after all.

“You have enhanced strength?” I asked, rhetorically.

Amp’s head snapped back down to look me in the eye. “Hella enhanced.” Then in a far more reluctant tone, she added, “Well sometimes anyway.”

“I see.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, not really that impressive here of all places, when the muscle queen herself is based in L.A. Or was, I guess.”

I could see the gears whirring in her mind as she realised who she’d said that to.

“Oh, oh god, I’m sorry, that was really insensitive, I’m really so-”

“It’s quite alright.” Rebecca would certainly love being remembered as the ‘muscle queen’. More than one journalist had fallen flat trying to label her in a similar manner.

“Sometimes strong?” I asked, moving the conversation along as swiftly as possible.

Amp clung to the change of topic like a life raft. “Yep. Sometimes strong, sometimes not, sometimes in between.”

Several of her earlier comments were starting to make more sense. “Hardly uncommon. You believe that crowds are involved?”

“I... think so?” Amp answered, uncertainty in her voice. If she did know the cause, then she was doing considerably better with her powers than I’d managed with my own.

I didn’t prompt her for a further explanation. Every cape had different boundaries when it came to discussing their abilities. She kept talking regardless, the motor in her mouth firing on all cylinders once more.

“It’s, I think anyway, I think it’s people and audiences and stuff?”

“Mm-hmm,” I replied noncommittally, just to show I was listening.

“If there’s no-one around, then I’m just kind of wimpy,” she laughed morosely. “Figured that out on night one.”

“Bad debut?”

“Tried to do the Crusher challenge. It... didn’t go so well,” she admitted, sheepishly.

The name tickled a memory in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t put a face to it. “Crusher challenge?”

"Yeah, you know, the viral one? With the one-armed hero who does all those workout courses for disabled people?” she said, expectantly.

Unfortunately for her, I didn’t keep up with the latest internet trends. Yet that was no obstacle to Amp, who launched into an explanation that could outpace a speedster.

“So he’s this ex-hero right, he talks a lot about his old crimefighting days, and he does workout routines for disabled people and for heroes, but sometimes he gets muddled up.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Funny though. There was a blooper from one of his tapes where he got confused about which video he was recording, and he challenged a bunch of people who were missing a limb to lift one of those huge Atlas stones. The internet latched onto it, and now if you’re strong enough to hold one up with one hand, then you win the challenge,” she stated matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t certain if I should be heartened that an ex-hero had successfully moved onto other things, or saddened that he’d gone from a rising star to recording exercise videos. Amp looked on curiously before I shifted the conversation back to its original purpose.

“You failed his challenge?”

“Y-yeah.” Like a switch had been flipped, the life drained out of her. “Couldn’t get an official stone, they’re really expensive, so I just grabbed a decorative boulder that looked close enough.”

She shook her head. “So stupid. Nobody was watching so I messed my back up and had to limp home.”

“My condolences.”

“Took a few weeks to figure it out, but I’ve nailed it now.” The smile returned to her eyes, but I could see the hooks holding it up. Apparently, Amp was not someone who handled failure well.

All too aware that people were beginning to take notice, I beckoned to my newest follower and strode down the street before we ended up swarmed by the public. “You’re still fresh. Every new hero has a learning curve.”

“Bet you didn’t,” she grumbled.

I looked back as she complained. “When I started, we didn’t even have a word for parahumans.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue the point.

“What about your other powers? If they swell with crowds, then what could you build with an attentive audience?” She did enjoy talking about herself. Letting her do that instead of starting another argument seemed to be a safe idea.

Amp blinked owlishly. “In case you didn’t notice, I don’t really do building.”

Wind ruffled my cloak as her obnoxious drone descended. I stared at it, before slowly turning to face her. “Then how would you explain that?”

“What, Sparky?” Her head zipped back and forth between me and the jury-rigged drone, the handheld camera wobbling in its cradle as it moved. “I didn’t build her.”

“It isn’t bad for a first attempt,” I consoled.

“She isn’t even finished! Do you really think I’d only build half a drone?”

Something clicked in my mind. “That tech friend of yours. A commission?”

“Duh. If I could build stuff like that, I’d do the whole thing instead of just the motors and the fans.”

“And it has a normal video camera on top because...”

"Because...” Amp thought so hard that she stumbled over her own feet. When she spoke, it came out as an embarrassed whisper. “Because I kinda ran out of money.”

Her clearance sale costume spoke volumes.

“My nerd friend? The one holding the camera for my demo reel? That’s Voltaic,” she explained. “He’s great but he won’t work for free. Which is super selfish, but whatever.”

“He built you half a drone?”

“He built me half a drone after I paid him waaaaay too much and helped him redecorate his hideout,” she groused, in a voice dripping with buyer’s remorse. “When I’m not poor, Sparky will get a proper camera wired up, she’ll be able to livestream publicly instead of just to my phone, and her other features will actually, y’know, work.”

“Your friend sold you a broken drone?”

“Not broken broken, just, you know, broken.” Amp shrugged as if that sentence was supposed to clarify everything.

“Look, you’ll see. Sparky, come here!” The drone responded with a gentle humming noise, lowering itself down until it was rotating in slow circles around Amp’s head. She looked on expectantly.

“Aren’t you gonna ask how I did that without my phone?”

I sighed. “How did you do that without the phone?”

The drone bobbed in the air as Amp jabbed a finger towards its undercarriage, accidentally knocking it off course in the process. “Hidden microphone in the base. Everybody will be all ah ha, she doesn’t have her phone anymore so she can’t control it, and then I’ll be all Sparky attack and then she’ll smack them in the back of the head.”

Amp slapped her fist into her palm to punctuate her idea. “Clever, right?”

We both watched as the drone gently tilted from side to side before careening into a nearby tree.

“...I did say that she wasn’t finished yet.”

“Does it do anything else?” I asked. Chatterbox Amp didn’t need much of a push to keep showing off. She called, and the drone bumbled its way back to her. Her mask started flapping as she flipped the thing on its side without turning the fans off.

“You can try it. I mean, if you want to.”

It wasn’t as if I had much else to do at the moment.

“Okay, I’ve set her to accept a new user. Go for it.”

This time, it was my turn to look blankly at her.

“Oh right. Duh. She only knows three orders right now, so just tell her lights, come, or dance.” Amp thrust the machine towards me, proudly presenting the half-built abomination she’d wasted her life savings on.

“Sparky, lights,” I muttered half-heartedly. Sure enough, the machine burst to life as four luminescent green spotlights shone out of the cradle, one from the housing surrounding each fan.

Within moments, something began to crackle inside the usually silent drone. The cables feeding into the cradle from the camera’s rear started smouldering at the edges, accompanied by a gentle hissing sound that steadily grew more pronounced.

The machine pulled to the left as the fans lost synchronisation. Wisps of charcoal grey smoke puffed out from the side. A series of electrical jolts bounced outwards as the entire contraption overheated, causing the drone to live up to its name.

“Ay! Lights off, Sparky lights off!” squealed Amp as she began hopping up and down on the spot, batting at her sleeve while her expensive toy bounced off the ground.

I spared a sideways look at the mechanised monstrosity, sparking and juddering as it ricocheted from paving slab to grassy verge. A chill blew through the air as the ambient temperature surrounding it cooled to below freezing, quenching the potential fire hazard. The cradle scraped along the sidewalk, coming to rest against a street light with a thin trail of chipped paint left behind. Thankfully, the nearest bystanders were on the far side of the street, with several parked vehicles between us and them. With any luck they hadn’t noticed her latest mishap.

“Lesson two. There’s a time and place for showing off,” I said impassively, directing the chilling effect to sweep over Amp before dismissing the ability. Physically, she didn’t have a scratch on her. Yet again, her ego had borne the brunt of the wounds. 

“Better?”

She nodded grudgingly, unflinching despite the biting cold air. Any lingering annoyance swiftly turned into concern as a wave of my hand brought the drone soaring back towards us. Nothing seemed broken on the surface. At least her ‘friend’ hadn’t swindled her with fragile materials.

Unceremoniously, I passed the machine back to its rightful owner, who gave it an inspection so rigorous that she would have made a drill sergeant proud.

“She won’t do the whole zappy explode-y routine when she’s completed, promise,” swore Amp, as she carefully reset the drone, watching attentively as it took flight once again.

“That’s the plan then?” I asked. She wouldn’t be the first hero who made a living off of selling their exploits, but it was a hard climb to become successful in that field.

“Hell yeah. She’ll make the production value go waaaaay up.” I could almost see the stars in her eyes. “Then I’ll make a proper demo, and after that it’s merch deals, piles of cash, my face on lunchboxes, and then the big shot teams will hire me on my terms.”

She paused momentarily to shoot me an evil look. “Unless something ruins my rep, like getting dragged to the cops.”

All across the country, several hundred of the most dangerous villains that this earth had ever faced were running loose, and Amp was more interested in her paltry viewing figures. What a strange place Los Angeles was. The problems of the outside world must just fade away in the city of dreams.

Perhaps it was a testament to the PRT’s public relations teams, successfully keeping people calm and letting them go about their daily lives during a crisis.

Or maybe I’d just spent so long focused on an aim that was becoming more unobtainable by the day that I’d forgotten what it was like to have personal goals.

“There’s more to being a hero than making money,” I chided, unwilling to follow that last mental slope to its conclusion. 

Amp snorted. “Sure, if you’re one of those rich kids.”

I let her words linger unanswered until she exhaled heavily. “I didn’t really mean it like that. I want to help people, you know? But, it’s not wrong to want to make a living as well, is it?”

“You are aware that the Wards get paid?”

“I’m not stupid, I did my research.”

“And you still don’t want to join up?”

“Nope.”

Part of me wondered if this is what selfishness felt like. Two years until the end, and here I was losing arguments with a kid.

I looked back at Amp as she practically skipped along the sidewalk. There should have been guilt there. A feeling I was intimately familiar with, where every moment that I wasn’t saving the world was a moment wasted.

But for once, it didn’t overwhelm me.

I had no idea what to do with her. Imparting the basics of a life in costume was a start, but was it worthwhile? Compared to what else I could be doing?

The realisation came slowly. I didn’t know what to do with her. This could end in glory or tears. It was... exciting. Interesting.

Freeing.

A mission, an undertaking of my own volition. Definitely selfish, but the guilt was balanced out by a fresh feeling of heroism.

Saving the world would come later, but I could save her world right now.

“Then I suppose we should get started,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “No time like the present.”

Amp’s eyes lit up, and this time it wasn’t due to faulty wiring. 

“For a career like yours to succeed, you’ll need to aim bigger than car crashes and vandalism.”

Her mask shifted as she quirked an eyebrow, clearly unamused. “Uh huh.”

“You, in particular, need the extra support that the public brings.”

She didn’t argue with that. “So what, do we keep walking until we find some proper crime? Something big to film?”

That wasn’t how patrols, or indeed how crime tended to work, but I let the comment pass. “Think bigger.”

“A crowd.”

“Bigger.”

“A... big crowd?”

“I was thinking of an event.” 

Another reassurance for the public that everything was okay, a method to test if her power had an upper limit, and the first of many publicity boosts that her heroic career desperately needed. Always multiple goals.

Perhaps working with the Doctor had rubbed off on me a little.

“Don’t events normally have like powered security guards already? They wouldn’t hire someone like me.”

“You’re looking at it the wrong way. You don’t need to get paid to do some good.”

“Ew, unpaid work.”

How very mercenary of her. “Letting the public know that there’s another hero on the scene is its own reward.”

If she rolled her eyes any harder, they might have spiralled right out of her head.

“...And some of them might be interested in watching your videos.”

That caught her attention. The phone came back out without any further prompting, eventually landing on the webpage for the city’s tourist information boards. As expected, the heart of the West Coast was rife with events.

“Umm... there’s a masquerade ball tonight at the Roosevelt Hotel? Although I dunno how we’re meant to get to Hollywood from here.”

“We have options.”

“Yeah, but I don’t really wanna go to a dance dressed like this,” Amp said, wiggling her arm to show a freshly burned sleeve. “Cape Con West is in two weeks. We could do that?”

I turned a level stare at her.

“Right, no time like the present. Not as if I wanted tickets or anything. Uh... hmm,” she murmured, thumb gliding over the screen as she explored the choices. “Oh! The Carbons are playing an open-air gig for humanitarian causes? It’s got free entry and everything.”

The name didn’t ring any bells. I doubted it would be Protectorate-run at any rate, Amp’s fervent dislike of anything related to the Wards would ensure that. “What’s the cause?”

“Uh... scroll scroll scroll, cause... to raise money for those affected by the Endbringer’s recent attack on Brockton Bay,” she said, eyes glued to her phone.

Leviathan. Felt like a lifetime ago.

“Where?”

“Oh. Down on the pier in Santa Monica. That’s miles away,” she said sullenly, flapping her arm to the side and pointing vaguely in the direction of the sea.

“Easily solved.”

I didn’t bother elaborating. Another power was already swelling inside, expanding outwards to fill all the available space. I offered Amp my hand, and she stared at it. 

“Not gonna lie, this is the greatest moment of my life.”

Her grip was unsurprisingly firm. Mentally, I pushed outwards, sharing the latest effect between myself and my overenthusiastic cargo. It took a moment before she realised what was happening.

“Holy fu-”

“Language. We’ve got spectators now.”

A noticeable pressure enveloped us from every side. A feeling not dissimilar to being submerged in water. My cloak gently billowed as we rose, fluttering as we were propelled ever higher.

“Gravity control?” Amp called out, voice bouncing with exuberance as the wind whipped past her mask.

“Buoyancy,” I corrected. Making us lighter than air.

Part of me wished that it had been gravity control. Twenty-four hours since I’d last held something in that vein, and I already missed it. It had been needed at the time, but once again I was left less versatile in the aftermath. Fewer powers that could serve multiple purposes. Fewer options. A decrease across the board, weaker when the world needed me to be strong-

“Woo!”

But right now, those voices were just a little bit harder to hear. Amp kept cheering as we floated above the buildings and the billboards, kicking her legs as if she was walking on the sky.

Her eyes were filled with mirth as she turned to me.

“This is fu- so awesome!”

Yes. Yes, it was. Underneath the mask, I felt the corners of my lips turn slightly upwards.

The ever-present intrusive thoughts continued to gnaw away at the edges of my mind. But for the first time in a long, long while, I allowed myself to enjoy the simple pleasure of flight.

“Woooo!” 

Although I probably should have brought earplugs. 

Chapter Text

Serene. 

That was the word which best seemed to fit Santa Monica. I’d thought that the rest of the city had been trapped in their own lives, uncaring of anything outside their little worlds. But Santa Monica took that idea and ran with it, creating a landscape that actively encouraged you to lose yourself in. 

Golden sand stretched out for miles, drenched in the amber rays of a setting sun. Palm fronds bristled in tune with the wind’s gentle symphony, the long shadows of their trees stretching out like the strings of a harp. Single storey beach houses and waterfront properties greeted the ocean, forming the city’s welcoming arms. Cafes and restaurants followed, the buildings growing steadily larger until the inland resorts and multi-storey hotels formed a peak near the centre. 

From up above, it was similar to counting the rings on a tree. You could see how the city had grown in fits and starts, each wave planting another layer around the outermost edge while the older buildings took root and reached for the stars. 

“There it is!” cried my passenger, swinging her arm in a wide circle towards the water. I followed the motion, spotting the sole fluorescent piece of the jigsaw. 

In many ways, the pier didn’t mesh with the overall picture of this tranquil slice of paradise. It was irregularly shaped, a wide square of chocolate brown boards close to the shore with a single long tendril reaching out of the square’s top to stand further in the water. Pillars that appeared deceptively fragile held it several metres off the ground, with enough space underneath to comfortably drive a car through. 

But the selling point was the barrage of lights from atop the odd shape. Two dozen theme park rides were lit up like a disco, beacons in a twilight sky with their reflections glistening across the clear water. A garishly yellow rollercoaster looped over hotdog stands and around cotton candy huts, the carts rattling each time the ride turned a corner. Bumper cars collided underneath, headlights flashing as they thudded into the edges of their enclosure. Standing above them all was a large ferris wheel that cycled through the colours of the rainbow as it gently rotated, a steel sentinel watching over the rest of the pier. 

On a normal day, it would have made quite an uproar. But tonight, the only sounds came from the raised stage at the far end of the pier’s tendril, as the band played on. 

“Amp?” I questioned. She glanced up in shock. 

“...You used my name.” 

What was she on about now? “The performers for this charity show-” 

“You actually called me... oh right. The Carbons, yep.” 

I began our descent, letting the displaced wind sigh for me. 

“He's super popular. Kerchunk Magazine gave him the sound of the year award, and not gonna lie but his latest album is hella good.” 

I looked back at the stage, eyes narrowing. Five people were up there, swinging guitars around and shouting into their microphones. The lead singer was a stereotypical teen heartthrob, light blue eyes with dark brown hair that must have spent hours being styled, wearing a sleeveless crimson shirt whose design would be stolen by half a dozen fashion brands before the end of the night. The kind of guy who would go on to act in family friendly movies until he collided headlong with a substance abuse problem. 

Strumming a guitar next to him was the singer’s identical twin brother. The drummer at the back of the pack bore more than passing resemblance to the other two, to say nothing of the keyboard player who had the same likeness tucked underneath a baseball cap. The only member of the group I wasn’t sure about was the one playing bass guitar, whose eyes were hidden under a pair of sunglasses. 

“Carbons?” I asked. 

“It’s always funny seeing people figure it out for the first time,” said Amp, swaying in my grip. 

“As in carbon copies?” 

“Nailed it!” 

“A cape band, then?” I questioned, already knowing the answer. 

“Well duh. I wasn’t going to pick a crappy normal band, was I?” 

Clearly not. 

“Besides, clones are cool.” 

I let the statement go without comment. 

“Then I suppose we should make our entrance,” I eventually replied, feeling the pressure around us ease as we descended. When we finally touched down at the mouth of the pier, it was without ceremony or fanfare. Although Amp did check that the floor beneath us was still intact. She seemed vaguely disappointed with the result. 

“Focus. They need to see you at your best,” I muttered, leaning over to keep the words between us. Amp slowly straightened, but something else had caught her attention. She was barely paying any mind to her phone, fingers tapping away on autopilot as the drone followed us down. 

A few pairs of eyes started to swivel our way, and I raised a hand in greeting. Amp barely noticed; her focus swallowed up as she flexed her fingers. 

“Feel stronger yet?” I murmured. 

“How the fu-udge...” she whispered, staring awestruck at her own hand. “Mierda, this is wild.” 

She looked around, drinking in the sea of attention. “I thought it’d hit a limit, but...” 

“But it keeps flooding in. Stronger and stronger, with every passing second,” I replied. Memories flashed through my vision, of a young man taking his first tentative steps out of a chair that had defined his life. 

A hiccupping laugh escaped her. 

“Treasure that feeling,” I said, with a tinge of regret. 

Amp might have said something in response, but it was lost amidst the waves of sound roiling from the stage. Those unlucky enough to be stuck at the back of the crowd suddenly found their evening turned around, and I watched as the realisation began to spread through the audience. 

A few smiles grew a little bit wider. Another round of flashes went off as cell phones took our pictures. But it was a far more subdued response than I’d garnered this morning. 

I looked around, seeing the slumped postures, the world-weary looks, and the dark rings underneath their eyes, all illuminated by the neon lights from the ferris wheel.

Those gathered here were the more socially conscious members of L.A. They’d made the choice not to hide away in their own lives, despite the best urgings of the city around them. Instead, they’d attended a gathering with a cause behind it, giving what little they had to try and combat one of society’s many ills. I could see a few of them over by the pier’s railings, hanging banners inscribed with slogans promoting healing and peace. 

Odds were that these individuals had a greater awareness of just how close we were to tragedy. The educated minority who wouldn’t delude themselves, putting the pieces together to figure out the potential ramifications of a superpowered prison break occurring on the eve of a critical Endbringer attack. 

They needed reassuring more than any of the others I’d met today. They needed to know that the man in green was still out there, holding back the worst of the world. 

My powers adapted at the thought, two of them shifting and changing as I stepped forwards. The crowd parted in response, pressing against the backs of those who hadn’t looked away from the band. 

“Yeah, so Eidolon is totally my bestie now. Super cool, right?” 

Amp was half-shouting to impress the audience, but the sound carried. Maybe she was drunk off of her power, or maybe she’d practiced her stage persona for her recordings. To the regular folks in the crowd, she looked to be revelling in every moment of it, soaking up the attention while her drone flitted in and out of the shadows. 

Well, at least that was one lesson I wouldn’t have to impart. I left her to make the most of it, striding through the path that the crowd hurried to create. 

The neon storm flared as I walked, the bombardment of light and colour becoming an avalanche that engulfed its surroundings. On stage, the band was tinged with every hue of the rainbow, the glare from the theme park rides highlighting them as if they had been coloured by a giant. 

The audience didn’t get the same treatment. Hundreds of faces, their features illuminated for the span of a heartbeat as thin beams of colour crisscrossed the pier. 

What little noise they were making was paltry compared to the speakers set beside the stage. I gave them a cursory look, and kept walking as the raucous anthem steadily faded. The volume dwindled in the middle of a chorus, and the band was left looking slightly confused. 

Leonid came to mind as I continued to subtly manipulate the soundwaves, cancelling them out with a thought. It wasn’t the first time that my agent had taken inspiration from another cape, providing a power that was almost a mirror image. My steps grew deafeningly loud as the powers intensified, enhanced hearing taking the third space. By the time I reached the front of the audience, my ears were filled with the incessant stream of whispered swears coming from roadies as they fiddled with the cables. 

After a few missed beats, the vocalist cleared his throat and motioned for everyone’s attention. Another thought, and the microphone returned to its normal volume with only a tiny squeal of feedback. 

“Sorry, sorry everyone! Blame Yellow, he said the sound system looked a little thirsty so he poured it a beer!” 

The bassist gave a sheepish grin, rehearsed to perfection. A shame that none of the audience were looking their way. 

It didn’t take long for the lead singer, who I mentally named Red given his shirt, to identify why his one-man comedy act wasn’t flowing smoothly. 

“Oh. Shit.” 

That sounded like my cue. Gracefully, I buoyed myself over the security fences and onto the stage, landing with my hand outstretched to accept the microphone. Red looked dumbfounded, head slowly turning from me to the instrument before he shoved it into my palm. 

“Fuck sorry man, they only said one special guest. Blue, get some more mics up here!” 

They? 

I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Some bright spark in the production team must have heard the sound die down, and assumed that was the signal for their big surprise. Another figure bounded up onto the stage, a silhouette with extremely oversized hands waving in greeting. 

The array of lights danced off of two large mechanical gauntlets, making their wielder glimmer in the twilight. A slender male, toned enough that he could pull off a skin-tight suit, wearing a mask that I’d last seen caked with blood and dust. 

Pugilist bowed for the dumbfounded audience, standing on the lip of the stage to make himself as visible as possible. He skipped backwards after the barest smattering of stunned applause, holding out one of his gigantic gauntlets towards Red. 

When the microphone failed to materialise in his palm, Pugilist tilted his head ever so slightly towards us. I could see my helmet reflected in the whites of his eyes as he froze in shock. 

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one trying to reassure the populace. The Protectorate had co-opted the concert to do some damage control of their own. I listened closely as voices began shouting from Pugilist’s mask, the clarion call of a half dozen members from the PRT’s public relations team clamouring to be heard through his earpiece, inaudible to anyone without enhanced senses. 

Like ringing a gong, the smack of plastic against metal reverberated over the crowd as one of the clones finally slapped an extra microphone into Pugilist’s gauntlet.

Instinctively, I knew that should have been my cue to leave. I’d promised the Doctor to stay away. The Protectorate had made it clear that they didn’t want me any longer. I shouldn’t be here. 

Something flashed in the corner of my vision. Brief bursts of white, the flash of a camera accompanied by an ear-piercing click. While the rest of the audience were shocked, someone had started taking photographs. 

I turned slightly, and saw a very cheerful young heroine, phone in hand, as she waved at the stage. 

But I was here for a reason. It might not change the world’s fate, but it mattered. If just one person felt that tiny spark of hope after I was finished here, then this mattered. Even if it meant bending a promise, and working with the group who’d discarded me. Silently, I stepped up as the Carbons dutifully took a synchronised step back. Pugilist remained rooted to the spot. 

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” I said, addressing the audience. A little powered adjustment to the words as they were spoken ensured that everyone heard me with perfect clarity. 

“I assume you all know who I am” -a certain someone snorted at my statement- “so I’ll skip the usual introduction.” 

Crystal clear enunciation, complete with brief pauses to let those watching me digest the speech. I hated speaking at these public engagements, but I’d still attended enough of them to last several lifetimes. There was a lot you could learn from simply watching Legend in his element. 

Where I’d always struggled was in picking the right words. I usually preferred to let my actions speak for themselves. 

I could have discarded a power and hoped for a new ability to seal the hole in the armour. Something that would have gotten the crowd cheering, to fill in the blanks of the speech. 

Yet that felt disingenuous. There were any number of capes who could do something like that. 

Another flash of light, coming from the same phone as before. I’d told her that relying on cheap gimmicks wouldn’t get her very far in the world of heroes. Maybe it was time I took my own advice. 

“Today is about you. All of you. And I think I speak for everyone up here,” I said, gesturing to the band and the dumbstruck hero, “when I say, thank you.” 

The Carbons nodded one after the other, a one-man Mexican wave. 

“We couldn’t do the things we do without your support. Your fundraising efforts, your activism, your optimism, it means so much to all of us.” 

The tide swept in and out with a gentle spray. Empty pleasantries, but it was what they needed to hear. 

“I’m sure it will mean so much to the people of Brockton Bay too. The passion that everyone here has shown is truly remarkable.” 

Los Angeles sang as I spoke, a song made up of a thousand individual heartbeats. 

“That passion will keep you all moving, through the toughest times.” 

Pugilist had a gauntlet to the side of his head, whispering in a harried tone to his superiors. My name came up more than once. One of the Carbons was doing the same with a cell phone. Calling their manager, most likely. 

“I know that current events have many of you concerned. Some days, the bad news never seems to end.” 

More than a few concert goers murmured agreement at that. 

“We’ve experienced some tumultuous changes. And more than a few losses.” 

The neon lights flickered over the audience. Several of them were wearing black armbands, emblazoned with the emblem of a tower. She’d become a fixture of this city, the same way I had to Houston. It was soothing to see that she hadn’t been entirely forgotten by the public. Perhaps, when all was said and done, I wouldn’t be swept from memory either. 

It was a nice thought. 

“I’m not here to tell you that things will get better immediately. There isn’t a magic wand we can wave to fix everything.” 

Thousands of faces stared up at me, hanging off my every word. 

“But what I will say is this. Never give up on that passion.” 

Thousands of faces, but I only had eyes for one. 

“Hold it tight. Keep being strong and courageous. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.” 

I thought of Father Prescott, back in his little church, armed with an endless supply of platitudes. 

“I have it on good authority that Chevalier’s Protectorate are making excellent progress on the Baumann Penitentiary situation. So much so that they don’t even need me there,” I joked, the words scraping over raw wounds as they clawed their way out. 

Pugilist finally overcame his nerves, moving to stand beside me at the front of the stage. A single dominant voice had quelled the others shouting in his earpiece. When he opened his mouth, it was their words that came out. 

“Chevalier’s new team is working around the clock to get this done. You heard it here first, if Eidolon, with his years of exemplary service, thinks we’re doing well, then who are we to argue?” he said, a mouthpiece for whichever public relations manager had seized the reins. 

He turned to me with that last sentence. I nodded, curtly. Neither of us wanted to be here, but our roles were too important. The public needed to see a unified front. 

“The Protectorate is in better shape than ever. Some of you will have heard already, but earlier today, we arrested the villain Simulcast,” Pugilist announced. I could hear the strain in his throat with every word. 

“Simulcast has been charged with hijacking national television, and interrupting a scheduled broadcast from the San Francisco PRT.” 

My breath stilled for a moment. 

“Many of you might have seen the horrifying computer-generated footage he made, pretending to be an escaped prisoner from the Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre. Spreading terror at a time when we should all be pulling together.” 

It made sense. Letting people live without fear, and all they had to do was sweep Freedom under the rug. Like Echidna. Like the Endbringers. Like us, downplaying and hiding the worst that capes could do so that ordinary people could live peacefully. 

To the world at large, my seal of approval would mean considerably more than a press announcement from a recently sundered Protectorate. All they needed was for me to smile and agree. 

Pugilist gave me a sideways glance, the commanding voice whispering in his ear. Up close, I could see the little differences between him and the band. The broader shoulders, slightly taller frame, even the straighter posture. Barely noticeable differences that onlookers wouldn’t actively register, but subconsciously it would sell the idea that he wasn’t a clone. With my approval, they likely wouldn’t consider the possibility that it was a body double instead. 

I’d given up my life's work because they’d asked me to. I’d chased String Theory across the country because they’d asked me to. Here they were again, asking for my support before they inevitably turned me aside. 

Always giving everything I had, and then a little bit more. Being the soldier they needed. 

A lesser man might have tried to throw a wrench in the works. Derailing their claims would be trivial, planting that seed of doubt in everyone’s minds, getting the public to question things a little bit more intently. 

I looked down at Amp, practically bouncing in place. Her drone skittered through the sky, occasionally catching the neon lights. She’d have one hell of a video when this was all over. 

Silently, I nodded to Pugilist. His organisation might hate me, but I wouldn’t turn my back on them. Not when it meant that people like her could live in peace. 

With that single motion, I lied to the world. Again. Freedom would become another distant memory, a win for the good guys in the near future once it was ‘discovered’ that Pastor had passed away. 

A bead of sweat dripped down the back of Pugilist’s neck and splashed against the wooden boards, sounding like a waterfall in my head. Whoever was impersonating him must have been terrified that I wouldn’t play along. 

Well, perhaps I wouldn’t follow their lead exactly. There was still one last thing I needed to do here. 

“But it's not just the Protectorate that are in good shape. Today, I’ve seen first-hand what the next generation of heroes are capable of,” I said, cutting off Pugilist before he could usher me away. 

Something flew overheard, a series of fans ruffling the hair of those closest to the stage. I beckoned with my free hand. The intake of breath that followed sounded like a hurricane. 

“You, and your children, and your children’s children, are going to live in a safer world than any of us could have imagined.” 

Security guards moved to intercept someone trying to sneak over the metal fences at the base of the stage. A thought, and she became buoyant once more, landing beside me. 

“Even though some of us old timers might be stepping back, there will always be fresh faces ready to protect and serve.” 

I turned away from the crowd at that last statement, and nodded respectfully to the heroine beside me. For the first time since I’d met her, Amp was speechless. 

Manipulating the volume of my words, I passed her the microphone. 

“Go ahead.” 

She only glanced back once, for the barest moment. Then she was off, introducing herself to the world on a stage fit for heroes. 

Her speech was rough around the edges. There was plenty of room for improvement, a few crude word choices, and if it wasn’t for some powered assistance from myself, much of the crowd wouldn’t have heard her. 

Maybe it was cruel of me to raise her hopes like this, knowing that before too long, all of this would be meaningless. Two years. That was all the time they had. 

But as I watched Amp spill her heart out to a crowd that was loving her presence, for the first time, those two years felt like they would be plenty. Because there were people like her out there who would make the most of every single moment, regardless of what came next. 

I’d wondered why I’d been sent here, of all places. A city that barely noticed what went on outside of its little bubble. 

Maybe they hadn’t been the ones in need of reassurance.

Maybe it was me who had needed this. The knowledge that despite everything, I was still having a positive impact. 

If it let people live this way, then I could be okay with telling another lie. Let them live their lives free of fear, and make every second of those years count. 

When the crowd started applauding, when their dour looks turned into cheers and the pier shook with the force of their approval, I smiled. 

Amp bowed to the audience, ponytail flopping over the side of her mask, before jogging back to me. Her drone hadn’t stopped moving. 

Breathlessly, she handed over the microphone. 

“Holy fu-lip. Does it ever stop feeling like this?” she asked, gasping for air. 

I turned my head slightly towards her, and caught sight of myself in the bassist’s mirrored sunglasses. 

The tattered hem of my cape, torn during the String Theory fiasco. The armour on my boot, hardened plastic chunks still missing after kicking Gavel in the ribs. Little nicks and dents across the suit, wear and tear that used to be handled by a team of dedicated PRT costumers. Even my own posture was off, tiredness weighing down my shoulders. 

I looked down at Amp, at the bundle of emotions wrapped up in a cheap mask. Nerves, and anxiety, and unbridled joy and happiness and excitement. The crowd roared their approval to the twilight sky, and I could practically feel the impact that our presence had made here. Maybe they’d piece it together in the future. Figure out the lie. 

But right now, they had tonight. Free of concern and worry. 

“It never stops,” I replied, as the band started up their next song. 

As she caught her breath, I heard the thrum of footsteps behind me. The Carbons’ keyboardist had moved away for a moment, clutching a phone in one hand and a business card between two fingers. Leaning in close, he pressed the card into my hand. 

“Our employer would very much like a word with you.” 

With that, he jumped back to his instrument, just in time for a solo. I turned the card over in my hand, memorising the information. It was about time that they made contact. 

Well, they could wait. Right now, I would take this moment for what it was. 

Clapping a hand on Amp’s shoulder, we waited in the wings as the Carbons finished their set. Watching a city lose itself in the now, instead of worrying about what could be. Forgetting what lurked out there, and letting the weight fall away. 

I didn’t even protest when the flying pest descended, snapping dozens of photos before shooting back into the sky. 

Maybe I would be too weak in the end. Maybe all of this would result in catastrophe. 

But for that one dazzling moment, as Amp bounced along with the band and the crowd cheered their hearts out, I almost felt like myself again. 

Chapter Text

Twilight had been and gone, replaced with faint outlines sailing through the darkened sky. Between the artificial blanket below and the encroaching clouds above, the stars may as well have been non-existent. Even the intermittent glow of the moon paled in comparison to the nocturnal beacon of Los Angeles. 

Still, there were ways to get around unnoticed in a city that never slept. Especially when you had a guide. 

After a rapturous encore, the Carbons had swiftly made their exit while the crowd dissipated into the night. I’d followed their lead, moving along backstage areas and through cordoned-off sections of the pier. No-one had questioned my presence as a VIP, and the band were perfectly content to bring me along for their employer. 

Whoever was wearing Pugilist’s costume had been receiving hundreds of orders, mostly focused on getting me to stick around and answer questions. Unfortunately, their impersonator had exhausted their courage on stage, and seemed almost relieved when security guards stopped them from following us. 

Maybe one day, I’d be able to go back and explain everything. But the Doctor had asked for my loyalty, and I’d given it. Same as I’d always done. The Protectorate would ask far too much, and I couldn’t afford to give them all the answers. 

Under the cover of darkness, we’d been ushered into the band’s limousine. Anywhere else, a vehicle like that might have seemed conspicuous. Here, it would have stood out far more if a young band with the world at their fingertips didn’t waste their money on something extravagant. 

The Carbons had settled themselves in a semi-circle at the far end, two on either side and one with his back to the driver. We’d taken the seats opposite. My powers began adapting while Amp sunk into the plush leather and immediately started fiddling with the various buttons on the armrest, receiving a smirk from the band. 

Only when the seafront had been left far behind did they strike up a conversation. 

“Gotta say, it’s wild to meet to you in person,” said their leader, his crimson shirt stained with sweat. 

“Like damn, we had posters of you and everything,” added the one in blue, with exactly the same intonation and tone. The others followed suit, five people speaking with one voice, as each member finished the train of thought from the previous clone. 

“Hell of an addition tonight.” 

“Really made the show pop, y’know?” 

“We were totally your biggest fans, so we gotta give you props for that.” 

Amp looked up from the buttons, a scowl barely visible behind her mask as she inched slightly closer to me. Red cocked an eyebrow at her. 

“Don’t think we know you. You fresh?” 

“Nope,” she answered vehemently before I could respond. 

“More the merrier, right? Doing the sidekick thing?” 

“A ride along,” I replied. Although stowaway might have been a better descriptor. 

“So, you’re still a solo artist?” asked the yellow clone. 

“Could say the same about you guys,” she fired back. The Carbons let out a synchronised laugh. 

“Yeah, only one of us,” they agreed in unison. 

“Still, even we’ve got a whole crew backstage. Couldn’t run a show like that by ourselves,” said the blue one, thinking out loud. 

“Ever consider joining a group?” asked the clone in purple. On the surface the question seemed innocuous enough. 

“She’s still deciding,” I answered in her place. Red gave me a cursory glance, but let the conversation die. 

It wasn’t until we reached our destination that I started it up again. The chauffer opened the limousine’s doors, letting the band file out into an underground parking lot. The five led the way to an elevator set in the wall, but I remained with the car. Amp looked around when she realised I wasn't there, before pivoting on the spot. 

“It might be for the best if you went home,” I suggested, as gently as possible. 

“Uh huh. You already tried to ditch me once. Didn’t work.” 

Always so stubborn. 

“It’s been a long day. Maybe get a head start on those videos of yours,” I tried, folding my arms and placing my hands inside the sleeves. 

“Please, I’ll be up for hours doing all of that anyway.” With that, she began walking backwards towards the elevator. 

“Amp.” 

The word was quiet, barely more than a whisper. But it carried down here in the enclosed space, bouncing off of concrete pillars. Her enthusiasm waned, concern in her eyes. 

“I told you there was somewhere I needed to be.” 

“You needed to be in a leaky parking lot?” she joked, but the worry was still creasing her mask. When I didn’t laugh, she straightened up. 

“Oookay, serious time. I’ll behave, promise.” 

It wasn’t her behaviour I was worried about. “You've done some good today. There’s no shame in ending on a high note,” I said, not unaware of the hypocrisy. 

Amp rolled her eyes. 

“Nah. Today has been crazy and stupid and mad and so freaking awesome. I wanna see this through.” 

In some ways, it felt like looking in a mirror. 

“This won’t be like before.” She could still leave. Head back to the promotional events, to the glitz and glamour displayed to the public. 

“Hey, the next generation of heroes can’t run away now. Gotta live up to the hype,” she said with a smile. 

I could have sent her away. It wouldn’t have been a challenge. Even now, my powers were shifting in response to the feeling, prepared to act on an impulse rather than a cohesive thought. 

“Then listen carefully.” 

But if this was the path she wanted to walk, then that was her choice. 

“Keep the drone in your bag. Phone, too. And be polite. Being with me grants you some leeway, but that only stretches so far.” 

She snorted. “Be quiet and pretend I don’t exist? Yeah, easy.” 

“Don’t wander off,” I instructed, striding towards the elevator before remembering to add one crucial piece of advice. “And don’t sign anything.” 

The Carbons parted in perfect unison as we entered, falling into the same semi-circle they’d adopted for the journey here. I could see Amp’s unimpressed stare reflected in the bassist’s sunglasses. 

Yet when the doors slid apart several floors up, she was still the first one to burst out onto the embroidered red carpet and walk the hallway decorated with some of the band’s triumphs. Her fingers were twitching, but she didn’t try to snap any pictures of the golden records or the signed guitars mounted along the walls. 

Her composure wavered slightly upon entering a recording studio at the end of the hall. It seemed well-maintained, with all the expected extras. I’d been inside a few in the past, recording promotional material for something or other, but that had fallen by the wayside. Always too busy with the next crisis. There had been more than enough voice actors to fill in for me anyway, the PRT had made certain of that. 

A light flashed above my head as the door locked behind us, sealing us in the soundproof room. Amp very quickly stopped fiddling with whatever shiny object had caught her eye. 

“Totally not my fault. Somebody else did that,” she whispered, pointing at the room’s only exit. 

Any further denials were interrupted by the Carbons’ grunts of exertion, the one-man band delicately moving an ornate object into the middle of the studio. I could hear Amp taking deep breaths while her fingers twitched by her pocket. 

“Can’t believe I’m missing this. Do you know how many views I’d get from a VIP tour of this place?” she grumbled. 

Her grumbling continued as the band stopped struggling, placing a full-length freestanding mirror in the middle of the studio. 

“Be polite,” I reminded her, resulting in an undignified huff and another round of whispered gripes. 

Those complaints faded away mid-sentence at the realisation that there were seven of us in the room, but eight reflections in the glass. 

Amp took a step back as the phantom reached forwards, its fingers scraping against the inside of the mirror. The glass rippled like water as a hand breached the surface, clawing at the carved wooden edge. Its partner followed, bracing itself against the mirror. 

With a final heave, the figure pulled itself free. The Carbons bowed their heads in deference while I watched, unamused. 

“Gents,” said the phantom man, looking at each of the clones in turn. His features were hidden behind a pale mask in the shape of a ceramic face, complete with nose and lips. One half of the mask was heavily stylized, with faux cracks and fractures running across its length. Only his eyes were visible, sweeping over the room before widening ever so slightly as they came to rest on me. 

“Guess we’re going to a masquerade dance after all,” muttered Amp, picking at the burn on her sleeve. The phantom treated her as if she was part of the furniture. 

“Well, this is an honour. The invincible Eidolon, in the flesh,” he said, bowing at the waist with practiced ease. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” I replied. A well-cut suit and pale gloves didn’t provide much in the way of costumed clues. Not that those lasted for long anyway, considering how often capes updated their outfits, their names, or ditched their identities entirely. 

If he was offended, it didn’t show. “Ah, my humble apologies. Specular, at your service.” He offered his hand, and winked as we shook. “Although most just call me spectacular.” 

Amp sidled up next to me, holding out her own hand. 

“And you are?” asked Specular, uninterested. 

“Amp. Hero extraordinaire.” She nodded in my direction. “His plus one.” 

“Charmed,” replied Specular, dismissively. He didn’t take his eyes off me, leaving Amp to lamely withdraw her offered arm. 

“Our superiors are expecting you. Shall we?” he addressed me again, beckoning our group towards the mirror. The band fell in line as our escort walked through the glass, leaving it rippling in his wake. 

“Wooooow. Ass,” muttered Amp under her breath. 

Her tone didn’t change as we passed over the threshold, into a space only made possible by Specular’s power. There was no structure, nothing resembling walls or floors, just a wide expanse of darkness skewered by shafts of light. No rhyme or reason to their placement, some were tiny pinpricks in the distance while others were larger than doorways. 

Designed to disorientate, making guests utterly reliant on their escort. The pocket dimension, his entrance from the mirror, basic intimidation tactics. Whoever they were leading would be relieved to finally reach their destination and hesitant to return the same way, keeping their guests in the room with their superiors for that little bit longer. A shock to the senses after the wealth and glamour of the music studio. 

Not that I would ever enter a place like this without precautions. The hairs on the back of my arm stood up as I reached out with my mind, feeling the mental tether with its end planted in the parking lot. An emergency exit if one became necessary. 

The others weren’t so lucky. The band clearly didn’t travel this way often, all huddling together and moving cautiously, like a pack of animals in unfamiliar territory. My shadow was faring slightly better, but even she stayed close enough to brush against my cloak. 

I could feel the tether unspool as we walked, my only frame of reference as Specular lead us further and further into the darkness. 

Eventually our guide beckoned for us to stop at a shaft of light identical to the thousands of others we’d passed. He paused to adjust his cufflinks, glimmering metallic sigils worked into a crest that I didn’t recognise.  

“Shall we?” asked Specular. Then with a bow and a flourish, he stepped through the gap. Amp shoved her way to the front and followed, while I brought up the rear behind the band. A good thing, too. When I finally emerged from an ornate fountain without a drop of moisture on me, she’d almost managed to collect her jaw from the floor. 

Our new surroundings looked like a fantasy novel had collided with a hotel reception. The floor was grey marble, dressed in a forest-green rug stretching out to a thick mahogany door. A chandelier hung overhead, with roses sprouting from between the lights. Carved stone marked the edges of the fountain behind us, a pool of crystalline water left undisturbed by our passage. Golden vines were embossed along the walls, weaving intricate patterns that entwined together again on the ceiling. 

Specular’s pupils narrowed as I ignored the opulence on display. Amp shook herself out of a stupor and hurried along in my wake. Our escort rushed to throw the door open, smoothing out his features at the same time. 

If the fountain chamber had been a hotel’s reception, then this was a hotel’s ballroom. The vines ceased being wall trimmings and wrapped themselves together to form sculptures, creating organic suits of armour standing at attention around the perimeter. Crystal lanterns on the walls, archways of chiselled stone for each exit, and one-way windows that looked out over the entire city. An ivory tower of the modern age. 

Another unsaid thing designed to enthral and intimidate in equal measure. 

Then, for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, a crowd fell silent as all eyes became transfixed on me. 

But instead of weariness or joy, the air here was filled with apprehension. My presence was marked by a hundred stares coming from behind domino masks or through reinforced helmets. 

Tonight, this opulent space was reserved for capes. 

To their credit, our guide knew how to downplay such an entrance. Clearing his throat, Specular summoned several waiters who seemed to glide out of the crowd, distributing drinks on silver trays. His gaze swept over the audience, prompting several to avert their eyes. 

“Our host hopes you are all enjoying the party. Please, don’t let us keep you.” 

The savvier members recognised the dismissal, turning their acquaintances back to other matters. The band each took a drink, thanking our guide for his generosity, before joining the mix of spandex and power armour. Amp barely noticed them leave, her gaze already lingering on the new faces. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I must inform the lady of the house that we have arrived,” Specular stated, offering a curt bow to me and a thinly veiled glare to the kid. With that he was gone, vanishing among the dozens of capes. 

“Dude is a dick but he’s got hella cool friends,” said Amp, whispering the expletive. “Most of Cali’s top twenty have to be here.” 

I looked askew at her. 

“Internet stuff,” she muttered. “State cape rankings. Don’t worry, you’ve been number one in Texas for like ten years.” 

Nobody spared her a second glance as they scrutinised me with snatched eyefuls and subtle looks. It wasn’t uncommon for my companions to be overshadowed, but Amp had a strange knack for fading into the background. As if she had no middle ground between being a non-existent shadow and the centre of attention. 

“Is this a usual thing? Hero parties?” she murmured. 

“What makes you say that?” I said, studying the capes who peeked for a moment too long.  

“It’s just normally they make a big deal out of it. Team ups and collabs and stuff get all sorts of promotions. Articles, videos, really big ones get their own commercials.” 

“Maybe you missed the build-up,” I said. Amp placed her hands on her hips and glowered at me. 

“Uh-huh. I don’t wanna brag, but if there’s a cape gathering in LA, then you bet I’ll know about it. And I never heard of this one.” 

Her point was accurate, even if she was trying to turn fanaticism into a positive quality. 

“Like, this should have been huge news. Some of the biggest teams are here.” 

She went to point at one of capes, but quickly aborted the motion and awkwardly brushed her top instead. 

“Look, the big guy with the shoulder pads? That’s Cornucopia.” 

I followed her gaze, as a large gentleman smiled at her over the rim of his glass. His expression soured as it fell on me. 

“And next to him, with the robot arm? That’s Corsair. He’s the one beside Riverhawk.” 

I tried to sort through the multitude of parahumans I’d met over the years, and came up lacking. 

“Blue hair, shaved one side of her head. Corsair’s arm turns into a cannon if that helps.” 

“I see them.” 

“Well they’re supposed to hate each other. Cornucopia is on Eminent but Corsair and Riverhawk are part of Force Multiplier. The teams are always arguing. So why are they sharing drinks?” 

A tiny blemish disrupted Los Angeles’ picturesque skyline, as a single drop of rain landed on the gigantic window. 

“Did you consider that team dynamics can change?” I offered absentmindedly, my attention focused on the expressions of those trying ever so hard not to look at me. 

“Nuh-uh, not like this. And look,” she said, jerking her head towards the opposite corner. “Lady in the voodoo costume? That’s Séance. She’s indie, doesn’t even have a team. Why would she be here if this was a team problem?” 

Like tears they fell, the first raindrop sliding gently over the glass as it heralded the storm. 

“This is weird. Bad weird. These are big names, they wouldn’t be together unless-” 

She hesitated, her stare boring a hole through the back of a cape’s head as they lounged by the window. His costume was all dark browns and greys, with a long duster coat that hid most of his body. A full-face mask of dented metal wrapped around his head, holding a single cybernetic eye that swept its red stare across the room. 

“...We need to do something,” she whispered, edging across the floor. Flashes of frustration ran through crowd, from capes whose overt stares now had to work around the teenage impediment. 

Amp kept murmuring instructions out of the corner of her mouth as she took a position in front of me. “Cowboy reject. Calls himself Wrangler. Sent a truckload of people to the hospital when he tried to hijack a train.” 

“Leave him.” 

“I’ll cover you, so pull out something really cool okay, and then we’ll-” 

“No.” 

Gently, I brushed her aside. Her movements were stiff, as if her entire body was brittle and she was scared of breaking. 

“...He’s a villain,” she said, her whisper straining the tendons in her throat. 

“I’m aware.” 

Her eyes tracked over my helm, searching intently for something that she evidently didn’t find. She’d been doing so well, but that must have been the final straw. 

“Okay, what the f-”, she paused, hissing air through her teeth, “-uck is going on?” 

Too many observers for her to have an outburst here. Already I could feel the atmosphere shift as they stopped examining me and finally noticed Amp instead. 

Thankfully, some of the suits of armour stood guard next to secluded alcoves, complete with thick curtains, and clearly designed for those who valued privacy. Or maybe for those too unruly to be dealt with in full view of the guests.  

I’d barely pulled the curtain shut before her composure finally gave way. 

“Seriously, what the actual fuck is going on?” she hissed. I stared at her, and for once she stared back, refusing to give any ground. 

“You wished to come here.” 

“Yeah, because despite being arrested and almost abandoned, this has still been one of the best days of my life. I thought we were going to save the world or get backstage passes for life from rockstars, not... whatever this is.” 

“I thought you of all people would appreciate seeing so many capes in one place,” I said, keeping an eye on the shadows flitting through the sliver of light at the curtain’s base. 

“Nuh-uh, you know what I mean. That whole freaky thing with the mirror? That isn’t normal hero stuff.” 

“And if I told you that it was?” I asked. Amp pursed her lips, her mask’s fabric stretching with the movement. 

“I’d say you were wrong,” she hesitantly whispered. “Heroes don’t crawl through mirrors into creepy hidden dimensions. Corporate teams don't work together unless they have a really good reason. And they definitely don’t work with villains.” 

“There was a rather noticeable prison break,” I said, dryly. 

She glowered back at me. “Chevalier’s Protectorate are making excellent progress on the Baumann Penitentiary situation. Your words.” 

I folded my arms. This was why I usually left the speeches to the speechwriters. 

“I’m not an idiot, okay? I saw that hacked broadcast, same as everyone else. The big guy and the dude with metal gloves, all of it. But then he’s alive and singing down on the pier, and you’re saying that everything is getting better, so either you’re wrong or something really fucking bad is about to happen and I really really do not want to be here for that and-” 

Her breathing became erratic, short sharp intakes of air as the argument vanished in a haze of hyperventilation. With one hand I turned the velvet curtains into a soundproof barrier. The other, I rested on her shoulder, to help drag her out of whatever teenage panic she’d wandered into. 

“Breathe,” I reminded her, not for the first time. “Deep breaths. Never let them see you fall apart.” 

It worked, after a fashion. But when she next spoke, the spark seemed to have gone out in her voice. 

“Vill...villains,” she stammered, and reflexively winced. 

“Indeed,” I nodded, one eye still on the shadows under the curtain. 

“A-and heroes. Together?” Her gaze stayed on the floor, hesitating to look at me. 

“Hmm.” 

“And you said the Birdcage stuff is under control?” she whispered, hoarse. 

I didn’t answer. 

“That rain came out of nowhere,” Amp concluded, eyes downcast. It took a moment to parse the non-sequitur, and another to place myself in her mindset. Taken all together, the changing weather, a gathering of capes that ignored divisions and rivalries, villains openly taking part in the proceedings, all viewed through the lens of someone who still didn’t quite grasp the intricacies of heroism... 

“It isn’t one of them,” I stated with certainty. 

“Uh huh. S-so this is just an everyday super party, right?” she stammered, her breaths still coming out ragged and tense. 

“If this is too much, then you can still leave,” I offered, already knowing the answer. Amp shuddered, shaking her head. 

“N-no. Nope. I want to know. If this isn’t an End... one of them, then what the hell is it?” 

It seemed incongruous for someone like her to mention something like them. The happy go lucky kid dreaming of digital stardom, talking about the things steadily devastating this world. There was a time when her life never would have intersected with something like that. 

But already I could see it in my mind, an image just out of focus. Hazy background details drawn from innumerable confrontations against the monsters. An island lashed by waves, grasping hands pulling the landmass down, down into the abyss. Skyscrapers toppling onto rustic alleyways and cottages, a wave tearing through glittering harbours to crash against a football stadium decorated with foreign lettering. 

There she’d stand, at the head of a ragtag band of Wards and independents. The youngsters. Made to grow up too soon, to replace the heroes that fell last time, and the time before that. Fewer and fewer got back up after each hit. 

When would it be her turn? How many heroes did we have left before we were spent? 

And while they’d be holding back the end, I would still be trapped here, drowning in obligations. Out there, at least I could try. Contribute, make a difference. Save a life. Do something.  

“This isn’t an Endbringer,” I repeated.  

“How are you so certain?” 

“Because the building is still standing.” 

She didn’t seem convinced, but any further debate was stopped as someone knocked on the wall. Polite, three taps. Amp nearly jumped out of her skin as the curtain was drawn back, revealing Specular’s slender frame. 

“The lady of the house will see you now,” he stated, sketching a bow. 

He led the way through the party, slipping through the throng without missing a beat. Amp skirted the edges, almost fading into the background before popping up again somewhere else. The crowd simply parted before me. 

Even when we were clear of the heroes and villains, Amp didn’t return to my side. 

Instead of making for the fountain room, Specular opened a much larger door at the end of the ballroom, and ushered us through, before delicately closing it. The pointed whispers and false chatter were cut from the air, letting silence fall. 

The hall that followed was everything the ballroom wasn’t. Compact, narrow, with the weaving vines and natural decorations taking over every inch of wall space. As if the building itself was taking a deep breath, anticipating what came next. 

I could see Amp out of the corner of my eye, poking the décor and tugging on the occasional plant. She could have been jabbing a mountainside and achieved the same result. 

Finally, we turned a corner and came face to face with the most ostentatious door yet.  A carving of an oak tree covered the panel, slate grey and wider than Amp was tall. The vines all culminated here, entwining together and feeding into the tree’s crown. A metaphor with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

To complete the effect, a deep rumbling began to sound, somewhere in the walls. The noise of gears churning and grinding, until a seam split the carved oak down the middle. Twin doors slowly opened; their timing precisely chosen to maintain the element of surprise until the final moment. 

Features slowly became discernible through the widening gap, revealing thick stone walls and a ceiling supported by a mammoth tree in each corner. Carvings stretched across the floor, monochrome tapestries that would have taken an ordinary artist years to create. This deep in the lion’s den, there was no need for the façade. 

Two figures waited within, seated at a round table. On the left was a man who wore a shabby suit rather than a costume. Unlike everyone else in the room, he didn’t have a mask, leaving the bags under his eyes and the faint wrinkles touching the greying hair at his temples clearly visible. 

At a guess, he was a guest here. He certainly wasn’t in charge. That honour went to the lady directly opposite me, sitting on a throne made of the same vines that ensnared the building. 

She’d gone to great lengths with her costume. A suit of organic armour, much like the ones in the ballroom. But they seemed like trial runs compared to this. Woven reeds and vines gave it structure, wrapping around every inch of her body save for the lower portion of her face. Layers of leaves lined her arms and legs, bound down at the joints. Flowers followed, forming a pattern on her torso that rose up around her shoulders, and grew thicker at the neck. Her mask swept backwards, a stylised helmet exposing her mouth and little else. 

With a thud, the stone slabs slammed shut, barring our exit. All that was left was for someone to provide an opening for her grand introduction, and their piece of theatre would be complete. 

Amp did so without hesitation. 

“Who is that?” she muttered, barely loud enough to hear. Specular caught the words anyway. 

“We’re pleased that you agreed to attend, honoured guests.” 

I thought of the card that the clone band had handed me. A written invitation, an offer that most men could not refuse. 

“It is my pleasure to introduce our host for the evening.” 

She rose at the exact moment Specular began to speak again. Choreographed to perfection. 

“May I present the lady of the house, Agnes Court.” 

Chapter Text

“...Who?” 

As always, Amp’s eloquence never ceased to astound. Agnes Court responded with a polite smile, clasping her hands behind her back. I heard the intake of breath as Specular drew himself up, only to be silenced by a single flick of Court’s pupils. She would handle this herself. 

“Oh, no one important. Certainly not as famous as you, my dear,” she said demurely, her accent far removed from those in the city. “To say nothing of your companion.” 

Her armour moved soundlessly as she glided around the table. In lieu of a handshake, she leaned forwards and planted a chaste kiss on either side of my mask. 

“Eidolon. A pleasure to see you again. We really must not leave it so long this time,” she said. Amp’s stare widened with every word. 

“You’ve moved up in the world.” 

The gigantic plants occupying prime Los Angeles real estate offered no comment. 

“This place? It’s pleasant, certainly, but after seven years it does lose some charm,” she stated, her eye always on the next prize. 

“Better than Seattle?” I inquired. 

“Less sodden, although you would not believe it given the weather.” 

“Hm.” 

Trading small talk was a waste of time, but with some capes it was easier to follow their rituals and foibles. Besides, Court was now one of the only ways I could learn about the prison break. Second-hand knowledge had to be better than constant concern and sleepless nights. 

“Ah, where are my manners? Eckart, please do join us.” 

Hearing the summons, the man in a shabby suit rose and limped his way over. Keen eyes sat behind the ramparts of premature wrinkles and dark bags, assessing the intruders to their meeting. 

Those same eyes sparked the moment they landed upon Agnes Court, a flame igniting only to sputter out with a shuddered breath. Fear, or something else? 

“Detective, have you had the honour of meeting our illustrious heroes?” inquired Court, enjoying the clear discomfort. 

“Pleasure,” he rasped, with the voice of a lifelong nicotine connoisseur. 

“Likewise.” 

Amp didn’t answer, still frozen to the spot. If it offended our host then she didn’t let it show. 

“Excellent. Now, to business,” she said, perching on the edge of her obtrusive table and crossing one ankle over the other. A click of her fingers sent our guide briskly walking towards the wall where the greenery was thickest. This time there was no rumbling as the stone moved inwards, revealing a hidden door set behind several feet of vines. 

“I trust you’ve found something.” 

“Naturally. Incidentally, tremendous work on keeping the city entertained for a whole day. Nobody waves the flag quite like you,” she said nonchalantly, leaving no doubt as to who the Doctor had contacted. "By tomorrow, the headlines will be aglow with your image, and this sordid affair will be relegated to page twelve." 

“Which one is it?” I asked, feeling the vibrations in my throat as my voice thrummed with power. Hostile inmates, those had been her words. One of the bigger names at least. Someone worthwhile. 

“An interesting question. How do you know there is only one?” she asked, bemused. “We have had four incursions here since the birds flew the coop.” 

“Four?!” came the startled cry from the side of the room. Amp looked so very small as Court turned her gaze on the young heroine. 

“Surprised? A pity. I heard through the grapevine that you were something of a cape aficionado. It appears those rumours were misplaced.” Her predator’s gaze swung round to face me again, leaving the heroine shellshocked in the corner. 

“In order, two failed crime lords, an actor that never quite made the cut, and an imbecile who really should not have survived this long. Honestly, with a nom de plume like Murderbeam, he should have been removed from consideration months ago.” 

“S’not difficult to work around his power,” added the detective, with a brief look towards Court. “All you need to do is-” 

“Ah ah, there will be time for that later,” she chastised, her words impacting with a physical pressure. “Our fifth escapee is still running amok in my city. Something that should not have slipped your mind so easily.” 

Agnes Court placed a finger on his chest, playfully pushing him away. I could almost see the strands connecting them, tiny strings forcing him to dance. Not afraid of her. Indebted.

She flicked her wrist, just as a folder landed in her outstretched hand. Specular had returned, bowing as he placed the documents in his employer’s grasp. It was even easier to see the strands connecting those two. 

Ever so slowly, those papers were placed on the table, creating an arrangement of photographs. Court allowed her lackey the privilege of putting them down, keeping the single folder in her hand which would no doubt be revealed at the climax of her latest show. Everything done for maximum effect. Was that a consequence of living in this place for so long, in a city so gorged on spectacle that anything less than over the top would never be noticed? 

None of the others seemed to be in the right headspace for idle thoughts. Amp was motionless, fists balled at her sides. Court was still examining me, even as her minion surrounded her with glossy photographs. The same photographs that were causing the detective to scrunch his eyes shut before looking at them. 

Typical backdrops. The type of images I’d seen countless times before. Alleyways in the dead of night, remote streets, dumpsters and detritus and the refuse of civilization. 

“Tell me, who do you think is our elusive culprit?” questioned Court, trailing her free hand over the pictures. 

Unfortunately, the subject matter was also something I’d seen far too often. Corners oversaturated with flaring sirens. Little white signs, denoting each and every drop of blood. Flimsy barricades of yellow tape, framing another poor soul. 

It didn’t take long for Court to get her desired reaction out of this farce. The detective stiffened, and I could hear Amp muttering curses under her breath. 

Maimed, perhaps, was the closest word to describing the victims, though even that fell far short. Rebecca would have known the correct term to accurately convey the faceless few, immortalised mid-scream. She would have looked at the liquifying flesh sloughing off of their torso, and known exactly what to say. If she’d been here, then the dull whites of spines and fragments of a ribcage wouldn’t be the only remnants of what had once been a human being. 

But she wasn’t here. It was only me. Locked in this exquisite tower and made to watch. 

A single folder tumbled to the overgrowth as Agnes Court finished her spectacle. I already knew who it’d be, before she brandished the image taken fresh from a security camera. A laughing man, his dirty blonde hair slick with something that wasn’t quite sweat. 

“Acidbath has returned to Los Angeles,” said Court, the tart taste of his name curling her lip. 

Whispers ran through the trees. Six words rippling outwards, through the foliage and into the foundations of the building, burrowing into the mortar to be buried alongside all her other secrets. 

“I’ll face him,” I replied instinctively. 

Court waved her hand dismissively. "No need. You have played your part admirably. Between your frivolities and the collective efforts of my people, I have already moved a team into place without disturbing the peace.” 

“They could use me.” 

“They could use their benefactor, which is why I will be joining them once our business is concluded.” She danced around the subject, but her eyes told a different story. Prestige like this didn’t come cheaply, and handing it over was unthinkable to someone on her rung of the ladder. Even if the Doctor hadn’t ordered me to stay away, Agnes Court wouldn’t be willing to give up a chance like this. 

“He’s after you anyway,” grunted the detective, staring down the woman. 

Plants across the room seemed to bristle in anticipation. “Yes, well, he always was a vengeful idiot. I imagine he concocted all manner of fantasies for our rematch, in between bouts of pleasuring himself in the prison showers.” 

“You moved too slowly,” I said, ignoring the byplay as the cat toyed with her mouse. How many had been photographed? Given the state they were in, it was hard to separate them. 

Until my agent saw fit to yank a power away, forcing something new into place. Reds became an artillery strike of colour, erupting through my pupils as the photographs changed. Blues deepened, darker and darker still, leaving the images dripping wet. A writhing beast constrained by the visible spectrum, clawing its way further and further out until I witnessed colours no other man could hope to see. Tiny differences became clear as day, deciphering the bloodied remains in the process. 

“Five casualties,” I counted, casting the power away and letting the intensity of vision return to normal. 

Agnes Court smiled. “I know, disgraceful. But I needed confirmation of my little theory. He’s a pattern killer, and the pattern remains unchanged. Eckhart, be a dear and explain.” 

This time, it was the gnarled finger with cracked skin that jabbed the photos. “Took his time with the first lass. Best guess is he had her since getting into the city. Body was stone cold.” 

“Experimenting. It has been a while, he needs to shake off the rust,” said Court impassively, already aware of the situation. 

“Yeah. Remains were the most damaged. Won’t share details” -he flicked his eyes towards Amp- “but she got the worst of it.” 

“Who was she?” I asked, quietly. Eckhart opened his mouth, but it was Court who answered. 

“Nobody of value. A streetwalker, and a foreign one at that. No wonder it took your friends so long to find her,” she sneered, lolling towards the detective. He swallowed, an argument building in his throat, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice it. Instead, it was Amp who took a step forward, only to catch herself when the walls began creaking. Court ran an armoured finger over the pictures again. 

“Continue. I do not have all day.” 

He exhaled, the sound coming out strained. “After her, he got cocky." 

Gesturing to the pictures, he directed our attention to the photographs of a narrow street. “Two and three were party girls, youngsters. Caught them coming home. Probably asked for a good time and didn’t like the answer.” 

“No impulse control. Utterly abhorrent,” uttered Court. 

“They’re alive, but... probably wish they weren’t,” he murmured, before heeding Court’s demands. 

“Four was a security guard. Whole thing is on tape. Didn’t like the sound of her voice. Now she’s on a ventilator.” 

Amp was staring at me, swaying in shock. It was always a challenge, seeing something like this for the first time. 

“Five...” he began, circling the picture with his index finger. Agnes Court filled in the blanks. 

“His fifth was an employee of mine. Unpowered, of course. Currently receiving the best medical care money can buy. Final proof that he hasn’t shed the old pattern,” she finished, smiling glibly. 

“She went willingly?” I said, receiving a faint tut in response. 

“And she will be well compensated for the trouble. I chose her outfit myself. Top shelf merchandise. The idea of a woman in business, and a successful one at that, is anathema to him.” 

“But-” This time, Amp didn’t stutter to a stop as the room turned to face her. She looked Court directly in the eye, challenging her. 

“But three of those were random. How is that a pattern?” she asked, as if she had just spotted a fatal flaw that no-one else could see. The detective took pity on her, laying it out in clearer terms. 

“It's a mindset. Starts off small, and each time he gets away with it, he gets a little bolder. First choice were folks with no support,” he said, hand trailing over the first set of photos. 

“Then when that works, he lets himself go against kids who can’t put up a fight. When that works, he goes up again.” 

“Unchanged from the last time. Law enforcement will be next, followed swiftly by capes,” concluded Agnes Court, her gaze piercing Amp like a spotlight. The girl was standing her ground, but anyone could see how she withered under that glare. 

I paced to the right, interposing myself between them. “You could have fought him before all of this.” 

“Certainly,” she agreed. “At which point he would have realised he had been made and began striking at random. A little faith would go a long way,” she said, sardonically. “Besides, I asked nothing of my employees that I would be unwilling to do myself.” 

So that was her plan. 

“You’re his end goal.” 

She kicked off from the table, folding her arms. “I caught him last time, and he cannot let a slight like that go. These childish assaults are an opening gambit to lure me into the field.” 

“It worked.” 

“Minus the part where I chose a location he could not resist, stationed a team of professionals there, and then leaked my itinerary? Overlook that and his plan is going swimmingly.” 

“S’better this way,” mumbled the detective. “Fewer deaths.” 

An argument I’d heard all too many times before, in a voice brimming with regret. Agnes Court ran her fingers over his shoulder, and Eckhart shuddered at her touch. 

“Some little successes to overpower what shredded remnants of caution he may possess, and now he knows where to find the grand prize. We cut the legs out from under his misogynistic rampage,” she asserted. “Five casualties, only one fatal, is a marked improvement over his previous stint of freedom.” 

Reluctantly, I had to agree with her. I hadn’t fought him before, but I’d seen the records and heard the tales. The man had been an impetuous nightmare. Agnes Court had boiled down his pattern easily enough, and if she was willing to stop him before he reached those same heights again then that could only be a win for us. 

Nobody was any the wiser about just how close they had been to a serial killer. I’d been a trick, part of a grand sleight of hand that kept the city’s attention while Court moved her pieces into position. A meagre contribution, but it kept the peace. It had helped. I’d helped. This wasn’t meaningless. 

It was all I was good for. 

“Does that satisfy your curiosity, or would you like the floorplan of the ambush site too?” she asked, flowers bristling. 

“Studio. They- we set up in movie studio. South Hollywood,” hacked out the detective. Agnes Court rolled her eyes fondly even as he spoke out of turn.

“We’re just okay with this?” 

That fondness evaporated like moisture under the Houston sun. I closed my eyes. I’d warned her. 

“A woman is dead. And we’re talking about it like its good?” 

Agnes Court didn’t turn, denying an audience to the outrage. Her gaze caught mine instead, conveying a thousand words with a single look. 

If she wasn’t with you, she’d be dealt with already.

“Not great, but better than it could be,” answered the detective, but Court’s ire was not so easily redirected. 

“Strange. I do not recall giving either of you leave to speak,” she said, as if she were discussing the rain. Detective Eckhart froze, evidently aware of whatever boundary he had crossed, but Amp kept pushing. 

“What kind of hero are you? You didn’t even stop him last time, the Protectorate did-” 

Indignation was strangled in the crib, her words lost amid a muffled cry. The floor tapestry had begun to swell, unleashing a forest of vines thicker than pillars. At their apex, the vines split and lashed out to each other, forming crossbeams and the foundation of a cage that isolated the heroine. With a downwards slice, dozens of vines shot from the beams towards the floor, completing the cage and turning it into a living coffin. Tiny shoots and shrubs waved from the base, threatening to form another structure around the first. 

An interlocking cage with the potential for thousands of layers. The outside would be harder than stone by the time its occupant breached the first handful.

With her point made, Court let impromptu jungle recede into the ground, leaving a stunned Amp behind. Scattered around the room, tucked into the engraved tapestry, were hundreds of miniature seeds. How long did she spend in here? An hour a day? More? No wonder they’d grown so quickly. 

“Truly a shame. The reports painted you as mildly intriguing, but you leave a considerable amount to be desired,” said Court, finally deigning to look her way. “And for the record, the Protectorate promised little and accomplished even less when Acidbath was last free.” 

I felt Amp’s gaze on me, looking for a rebuttal, to rise in the Protectorate’s defence and tell the true story of how we had shackled a serial killer. 

Under the public’s watchful eye, I spun lie after lie so they could live their days in peace. Was it kinder to do the same for her? 

What would I want, if I was in her place? 

“She isn’t incorrect,” I said, by way of an answer. 

If nothing else, Amp was a hero. She needed to know why we fought so hard, how close we came to destruction time after time. I’d want to hear it, to know why we made these deals with devils, instead of wrapping the truth in cotton wool because it hurt to hold. 

I’d agreed to supervise her. Impart what lessons I could. The concerts and autographs were only one side of that coin. 

She shifted in the corner of my vision. I caught her stare, and saw something shattered in her eyes. The same look I’d witnessed on a hundred faces, standing against us in Brockton Bay. 

“Next time you open your mouth, I would recommend against spouting falsehoods,” added Agnes Court. Amp wheeled on her, taking a step back. Not running. Mixing all those emotions she couldn’t figure out into a boiling pot, a concoction of blind rage. Her heel found purchase against the tapestry’s edge, and I could see her preparing to lunge.

Court didn’t even blink. 

“You, my dear, have outstayed your welcome. And if you insist on misbehaving, then perhaps a further incentive is in order.” 

Our guide stepped out of the shadows, bowing low with a single scrap of paper in his gloves. Court recited the words impassively, hiding a dagger beneath each. 

“Six Four Twenty-Three, Stafford Avenue.”

That’s all it took to knock the fight out of Amp. A single sentence, and she was undone. The boiling feelings spilled out across her face, as Agnes Court neatly folded the note and tucked it into Specular’s breast pocket for safekeeping. 

I could have intervened. Stopped Court from pouring salt in the wound. Maybe I should have. 

But part of her still treated this like a game. She was learning about responsibility, but it was in-between videos about the hottest cape trends and diving on a new career as a hero. The thrills and excitement wouldn’t keep her alive. 

“Now then, I believe my obligations here are at an end. Eidolon, a pleasure as always. Eckhart, I will be in touch. Specular, we have to greet an old acquaintance.” 

An obligation. That’s all I was now. A liability, a disgrace, and an obligation. My legacy. 

Without the Doctor, I wouldn't even have this much. Court had fulfilled her promise to the letter, and nothing more. 

Her well-dressed lackey bowed once more, thumbing a single brick in the wall and scurrying away. A stone panel rumbled, lifting to reveal a concealed mirror. In a moment, the only sign he’d ever been here was a ripple in the glass. Agnes Court followed suit, the oppressive atmosphere lifting ever so slightly with her absence. 

Neither of those left behind sighed with relief at her departure. The detective was taking a final look at the photographs, chest tight but refusing to look away from the scenes. A reminder, perhaps, of why he bargained with someone like Court in the first place. 

I stood beside him in solidarity.

"My condolences.” 

He eyed me warily. “Makes you say that?” 

“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

He gathered up an armful of photographs, tucking them back in the folder with care. “Last time was a bloodbath. Couldn’t do a damn thing. Longest month of my life.”

One photograph slid off the table. He caught it in mid-air, whitened knuckles scrunching the glossy finish. 

“Waking up every day wondering who he’d picked off in the night. Ended up sleeping in the precinct so we knew where everybody was.” 

Faded fabric bristled from the movement, his suit jacket a veteran of far too many battles. “But you didn’t care then. None of the heroes did.” 

“So you signed up with them.” 

I could almost make out the beat of his heart. An evening with the woman he’d sold his soul to, and now a direct confrontation with me.

“Want to judge me? Get out there and do what you’re fucking supposed to. Until then,” he spat, “your condolences ain’t worth shit.” 

His voice was a riptide of emotion as old wounds burst their stitches, but he never looked away. 

A rumble of thunder brought a storm of hairline fractures shooting across the floor, lightning bolts that ended our discussion prematurely. The intricate stone tapestry had been cracked apart. Only strong enough to damage the surface layer, the decoration. She didn’t have the audience for anything more. 

I looked Amp square in the eyes, her heel dug clean through the décor, and could find no sign of the girl who had been on top of the world mere hours ago. 

“What? Gonna arrest me for breaking that too?” she challenged. “Maybe ask your new friend to do it. He can sell us out at the same time.” 

“That was reckless.” 

“Yeah I really do not give a shit right now.” 

With that, she stomped over to the mirror, reeking of petulance and indignant teenage fury. Her blow wasn’t a punch but an exhaust valve breaking. 

It never connected. 

The glass rippled as she swung, our guide’s face torn between disgust and contempt. Specular took one look at the devastated floor, and addressed his question to me instead. 

“Your... pet has overstayed her welcome. If you wouldn’t mind?” 

I didn’t bid farewell to the detective, and I wouldn’t miss this place. Then it was back into the dark, herding a sullen child and a corporate egomaniac through an otherworldly realm. 

Raindrops splattered the sidewalk as we emerged, out of the darkness and into the night. Splotches of electronic lights were the only landmarks left visible through the film of water now overlaying the city. 

“Once more, we thank you for your presence this evening,” said Specular, wasting no time with his dismissal. Still respectful, but no longer deferential. Why bother, after all. His employer had made it clear that I wasn’t worth much to her now. No point winning me over. 

The last sight I had of our guide was a look of mild distaste as water pooled around his shoes. Then he was gone, stepping backwards into a shop window and returning to nothingness. 

Which just left her. 

“Is this the part where you tell me this was some really bad joke?” 

She'd sat down on the concrete step outside a shop, one hand clutching at the strap of her bag, facing out to the world. 

“Because I would really, really, like that.” 

I’d agreed to supervision. Giving her a taste of what heroism really meant. 

“No. It isn’t.” 

Rain continued to fall as she shivered. It wasn’t from the weather. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes life catches up with you. It's difficult to hear it moving when adrenaline floods your veins and the thumping of your heartbeat fills your ears. Run all you want, for life can be patient. But when the chemicals burn off and the exhilaration fades to memory, it’ll be there waiting. Life always catches you eventually. 

More and more often, it had been catching me. Hard to run when you’re past the point of exhaustion. How many days since I’d last slept? Before Freedom at least. A snatched handful of hours after the observatory. Even before then, it had been a herculean task to just rest for the weeks after Brockton Bay and everything that followed. 

I was so tired. In more ways than one. 

In response, my agent went to work. My limbs remained leaden, but the feeling was numbed. The urge to rest became a whisper, easily ignored once again. The need remained, supressed under a power I’d become far too familiar with over the years. 

It would have removed the exhaustion wholesale in days gone by. But something so minor was no excuse for delaying this talk. Even if I was tired of those, too. 

“You have questions,” I asked, rhetorically. It wasn’t long ago that I’d been on the opposite side of such a conversation. 

Raindrops cascaded across the street, a budding monsoon. The water was disgustingly warm. 

“Why bother?” 

Her response came out muffled, her head bowed and speaking into her shirt. 

“Just tell me how I fucked up already.” 

Droplets sizzled as they struck me, evaporating on touch. Amp looked up at the faint hissing sound, her own mask already soaked through. 

“You didn’t listen.” 

She shook her head and ran a finger through the water puddling by her side. Tracing words she didn’t want to vocalise. My previous instructions had been clear enough, but we wouldn’t get anywhere like this.

Another question instead, to get her thinking on the right lines. 

“Do you know how many heroes are in North America?” 

Water sluiced off her shoulders as she shrugged. “Who cares?” 

“How many villains?” I pressed. 

“Dunno. Same amount?” she said, waving her hand through the growing puddle. 

“A number.” 

It didn’t put the spark back into her eyes, but I could see her thinking it over. Remembering all those videos and websites that were apparently so important to a cape fan. A gallery of costumes flickering through her mind. A minor improvement. 

“Hundreds?” came the eventual response. “For both.” 

One of the biggest lies we’d told. Heroes on equal footing with villains. That we weren’t outnumbered in every single state. And if you wished hard enough, you’d get to join the ranks of the righteous. 

It kept the peace. It made the realisation strike home harder. 

“Partly right. We do have hundreds of heroes. And for every one of those, we have at least three villains,” I stated, bone-dry as the rain poured. 

“Thousands of capes, and the majority aren’t with us.” 

“So?” she grunted, more interested in playing with the water than in providing a rebuttal. 

“You saw first-hand the impact that a single hero could have today.” Crowds across the city. Cheering audiences and an obscene number of autographs. Joy and hope and optimism, all springing from a single person. 

“It was you. Like, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a bit different than the rest of us,” Amp said, incredulously. As if I had forgotten who I was supposed to be. 

“They were cheering for you too,” I reminded her. White cloth shifted, and I thought I saw a glimmer of a smile underneath. 

“If a single hero can elicit such a response, then what could a villain accomplish?” I asked, well aware of the answer. 

“...Probably wouldn’t be great,” she reluctantly conceded. 

“Sometimes we don’t even need the villains to cause problems. Remember your altercation with the sidewalk?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” she uttered, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging her arms around them. 

“If even the most well-intentioned capes can tear through concrete like paper, then what can those with malicious designs accomplish?” 

Amp looked up at me, her eyeholes only just noticeable over her knees. 

“It was always going to be a struggle. Our own side is burdened by responsibilities, and we’re outnumbered to the point of absurdity.” 

I let the droplets land on my palm, watching as they evaporated away into nothing. 

“And when there’s a crisis, who are the first to respond?” 

Something shuffled behind me. A stray cat, two yellow beacons glinting in the night. 

“We, humanity, we’re reaching a breaking point. Heroes are being overrun. Already we’ve had to lock cities away for the dangers they pose. Gallup? Gary? I trust you’ve heard of the quarantine zones?” 

“...Yeah. Yeah I know them.” 

“Pray you never experience what its like to live there.” 

Amp mumbled something into her knees in response. 

“Entire nations are buckling under the strain of parahumans. Look to Namibia to see what unchecked villains are capable of accomplishing.” 

If it was even Namibia any longer. The self-proclaimed queen might have renamed it in her own honour. 

“All of that is before you take the Endbringers into consideration. Which side is it that always leaves those in body bags?” I asked the air. I knew I was sharing more than I should. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking. Suppressed, held at bay, but not stopped. 

Rather apt, for this discussion. 

“Either we continue to fight a losing battle, or we look for an alternative solution.” 

“That’s what you call it? A solution?” 

Raindrops landed on either side of her mask, running past the eyes and down her cheeks. 

“A friend used that term. Call it what you like. But look around you first.” 

She rose shakily to her feet. Her ponytail was stuck to the back of her costume, slick with rainwater. I didn’t say a word, and merely surveyed the street through an aqueous haze. 

“Cool. Burger wrappers. Is there something I’m supposed to be looking at?” 

“This,” I answered, gesturing out as if I could encompass all of Los Angeles in my hand. “All of this.” 

The millions of lives in this urban anthill. Sleeping safe and sound in their beds even as capes dealt with a notorious serial killer mere blocks away.

“There’s peace here. Stability.” 

Amp rose to her feet, puddles splashing around the soles of her sneakers. 

“And that makes it all okay?” 

“When the alternative is chaos?” 

Amp began to shake her head, rivulets of water running over her dollar store mask, before coming to an abrupt stop. 

“Okay, my turn for a question. Who the fuck are you?” 

The lights of my suit reflected off the water, refracting all around. Amp looked like a silhouette in comparison. 

“Elaborate.” 

“Because, correct me if I’m wrong, you’ve been doing enough of that today, but I thought you were Eidolon. You know, best hero in the world? Strongest man alive? Ring any bells?” 

A silhouette with flames in her eyes. 

“He would never, ever, be okay with something like this. Did you hear what they said? They got people sent to the hospital to test a theory. A woman is dead for fucks sake!” 

Lightning struck miles away, throwing her mask into stark relief. I counted the seconds for the noise. 

“Is that okay too? Whatever happened to the Protectorate being in good shape, and living in a safer world than any of us could imagine?” 

Thunder rumbled as Amp stared me down. Exalt had barely managed that. His team had scattered rather than facing me directly. Pastor had pleaded, Nailbiter had run, String Theory had surrendered. Only those whose convictions outweighed the risks dared spark a disagreement. Chevalier, Gavel, the Doctor. 

Here, underneath a deluge of rain and the light of the moon, another joined their ranks. 

“It is better than the alternative,” I repeated. “But that doesn’t make it good.” 

A flash of a grin under her mask. Vindication. 

“You just had your first encounter with the Elite,” I said, watching as her eyes narrowed. 

“I take it you’re familiar?” 

She snorted. “Grew up on the internet, remember? I was like eleven when I found a gif of some Elite guy slicing another dude’s throat with an ice skate.” 

“Bastard Son,” I said, thinking of his motley crew. The other cells would consider that style of execution gauche. 

“These guys are better than the alternative, huh?” she said, folding her arms as a gloating smirk took root. 

“Yes,” I said, her face falling. “His group are outliers. Extremists. For the most part, they keep the peace.” 

They propped up cities across the country. Too many capes in one place always led to calamity, and the Protectorate didn't have the manpower to solve every problem. 

“I don’t like them any more than you do. In an ideal world, there would be no need for them. But they’re a necessity.” 

“Necess-” Amp started, her tone disbelieving. “Did you even see how many capes they had back there?” 

This time, there was no stopping her. 

“Fine, villains are chaotic and we need to work with some to stop the rest. Sure, whatever. But there were heroes in that room too. Like, every major team, except for you guys,” she said, waving her arm helplessly. The sleeve was still burned. 

“They make front page news all the time. Cornucopia runs a charity for disabled kids!” Her voice cracked partway through her speech. “Do you even know how important some of those teams are to people? And they’re, what, being paid by villains this whole time?” 

I gave a slight nod. 

“What about the Carbons? Have they taken over music too?” 

“Not quite.” 

“Oh so they’ve only mostly taken it over,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Can’t forget the police. Have they been bought out like everything else?” 

“No. Their detective cut a deal.” 

“Wow. They aren’t as corrupt as they could be. That’s so much better than the alternative,” she spat, torn between fury and crying. Water splashed around us as she kicked a puddle, hands balled at her sides. 

“And because of that, they know where I fucking live!” she hissed. 

“That’s incorrect.” 

“I do not want to hear it, oka-” 

“They already knew. Our detour to the precinct didn’t reveal anything new.” 

She tilted her head up to the sky. Her eyes were scrunched shut. 

“As you said, the Elite deal in all types of capes. Villains and heroes, but also rogues.” 

That snapped her back to attention. Her hand shifted subconsciously towards the bandoleer she wore. 

“No.” 

“How often do you think rogues offer to build things for newcomers?” 

“No no shut up.” 

“Expensive technology, but still incomplete. When you finally get the funds together for the upgrade, something else will go wrong and they’ll keep stringing it along. They like to keep independents indebted.” 

The zip hissed, exposing a single fan from her drone. I’d wondered ever since seeing it, but Court’s knowledge of Amp had sealed the deal. 

She slumped against the wall, sliding back down to the sidewalk. For the first time that evening, I heard her choke back a sob. 

Legend would have known what to say. Hero would already be consoling her, cracking some joke that made everything okay again. Yet she’d asked for my supervision. 

All I had left to offer was the insight into the cape world that she’d craved. 

“So it's all a lie?” 

I didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. 

“All the stories and celebrations and events, it’s... none of it matters. The villains already won and we didn’t even fight.” 

She looked up. Her eyes were wet. 

“The Protectorate knows, don’t they?” 

“They try and stay ahead of the Elite. Its an ongoing arms race.” 

“But...” 

“But they do know, yes.” 

“Guess their version of catching Acidbath was made up too?” 

Which hero had they credited with that success? Los Angeles had no shortage of choices to pick from. All I knew was that it wouldn’t be me. Couldn’t be me. Not anymore. 

“Did... was anything we did today truthful? Were we actually heroes or just a distraction for that psycho?” 

“Does it matter?” I asked, watching as moonlight broke through the clouds above. My hand came up to forestall another outburst. 

“Stop and think for a moment. We contributed where we could. We made innumerable lives better, even if only for a short while.” 

“By lying to them.” 

“By telling them what they needed to hear.” 

“Is that it? We just stick a fake smile on and pretend things are okay?” The venom had drained from her voice, leaving her sounding hollow and defeated. 

We stayed there for long minutes, under that downpour. When she finally rose, all that remained was the desperate, pleading tones of someone with nowhere else to turn. 

“Could you fix it? If you wanted to?” 

Could I? Right all the world’s wrongs, dismantle the rotting foundations and build something new in its place? Even if it meant disrupting plans that had been in motion since before I’d become Eidolon? 

“No. Not in the way that you’re thinking.” 

“You’re the stronges-” 

“It isn’t a question of strength,” I said. Every branch of the Elite, from strategic outposts to nerve centres like this one, I could tear them apart root and stem. “Its a question of practicality.” 

They would doubtlessly lose, but there would be nothing to fill the subsequent vacuum. So they remained. A cancer propping up the west coast. 

“They’re the price we have to pay for all of this.” 

But even if that wasn’t the case, if we weren’t dying a slow death and if we didn’t need every cape for the end and if we had replacement heroes and infrastructure and if, if, if... 

Even if we had all of that, it wouldn’t be me that toppled the Elite. 

“Regardless, I’m retired.” 

Amp gave a mirthless chuckle, shaking her head. 

“Retired. Funny way of putting it.” 

“I stepped down from the Protectora-” 

This time, it was me on the receiving end of an interruption. “And yet here you are, still flying around. Not doing anything useful of course, just lying to everyone for fun.” 

“Take this seriously.” 

“Serious? Fine. You gave up,” she said, without an ounce of glee. 

“We’ve been over this,” I said, dismissively. 

“Not that, although this whole thing is supremely fucked up. I meant their victim. A woman died, and we didn’t even know her name.” 

“Acidbath’s victim.” 

“Our victim.” 

She glowered up at me, squaring her shoulders. “Despite what you think, I do listen. I excel at listening. And everything I heard today, everything you said, the lies and the lessons and all the rest of it, it was focused on others.” 

Her finger tapped against her upper arm for every point made. “Take responsibility so that regular people don’t get scared by what we can do. Don’t show off if it puts others in danger. Never let them see you at anything less than your best or they’ll get worried.” She swallowed before continuing. “Lie to them. If you have to. So that everyone feels safe.” 

I stared back, unsure of what I was feeling. She really had taken it all onboard.

“Everything we do, is so that people can live better lives. But back there, they let someone die and used others as bait.” 

She took a deep breath, and issued her challenge. 

“You’ve got excuses for all of it. You're wrong about the villains and the lying and this crazy fucking conspiracy group that’s wormed its way into the whole city, but there’s some messed-up reasoning there. But what about her? Why did we let her die without doing anything?” 

I wondered if the Doctor felt like this when we retired. Telling us to leave the heroics behind, that abandoning some civilians and losing some battles was the only way to win in the end. She would have provided clarity, an argument that Amp couldn’t refute. 

And we still would have disagreed with her. 

“Sometimes we have to make sacrifices,” I said, feeling the knives twist in my throat as I spat them out. 

Save as many lives as you can, but you can’t save them all. Give up on saving them and leave it to others. You’re getting weaker, we can only use you in emergencies. We’ll decide what’s an emergency and what isn’t. 

That wasn’t good enough. It had never been good enough. But soldiers followed orders. 

“That’s it then? We just let people suffer because it's convenient?” 

But Amp wasn’t a soldier. Soaked to the bone, threatened by one of the most powerful groups in the country, seeing the decisions that underpinned everything and having her life crumble around her, she still got up and fought back. 

She wasn’t my shadow. She was my mirror image. The hero I could have been. 

“Final lesson,” I murmured. “We don’t get to save everyone.” 

I raised my head to the sky, and watched the clouds drift past. I’d done everything I could for her. A day’s supervision. Paltry, in the grand scheme of things. But she had the tools to be a cape now. 

Not a hero. She’d been that long before I found her. 

“No. That’s... no. That’s utter shit.” 

Which was why she couldn’t stay here. She wouldn’t let herself be dragged down to our level. 

One last lesson to deliver. A final mercy. 

“Go home, Amp. You aren’t cut out for this life.” 

Keep holding onto that passion and optimism. Lord knows we could use some. Be the hero that I can’t afford to be. 

There was no witty comeback this time. No outbursts or rants. Instead, she rolled down her sleeve, grabbing at something I couldn’t see in the gloom. It came loose with a metallic pop. 

Her fist clenched so tightly before she threw it. Something small impacted my chest, landing with a splash against the sidewalk. 

“You were supposed to be better than this.” 

With the last word, she turned and ran, sending water cascading around her with every thudding footfall. I scooped up the object she’d thrown, holding it to the lights of my suit. 

In the palm of my hand sat a thin chain of metal with a single tiny charm attached. The features had dulled from years of being clutched or rubbed or cradled, but there was no mistaking the blank helmet overlaid with a hood. 

The man in green meant so much to so many people. Here, I’d turned him into a monster. 

All to prepare her. To keep her alive. So that she could keep up the fight. Do the good deeds for us both. 

I don’t know how long I stayed at that sidewalk. I could have stayed for an eternity, and it wouldn’t have been long enough. 

Chapter Text

30th September, 1997. Buenos Aires, Argentina.  

Choo-choo went the train. Choo-choo! Up the hill and over the bridge where it fell down. Now the wheels were the roof! Silly, wheels don’t go up there. The roof is where the people who are too tall to stand in the train have to sit. How can they sit on a wheel? 

But all the noise has woken Mrs. Grumbles, the giant monkey that hates trains. Her long arms are winding through the carriages looking for bananas. Ooh ooh ah ah! That’s what Mrs. Grumbles says when she can’t find any. So she picks up the train with her big monkey hands, and shakes and shakes and shakes until all the people fall out. Mrs. Grumbles is going to eat them too, nom nom nom. 

That’s when she picked up the wooden train and threw it at Mrs. Grumbles. It bounced off her monkey head. 

“¿Quien tiene hambre?!” 

She grinned up at her Papa as he slipped into the room. He had secret cake. The train could wait. 

Before long, her fingers were all sticky. So was Mrs. Grumbles’ mouth. Monkeys didn’t like cake. More for her. 

Her Papa smiled and made that tutting noise he always made when they had secret cake. Mama got cross when they ate it, so it was a secret. Shhhh, can’t tell anyone. She squirmed when the wipe came out and sulked as he cleaned the last of the crumbs away. Then she giggled when he did the same to Mrs. Grumbles. When he found Mrs. Slappy, a great big seal with a fluffy tail, she started laughing as he tickled her nose. The fur made her sneeze and that made her laugh even harder, laughing and sneezing in turn as she toppled over. 

When the outside got dark, she told everyone very loudly that she wasn’t tired. Her Papa didn’t answer, so she stole the last slice of secret cake and blamed it on Mrs. Grumbles. 

Instead of playing some more, he got up and turned on the radio. The floor rocked and her mouth went wide. She didn’t know the radio did that! This was amazing. 

She didn’t get to test the magic radio before her Papa ran to the door, throwing on his shoes and sprinting upstairs with an empty bag. The magic radio was talking about stuff she didn’t really understand, lots of big words and no music, so she sat back down again and started braiding Mrs. Grumbles’ hair. 

The next moment, she’d been scooped off the floor and up into her Papa’s arms, squeezed so tightly that she nearly popped. Was it hugging time now? She hugged back, still not sure what was going on. Her in one hand, pressed to his chest, and the bag in the other. He kept telling her everything would be okay, but everything was already okay. Apart from Mrs. Grumbles knocking over a train, but she did that a lot. 

Something banged behind her, and the squeezing started again. She squeezed back, extra hard, to remind people that she was still here and getting very squashed. 

When she finally got spun around, she smiled at the sight of her Mama, standing in the doorway and covered in dirt. Mama said some stuff very quickly to Papa, pointing at a big sheet of paper in her hands with lots of lines on it. She reached out her own hand. Mama knocked it away and frowned at her. She giggled. 

Then her parents started running, down to the car, and that was awful because they’d left Mrs. Grumbles behind. Papa put her in the back seat, shushing her over and over again. Something started stinging her eyes and that made her feel even worse because her eyes hurt and Mrs. Grumbles was still inside and her parents were too busy talking to each other and they were going really fast now which made her tummy hurt. 

Mama was shouting at whatever was going on up ahead. She was too little to see it, so she settled for sniffling and wiping her nose on her clothes. 

The shouting kept getting louder and suddenly the car was going backwards, only to slam to a stop. Her parents had thrown the doors open, Papa reaching through the gap between seats to grab her and then they were off again, out into the air that kept stinging her eyes. 

The sky was really dark now, full of black clouds that made her cough and left her rubbing her eyes, but everything was still bright. Normally she couldn’t see when it got dark. 

Flames leapt out behind them and she shrieked as they ran, joining a group of people all pushing and shoving to get away from the fire. Cars were stopped in the road, all with their doors open. The ones at the back were burning, all reds and yellows until they went boom.  

It was so loud, so so loud, she wanted it to stop, her hands were pushed down on her ears but that meant she couldn’t rub her eyes to stop them stinging and people kept shoving and something metal crashed next to her on top of a person who didn’t get up again. 

Make it stop make it stop make it stop. 

Someone in funny clothes was standing on top of a car, yelling and pointing behind them. More noise, it really hurt make it stop. People were still shoving, and she couldn’t understand why. The road went past the beach, she knew that, but you couldn’t go there if it was dark. 

A spark of light danced through the air, and the shouting man screamed. Everybody backed away as he flopped over sideways, falling onto the road. She hated how loud it was. 

When it all fell silent, she suddenly wished it was loud again. Nobody dared to move as the ground rumbled. 

At the far end of the road, rounding the corner of a building, was a demon. It had claws bigger than the adults and jagged teeth made of rocks. Each step made her bounce, and she burrowed deeper into her Papa’s shirt. Maybe the demon wouldn’t find her there. 

Peeking out, she saw more people in colourful clothes on top of the building, running and shouting and making weird things happen. The demon didn’t even look at them, walking through the building as the colourful people screamed and fell. Some tumbled off the roof and she closed her eyes before they reached the ground. It didn’t stop the sound. 

Fire behind them, getting closer and closer. A demon in front of them. She wanted to go home. It was too loud and her eyes hurt real bad and even though Mama told her off whenever she cried it just became too much. 

The demon’s massive red eye turned as she sobbed, and it stopped moving. She sniffled. Maybe it was done? 

Then its leg, taller than any tree she’d seen, took a step towards them. Mama was screaming at her to shut up, and the people were pushing again, but there was nowhere to go. One of the colourful people leapt for the demon. It breathed fire and the colourful person was gone. 

Make it stop please make it stop she wouldn’t steal secret cake anymore she’d be good just make it stop she didn’t want to be here. 

Papa held her and Mama close, pulling them down behind one of the cars. She hugged them extra tight. 

The demon raised a claw. Light gathered around it, crackling in place. It was looking right at her. 

She looked back, and shouted at the demon to go away as tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t hear her own voice. 

A bolt of light burst from its claws. She kept shouting. The demon didn’t listen. 

But somebody else did. 

The road itself rose up, spraying dirt everywhere as the bolt hit. There was a man in the sky, hands glowing. She watched with her mouth open as he shoved forwards, and all the roads further on tore out of the ground and wrapped around the demon so it couldn’t move its arms. 

Her hair blew upwards as the world went woosh. She looked back, and saw the flames being tugged into the sky. The man took them all in his hand, and turned them into a giant spear of fire. 

She blinked, and there was a second spear. And another. So many, all bigger than her house. 

The man raised his hand, and the demon was buried in the flames. 

There were others in the sky with him now. A man in gold was shining a light at the demon’s eye, and everybody seemed to listen. A new spear raced overhead, bigger than the others, joined by a whole bunch of different coloured lights. They all smashed into the demon, and someone in black landed on the demon’s face, shoving the spear even deeper. 

Little green sparks bounced around her, and the last she saw of them was the man in green waving a hand over their heads. She waved back. 

Then her eyes stopped stinging and everything stopped being so loud. The sky wasn’t dark anymore, and everybody seemed so happy. She didn’t really know where they were, there was no sign of the demon, but she clapped along anyway. Papa hugged her and Mama even smiled at her. 

She didn’t feel like crying anymore. 

~~~ 

15th April, 2002. Las Cruces, USA.  

"You’re finished, dear Praetorian. Kindly stay down,” laughed the man on the teevee. A scar ran along one side of his face where the heroes had fought him last episode. It pointed to a countdown clock. 

Praetorian struggled to climb out of the hole in the wall that Count Anguish had punched him through, every movement making him wince. He pulled himself upright, swaying on his feet. 

“I could do this all day.” 

“Then enjoy,” was the Count’s only response, before he struck Praetorian in the stomach, followed by an elbow to the back. “Is this the best that the Protectorate can muster?” 

Around them, the Sinister Squadron had the heroes beaten. The real Protectorate, the big shots, they’d all been called away for missions, and that left him in charge. Untested, barely trained. Praetorian clambered up again, looking at his fallen friends, before pointing at the villainous leader and starting his speech. 

The front door creaked on its hinges. Her fingers were already on the remote, making Praetorian’s speech quieter and quieter. She could hear footsteps in the hall. Mama- Mom was back from work. Couldn’t use the wrong words. After the move, everything had to be in American. 

English. 

It was English but they were in America. She still didn’t quite get it but asking would have caused problems. 

She looked down at her homework spread out on the carpet, and double-checked the language. Then she checked again, just in case. 

Voices rose from the other room. She tried to concentrate, but her ears wouldn’t stop prickling. 

Her pencil grated against paper as the voices started laughing. She shuffled closer to the teevee. Just had to press your face really close to it and you could still hear everything. 

Bright red colours flared on the screen as Count Anguish started the countdown. In sixty seconds, the missiles were going to hit the city. 

The voices slipped into a whisper. Maybe if she stayed quiet, nobody would notice her. 

Count Anguish cackled, firing a laser gun at Praetorian that sent him flying. She muted the teevee. It was okay, she knew this episode by heart already. 

Praetorian was down, the missile was going to blow in thirty seconds, and Count Anguish was unbeatable. The Sinister Squadron toyed with their opponents. She mouthed along, struggling on a few of the trickier bits. 

Our dance comes to a close, Praetorian. Any final words, or will you have the dignity of dying in peace? 

Praetorian coughed, and raised a shaky arm. 

Kept you busy, she mouthed. The windows blew up and suddenly the Sinister Squadron were on the run, all told silently. She fumbled with her necklace, holding it tight as her favourite hero flew into the building, a green glow carrying the missile behind him. 

I believe you misplaced this, he told the Count, lifting the missile. Count Anguish called out for the villains to stop him, only to see them dangling by their ankles from green chains in the ceiling. The metal made her palm ache but she didn’t let go. Her necklace was the best present Papa had ever bought. 

A shiver crept down her back as Count Anguish aimed the laser gun at Eidolon. That shiver turned into a chill as the door opened behind her. Quick as a flash, she grabbed her homework in both hands, presenting it to the room. All done, just in time. 

Only when she’d held it up did she realise the mistake. 

The paper was double-sided. 

Something snatched it away, and she tried ever so hard not to look at the blank answer boxes. This was her favourite part of the episode, but if she looked at the teevee there would be consequences. 

“Watching this again?” rang the stern voice that visited her in the dead of night. “Honestly, it will rot your brain.” 

“It's good,” she shrugged. Her rotted brain caught up a second later. “Good for learning.” 

She forced the biggest smile she could onto her face, beaming up like the precious daughter she was supposed to be. Mom liked it when she did that. Maybe she’d like it enough that she wouldn’t turn the page over. 

“How many times do I have to remind you to show your working?” Strict and professional, sounding just like someone who’d always lived here. Her own voice still had an accent that Mom said she should be embarrassed about. 

“Lo sien- sorry,” she squeaked, trying to hide the bad words under a cough. Instantly, the gaze returned to her. She tried to look back, but she’d never been able to match that stare. Two pale blue eyes that felt worse than a single demonic one. 

Her own eyes flickered around for something to focus on, and landed on the back of the paper. The pencil in her hands started to tremble. 

Maybe that gave her away. Maybe Mom would have looked anyway. But as her mom sighed a familiar sigh, she couldn’t help feeling that she had failed somehow. 

“Emilia, do you know how many little girls would kill to be in your position?” 

Emilia didn’t answer, and tried not to notice as the woman settled down across from her. 

“I don’t think I ask for much, do I? I keep you fed, and clothed, and in this lovely house, and all you have to do is to put some effort in. But you won’t even do that.” 

“Sorry,” she whispered. It didn’t matter now. 

Mom held her arm out, and she didn’t hesitate to do the same, letting Mom link their hands together. Her mother’s thumb traced over her fingers, and she could feel the flinch before it came. 

“I’ve explained this so many times, but you just don’t listen. We have to work extra hard here otherwise we’ll get swept away.” 

“Like the people on teevee?” she asked, hoping to show that she did pay attention. 

Pressure began building over her little finger, pushing down on the joint. She quickly added, “On the news!” 

“Yes dear. Like them.” 

Sometimes Mom made her watch when the news found people inside of trucks or hiding in boats. Some of them came from the same place she’d come from. It was difficult to remember now. 

Unless she was asleep. Home was easy to see there. So were the flames. 

Then came the talk about how difficult those naughty people were making it hard for good, honest people like themselves who came here properly. They had to work extra hard because nobody liked them because of what a bunch of other people kept doing and the teevee and her mom and some of the other adults told her that was very bad. 

“You’re so lucky. Your father and me, we didn’t have any of this when we were growing up. All we ask is a little bit of effort from you. Is that really so difficult?” 

Every time Mom said it, she felt like she’d failed. So she’d try extra hard at school, and struggle through the lessons where they kept adding new words that she had to find and everyone got upset with her for asking what they meant.  

“Sorry,” she whispered.  

Her mother hummed, gently caressing her hand. It wasn’t her fault that she took so much longer to finish each lesson than all the other kids. But she hadn’t given up yet. Sneaking a glance at the teevee, she caught the end of Count Anguish trying to run away from a healed Praetorian. Heroes didn’t give up, even with English homework. 

Instantly she heard her wrist click, her eyes snapping back to look at Mom. She’d forgotten the most important thing. Pay attention to Mom or there would be consequences. 

“Why do you always have to make this so difficult?” her mother asked, gently squeezing their hands together. Slowly, tenderly, Mom’s hand pushed forwards, bending her own wrist back. 

“You know this is for your own good. Always spacing out, it isn’t healthy.” 

Mom’s smile didn’t turn up at the edges. She tried to smile again, but the pain in her wrist made it difficult. Back and back, slowly bent backwards until she couldn’t help but whimper. 

“Oh! Why didn’t you say something? You really should speak up more. Practice makes perfect,” Mom said, releasing her grip. 

“What was that dear?” called Papa from the stairs. She kept her mouth shut and cradled her wrist. 

“Nothing! Just having a chat with our daughter.” 

She knew better than to say anything. It was always her fault whenever she opened her mouth. Mom gave her a look, and finally left. 

Wincing, she pressed the remote again. Just in time to hear the ending. 

“Today, you showed the world that anyone can be a hero,” said Eidolon, clapping his hand on Praetorian’s shoulder. 

Heroes didn’t fail. Maybe if she didn’t fail so much, Mom would be happier with her. 

She just didn’t know what she was failing at. 

~~~ 

12th October, 2005. Tucson, USA.  

“Best behaviour now. No accidents,” murmured her mother as they paced down the front yard, umbrella poised above. She brushed the bottom of her dress again, just in case it had gotten dirty. She hoped it had gotten dirty. Then she wouldn’t have to go. 

All too soon, her mother jammed a perfectly manicured nail into the doorbell, waiting as the chimes pronounced their fate. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for girls who really wanted to be online right now instead of doing this. Hemingway sucked but the new teacher was fascinated by him, so of course she’d had to write an extra-credit assignment. Under mother’s watchful gaze, of course. 

She felt the talons on her shoulder, drawing out a smile. Smile, smile, don’t forget to smile. The moment her face contorted to make the shape, the front door swung open, as if it had a combination that could only be unlocked by smiling. Like the facial recognition technology in the Triumvirate’s secret headquarters. 

“Camila, so good to see you! Aw, and you brought the little one. How you doing sprout?” 

Her smile deformed slightly as the older woman patted her on the head. 

“Come in, come in. I see you brought the good stuff,” said the older woman with a wink, nudging the wine bottle in her mother’s hand. 

“Nothing but the best,” said her mother, raising her nose. 

“You spoil us Cammy. Ladies, guess who’s here!” 

A tipsy chorus hollered back, and she grabbed the biggest mental paintbrush she could to touch up that smile. Bigger, bigger, Mother won’t be happy otherwise. 

Then came the pass-the-parcel. Ceremoniously sent to walk the circle as the other mothers began passing her around, all cooing over her even though she was too old for that. 

“Love your dress, you look cute as a button.” 

“Did you do your hair yourself?” 

“Oh you look so grown-up Emmy.” 

More cheek pinching, more hair tussling, more people calling her by the wrong name. She knew the routine by now. Eventually she’d become less interesting than the half-drunk bottles of wine on the table. When that sweet release finally came, she slunk off to the living room with the other kids unlucky enough to be trapped here. 

She didn’t really know any of them. They’d moved a few times, her mother always chasing the next promotion, and most kids weren't interested in talking to a weirdo like her. She only knew these kids because her mother thought she was spending too much time on the computer. There was the blonde who always wore clothes with horses on, the ginger who liked cartoons, and the girl who ate glue one time but she wasn’t supposed to mention that. 

Nobody really wanted to be here. So they turned the teevee on low, and stared blankly at whatever was being played. Today it was a cowboy movie. Horse girl seemed to like that. 

Every now and then, one of them would heed the call of the drunken parents, going back for another round of cooing or fetching snacks from various parts of the kitchen. She hoped she wouldn’t have to get the dips again. She didn’t want to smell like garlic all day. 

Eventually it was her turn to go back for her second round. No dips, thankfully. Just a bunch of drunk adults all making comments about her. 

“She’s so well behaved. How do you manage it?” 

Her mother laughed. “Afraid that’s covered by an NDA.” 

The other women tittered. “Come now Cammy, not everything you do is secret.” 

“I thought you were an accountant?” 

“She is Denise, she is.” 

“Oh.” 

“But the PRT take their finances seriously, don’t they?” 

Her mother lifted a glass. “Classified.” 

The non-joke caused them to break down in laughs. One of them was so wracked by giggles that she didn’t put the bottle back on the table properly after yet another refill. 

Daffodil yellow turned to a sickly shade of orange as the wine flowed over her, drenching her dress. She looked up through the crimson droplets at her mother, whose concerned expression swiftly turned to a murderous glare when nobody else was looking. 

Smile smile, she’d lost her smile. She grinned up again, feeling the stickiness seep through her clothes. 

“Denise you’ve really got to control your drinking problem.” 

“Oh hush. Accidents happen.” 

“Still smiling, aren’t you sprout?” 

“Cammy how do you do it?” 

“She hits me.” 

It took a moment before she realised where the words came from. The smile fell, and she took an involuntary step backwards. The look on her mother’s face was glacial. She hoped somebody would speak up before it thawed.  

One by one, their stares added up until she was being crushed under the pressure. Somebody had to say something. She hadn’t meant to reveal that, but now it was out in the open so something had to happen... 

The ice cracked with a tinkling laugh. Like the chimes of a lopsided bell, one of the adults started chuckling. That caused a chain reaction, spreading across the table as they all took up the laughter. 

“That’s just precious!” 

“Kids, honestly, they say the funniest things.” 

“It isn’t nice to joke about that sort of stuff, you know. Your Mommy could get in trouble.” 

She swallowed, and tried to speak again. Her throat was suddenly dry and nobody was listening. She didn’t want to look at the self-satisfied expression on her mother’s face. 

Up went the smile. Up, up, put it back in place. All a silly joke. It wouldn’t be so bad if she nodded and agreed. 

They didn’t stay for long after that. Her Mother made their goodbyes, one hand perched on her shoulder the entire time. She didn’t let the wince show as nails dug through her dress. 

The waiting was the worst part. It would come, she was sure of it, but until then all she could do was count every crack in the sidewalk, keeping her face down so nobody could check for a smile. Her neck tingled from the sun’s blazing warmth, but she didn’t dare scratch it. 

By the time they’d reached the house, she’d decided that it would be in the kitchen. What she’d done was bad, but they’d laughed it off. That meant whatever was coming wouldn’t hurt enough to be done in the bathroom, but it wasn’t lenient enough for the living room either. 

She didn’t make it over the threshold. 

“You ruined a wonderful afternoon. And I don’t want to see you again until you’ve thought about your actions,” instructed her mother, snapping her fingers back to the sidewalk. “When your father comes home you can tell him what you did.” 

The door slammed in her face, leaving no time for questions. Not that she would have asked anyway. The squirming feeling in her stomach had reached up her insides to constrict her throat. 

Lacking anything better to do, she sat in the shade of the house’s walls, pulled her knees up to her chest, and waited. 

The screech of talons scraping against glass shattered her plans. She risked a look at the window, and saw her mother pointing to the sidewalk again. 

On unsteady legs, she followed the command and stood in full view of the Arizona sunshine. The squirming feeling sealing her throat was slowly replaced by the dry itch of thirst. 

Some of the other kids were playing outside. None of them ever talked to her. Nobody wanted to play with the girl who looked different. 

Sweat beaded on her forehead as the sun drifted through the sky. Why was it so slow? 

She’d made a mistake, looking out into the street. Now there was no way to know if she was still being watched without turning. If she moved again when she wasn’t supposed to... 

A buzzing sound shot down her ear and she jumped. Her dress was still sticky, and the wasps had noticed. The buzzing picked up and she wanted to move but Mother might still be looking. She tried staying as still as possible, flinching whenever a wasp flew past her head or landed on her clothes. 

Just pretend she wasn’t here. She could be anywhere else, out there in the skies fighting bad guys, and as long as she kept thinking that then the wasps didn’t register. Her fingers played over her necklace. 

That lasted until one landed stinger-first on her arm. It was her fault, she shouldn’t have jumped, and she definitely shouldn’t have tried to swat it. The itch in her throat transitioned to hundreds of tiny itches lining her arms as the skin slowly reddened. 

The kids across the road were looking again. One of them was pointing at her and laughing with his friends. The redness spread to her face. 

She let her mind wander, away from the wine-soaked dress and the moisture in her eyes, back to the place she always went when things started to get too tough. People listened to her there, where she was a hero. Heroes didn’t cry. They didn’t have to worry about what their parents would do if they failed. 

And if nobody listened to her there, then her friend made them reconsider. It was awesome, being on a team with the Triumvirate, but it was especially awesome being friends with the second-best hero ever. She’d be number one, of course. 

Diesel fumes and the sound of a chugging engine jerked her out of the daydream. A beat-up old car rumbled down the road, rolling to a stop in front of the house. Dad stepped out of his car, raising a grocery bag with a big smile on his face. 

“Now who is that I spy outside?” 

She tried to smile. Really, she did. 

“Hey Princesa, why are you out on the sidewalk?” he asked, and the old nickname made her arms itch even worse. Dad was home, she should be happy. 

But he never listened either. Mother never did anything when he was around to see it, and whenever she told him it always backfired. He’d talk to Mother, and she’d make up some story or maybe ease off for a few days, but then it was always worse afterwards. 

The door clicked behind her. 

“Princesa?” 

She beamed up at him as the shadow loomed. 

“Waiting for you, silly,” she lied.  

~~~ 

23rd April, 2009. Phoenix, USA.  

“Check it! Six-star Bastion!” 

“Yeah, well I got a fully geared Usher!” 

“Usher sucks.” 

“Does not!” 

“Does too! His ultimate always misses.” 

“Yeah well you need him if you want to win the legendary events.” 

Around them, the schoolyard continued to buzz with excitement. Lunchtime meant food, it meant that the teachers couldn’t take your phone away, and it meant that she didn’t have hide just how much she knew about Protectorate Strike Force Heroes. 

Her cell had barely left her hand since installing it. The loading screen showed the famous silhouette poster that she had above her bed, and she’d timed herself naming all the heroes there. 

Sam craned around for a better look. The other girls didn’t really like her because Sam’s phone was old and her uniform used to belong to her big sister. But she didn’t mind. 

“Why are you even trying the events? They’re broken.” 

“I won the last few,” she said defensively. 

“They’re designed for people to spend money on. Stupid amounts of money,” Sam replied, copying a post she’d seen on the game’s forum almost word for word. 

Her friend wasn’t wrong though. The game was great, but if you didn’t spend any money, it would take forever to make progress. She was lucky that Dad got her Protectorate figurines for her birthday. Each one came with a little card you could swipe for free level ups or better gear. Sam could never know. 

The loading screen faded, revealing the inside of a PRT office. Customising which office you wanted was one of the first things you did in the tutorial. She’d instinctively picked Houston. 

Then came a flash of light, followed by Legend nodding to the player. First time players would have their phone’s camera flash go off simultaneously. She’d had to turn that off quickly when it lit up her room at midnight. 

Text boxes appeared underneath his floating form, telling them how proud he was for their progress in saving the city, and to prepare for the biggest challenge yet. Legend had brought the Triumvirate with him, and they wanted to put the department through its paces. 

It had taken weeks, but she’d beaten the first two parts of the event, unlocking the respective heroes in the process. All that was left was the hardest boss fight in any game ever. 

Despite insisting that the events were broken and dumb, Sam still leaned in as the virtual team arranged themselves for a fight. 

“You play this way too much.” 

Emilia harrumphed. She played it a perfectly normal amount. Then her digital PRT office vanished, and it was time to fight. 

“I came up with a new strategy okay. You need Dragon to take the first hit, that activates Chevalier’s passive which doubles his strength and gives him taunt.” 

Sure enough, the flying robot was covered in particles for a second, which made the knight step forward and challenge any cowardly villains nearby. 

Sam smirked. “Eidolon ignores taunt.” 

“Then, you use Legend’s special to double the defence of every character taunting and add counterattack and assist to everyone else.” 

“That’s so dumb.” 

“I know its great. That way the whole team counters every time Eidolon attacks, so you do that until Alexandria’s ultimate charges up-” 

“Which always misses against Eidolon.” 

“Because of the auto-daze, I know. That’s why you use Usher on her first, then she can land orbital knockout, and if that connects then Legend automatically follows up with spectrum barrage.” 

True to her word, Usher successfully buffed Alexandria, placing a little green square over her head. A little animation played of her shooting into the clouds and crashing back down on their opponent. Dozens of lasers hit immediately afterwards which was strong enough to wipe out every other opponent in the game. 

Eidolon’s health decreased by a quarter. 

“Cool. Now what?” 

She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. 

“What if Eidolon does that attack that puts the team to sleep?” asked Sam. 

“Well...” 

“Or the move that triples his turns and gives him regen?” 

“Um...” 

“Or what if-” 

“You’re just jealous that I’ll unlock him before you,” she said. Sam glared and took an annoyed bite of her sandwich, which she classed as a win. 

Besides, her strategy only needed a teeny tiny bit of work. Once she cracked it, she could film herself winning the event. It’d be an awesome way to launch the channel she’d been daydreaming about. Although she didn’t really get how to record something on her phone. Maybe she could point another phone at it while playing? 

“Sam can I borrow your phone?” 

Her friend made a show of thinking it over before pulling the older model out of her pocket. It was riddled with scratches and dents. 

“You can have it if you beat the events for me.” 

Sam only laughed as she snatched for the phone, holding it out of reach. Then something flew past her eyes, and she blinked in shock. Sam had her hands pressed to her face as a dodgeball rolled along the floor. Her friend’s phone had skittered across the ground, adding another smattering of scratches to the screen. 

“Ew.” 

It slid to a stop next to a gaggle of girls who had carved out a huge chunk of the schoolyard for themselves. Jessica’s gang. The ones who always had big sleepovers and never invited her. She didn't remember any of their names outside of the leader, and knew that the feeling was mutual. 

One of them stepped on the cell, joking about needing to wipe off the dog shit. Sam blushed and started packing her lunch away. Emilia brushed crumbs off her uniform and ambled over to the group. She felt fingertips trail against her sleeve, but she’d been too quick. Neither of them liked talking to the popular kids, but sometimes when Sam seemed more anxious than her, she ended up being super determined instead. 

Suddenly, the dogshit phone became clean to touch, as Jessica stuffed it in her pocket. 

“Hey, can we have that back please?” she asked, with a big smile plastered in place. 

Silence fell, accompanied by nine amused giggles and a single look of disgust. 

“Did you hear something?” asked the leader. 

“Nothing Jessica,” came the sing-song reply. They said it with a hard ‘jay’ sound at the beginning and an equally hard ‘cuh’ at the end. An announcement instead of a name. She’d struggled for ages with the pronunciation. 

“Please? Sam needs it,” she added, hopefully. 

That was met with a solid wall of disgust. 

“This is hers? Gross,” said Jessica, letting the phone dangle between two fingers, held out at arm's length. 

“She reeks.” 

“Does she even own a shower?” 

“I heard her dad went to prison and they got kicked out of their house.” 

Emilia tried to grab their attention again, but nobody ever listened. 

“My dad said their dad killed someone.” 

“Nah he got arrested in the airport for eating drugs in those little baggies.” 

“Nuh-uh, my cousin said the police caught him after he removed his own ribs so he could suck his-” 

“Can I have the phone please?” Emilia tried again. She was inside the circle now, edging closer and closer as the girls argued with themselves. 

“Can I have the phone please?” mocked Jessica in a high-pitched copy of her voice. 

Suddenly there were eyes all around her, but she kept her own on the cell. Jessica smiled, and she felt that familiar sense of pressure. 

“You know, my daddy says people like you don’t belong here,” Jessica whispered, loud enough for the whole group to hear. 

Up went the smile. Higher and higher. “I really just want the phone back.” 

“And I really just want you to go back where you came from. Is that so hard?” asked Jessica, bathing in the gang’s laughter. She grabbed for it, but Jessica had seen her coming, lifting it just out of reach. 

“If you really want this so badly, you can go fetch it.” 

With that, the cell sailed through the air before smashing into the ground at Sam’s feet. The case flew off one way, the battery came out another. 

She took one look at Sam’s face, scrambling around on the floor as she tried to piece the damaged phone back together. 

A minute later, Jessica was crying out of a black eye, her ears were ringing from all the screaming, and a teacher had dumped her at the principal’s office. 

It was kind of a small office. She always expected it’d be bigger. 

They didn’t see her right away. Apparently, the principal had to go upstairs to deal with something more important. She could guess who they were talking to. 

When they finally came back, twenty-seven minutes later not that she’d been counting or anything, she was presented with a woman who had grey streaks running through her hair like a badger, a suit full of creases, and a very irate expression on a withered face. 

“I must say, I’m disappointed to see you in here, Emilia. I always thought you were such a well-behaved girl.” 

“They stole from my friend.” 

The principal sighed. “Yes, we’ll get to that in a minute. First though, I’d like to hear why you thought punching Ms. Cooper was an appropriate thing to do.” 

“They stole from my friend.” 

Another sigh. “That warrants punching someone?” 

“Well, yeah.” Emilia scratched at her upper arm. 

“And the chip knocked out of Ms. Cooper’s tooth?” 

She rubbed at her wrist. She’d gotten too big for her necklace and had started wearing it as a bracelet instead. The charm might have possibly maybe smacked Jessica in the mouth. 

“I did ask nicely first but they wouldn’t listen,” she said. Nobody ever listened to her. 

The principal arched an eyebrow. “I see.” 

“And she said some... stuff,” she trailed off. 

A slip of laminated paper was drawn across the desk. “Emilia, you know that this school has a zero-tolerance approach to bullying. We asked around upstairs, and everyone who saw you attack Ms. Cooper claimed it was unprovoked.” 

“They’re lying.” 

“Because this is your first time in my office, I’m inclined to think there is more going on here,” said the principal, and Emilia felt her heart lift for the first time since entering the office. 

“But we need to draw boundaries, and we need our students to understand those boundaries, both in and outside of this school. Which is why we had to call your parents.” 

Her heart plummeted into a fissure. Who had they reached? Dad might be okay, he’d just make all the right noises while she had to do extra chores. But if it was the other one... 

The door creaked open, and she froze as the tak tak tak of heels on the linoleum floor echoed around her. 

“Ah Mrs. Muñoz, thank you for joining us.” 

She didn’t dare look up as the shadow of her mother filled the room. Suddenly the urge to explain herself had dried up and vanished. 

Don’t look, don’t look, put the smile back, be happy. By the time the pleasantries had been exchanged, she looked perfect as always. 

“I’m hoping that today’s incident will be an isolated event. Your daughter has been a model student until now,” said the principal, eyes wide and sympathetic. The model student part went straight in the trash, her mother only cared about the negatives. 

“I certainly hope so. Oh Princesa, you know better than this.” 

A snake slithered across her shoulders. She risked a glance at her mother, pulling her in for what might have been hug.  

Even though it was faked, something still hurt in her chest at the contact. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her. 

Her vision went wobbly, and she tried to dab her eyes while the adults discussed what was going to happen to her. She shuddered as someone moved her fingers away, and her mom had a tissue pressed against the tears. 

In the end, it was decided that she’d have to write an apology to Jessica. She could manage that. Even if Jessica didn’t deserve one. It was better than detention. 

They were halfway to the door when the principal delivered the killing stroke. 

“Actually Mrs. Muñoz, would you mind remaining behind for a moment?” 

Her mother gracefully agreed, gently pushing Emilia towards the door. The last thing she heard before it clicked shut was a death sentence. 

“Its about some rather unsettling reports your daughter made when she first started here. Could I trouble you to ask a few questions about her home life?” 

Twenty-seven minutes. That’s how long she had to wait the first time. Now, she counted the seconds. Seven hundred and eighty. 

They felt much, much longer. 

Was it wrong to hope that finally someone would listen? She’d tried doing what she was supposed to, telling anyone and everyone, but they always had another excuse. She was just struggling with the move to America. She was new in town and didn’t get how things worked here. Bad things happened in the past, and that made her tell lies for attention. She spent too much time lost online and in tv shows, so she didn’t know how to communicate with others. Her mother knew all the stories that would explain away her weird daughter and her stupid lies. 

After the teachers had promised they’d look into it six months ago, she’d stopped trying to tell people what was happening. None of them cared. Until now. 

She tried to catch the principal’s eye when the door opened again, but they’d already waved goodbye to her mother and the matter was closed. She didn’t say a word, just followed the tak tak tak out the school gates, through the parking lot, and into a car far nicer than the one Dad had scrounged to buy. 

The car door was hesitant to close. Her mother was checking the rear-view mirror. 

Silently, she shut the door, heard the child lock engage, and felt the sword fall. 

~~~ 

30th March, 2011. Los Angeles, USA.  

She was broken. 

The doctors told her as much. They came by every few hours to check the clip on her finger, and made some notes from the machines humming out of tune. Some of them showed sympathy. Once, they brought a doctor who’d lived back home, and she’d nearly cried when they couldn’t talk in her old language. Too much of it had been beaten out of her. 

Officially, the injuries had been pinned on a mugging. She’d been walking home late at night from a friend’s house when she got caught. The lacerations were from a smashed bottle, the fractures from the struggle, the broken collarbone from being thrown to the ground. 

Some of it wasn’t far off. She had been walking home later than she should have. It was her own fault for not looking at the time. 

When the police came to the hospital, her mother had held her hand and helped fill in the blanks. She’d been on too many painkillers to answer every question, you see. None of them had noticed the pleading look in her eyes. 

She was broken, not just physically. Too many years of throwing up smiles and changing on a dime to keep everyone pleased. She cried when she didn’t mean to, she didn’t feel what other girls were supposed to feel, her emotions were a train crash and she couldn’t get out of the wreckage. 

She didn’t dare turn her head and look at the figure occupying the only chair in the room. Dad’s work barely gave him enough vacation days to attend something so insignificant as his daughter being hospitalised, but the other one's job was all too happy to show that they cared about families. 

The dull feeling of someone jabbing her ribs with a blunted stick was returning. Painkillers must have been wearing off again. She didn’t want another dose but she didn’t get a say in the matter. Already the figure was moving across the room, pressing the little button to call for a nurse. She must have made some kind of pained sound but didn’t remember it. 

A glimpse of perfectly manicured nails trailed through her vision. You almost couldn’t see the bruising through the concealer. 

Maybe it took that long to sink in, or maybe she’d just been fooling herself, but this was going to be her life from now on. Forever watching over her shoulder for the next strike. Smiling and laughing and nodding whenever the tales of her clumsiness sprung up. 

Eventually, they’d be telling that tale at a funeral wracked with crocodile tears. 

Her own mother was going to kill her. 

When the doctor finally arrived, bags under their eyes and a weary grin on their lips, she made her decision. He had to lean in close to check the dosage. Her fingers scrabbled against the coat, not quite strong enough to grip it. He got the message. 

“Anything the matter?” 

She nodded. Her throat was dry. 

“C-could I talk to you in private?” She winced at how feeble her voice sounded. The doctor threw a sidelong glance at the figure, sitting primly in the hospital chair, and made a noise in the back of his throat. 

“One moment,” he sighed. 

Neither side wanted to budge in the argument that followed. The woman insisted that she was a legal guardian and had every right to be here while the doctor repeated the hospital’s privacy guarantees until both were blue in the face. Eventually, she relented after an unsubtle reminder about hospital security, and allowed herself to be ushered out of the room. 

“Now before we go any further, are you comfortable talking to me or would you prefer to speak to a female colleague?” asked her doctor, in a bored monotone. Why would she need- 

Oh. 

“It isn’t that sort of problem,” she murmured. Ultimately, she didn’t really care who she spoke to as long as somebody listened for once. 

“Alright. What is it?” 

She swallowed again. It started as the tiniest admission that the police might not have the right information. After that it all came spilling out like a flood. Through it all the doctor made reassuring noises, nodding in the right places, and for once she hoped that the story had made it through. 

Instead, he took another look at the machines lining her bedside. He seemed very interested in the IV drip. 

“Well, let me tell you now, you’re going to be okay,” he said automatically. Constant empty reassurances as he tapped away on the call button. A nurse burst into the room shortly afterwards, carrying a new bag filled with liquid. 

“I know this must have been scary for you, and we can only apologise for missing this. I promise we’ll get it sorted out,” said the doctor, carefully adjusting the IV. Her head felt fuzzy. 

“Your mother mentioned your allergies to certain painkillers, but the ICU team missed the memo. We’ll fix this, you just rest up.” 

No. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. The door swung on its hinges as the doctor and the nurse started a hushed argument. She didn’t have an allergy. Did she? School thought she was a compulsive liar, but the medical records would show otherwise- 

Except she hadn’t filled those in. Her parents had, when they’d emigrated here. They’d done it again whenever they moved. The originals went up in flames years ago. 

Then it had been her who came to the hospital, fresh with a story about a mugging. All the forms would have been completed by a guardian, and everybody in the state loved the intelligent, stylish woman who so bravely raised a hellion of a daughter. They wouldn’t think twice about a young girl developing a new allergy. 

The door creaked on its hinges, and the grim reaper circled her bed once more. 

Nobody listened. Nobody cared about what happened to one more little girl. She’d end up on the news like those men and women they found in the back of the truck, and parents all over the county would tut and judge without bothering to hear her side of the story. 

Nobody listened. 

Nobody cared. 

Nobody was coming to rescue her. 

She was going to die, and she couldn’t get away from her executioner. 

Emilia slept, and dreamt of stars. 

~~~ 

24th July, 2011  

Fuck everyone. 

Her foot connected with the already dented can and sent it spiralling down the road. The rain pattered off the metal as it skidded into a storm drain and fell out of sight. 

Amp looked at the empty streets, devoid of anyone save her, and returned to her slouch. Fuck everyone and everything. 

How stupid could she be? Of course heroes weren’t all sunshine and bunnies. She knew that, she’d been a fan for long enough to see the cracks that the Protectorate were too slow to patch up. Bastion hurling abuse at a little kid, leaked footage of Snaptrap threatening his own director, the whole drug thing that Fidelis got wrapped up in, she knew they weren’t all perfect. Her own mother was involved with the PRT, of course she knew they weren’t perfect. 

But she’d always hoped that it was just a few bad apples in the bunch. How could it not be, when every website and paper and teevee channel in the country was filled with their heroics? For every one Slamdunk being a bit too coarse in interviews, there were a hundred Chevaliers cleaning up the city streets. 

But it was deeper than that. Corporate teams were a façade for villains, waving at the crowd with one hand and stabbing a sacrificial knife through civilians with the other. The entire Protectorate had given up on even trying to fight back. Lying through their teeth was a better alternative than doing what was right. She was really growing to hate that A-word. 

How far did it go? She’d heard of the Elite in little snippets of conversation, or on posts from across the country. She’d have to scour the forums, pull some of them together to see just how far their reach went. Even now their gargantuan faces leered down at her from billboards and on bus shelters. Try our new lactose-free milkshake, sponsored by a murderer. 

If the Protectorate had lied about this, what else had they lied about? 

Thousands of cheering faces looked up at her, lit by the neon shine of amusements on a pier, and she felt sick. Had there really been a fake video, or was something else going on at that quarantine zone? 

It was making her head spin. Her bag banged against her spine, and the sickness grew. 

Of course nobody would build something for her out of the goodness of their hearts. Prints of her fingers were still embedded in the pouch’s material where she’d wrestled it off and thought about throwing it from a bridge. 

Would have been a waste of money. This way she could sell the camera back. 

A blast of air-conditioning hit her in the face, followed by a small chime. She’d wandered into some twenty-four hour store run by a guy not much older than her, eyes ringed red as he stared off into space. 

That special world in her head full of heroes and villains didn’t feel so special anymore. The safe place where she could escape from it all had fallen apart. Apparently being a hero didn’t involve saving the day or rescuing people. It involved being fucking miserable in a gas station at one in the morning while wondering if she had enough pocket change for an energy drink riddled with warning labels. 

No. She didn’t. Because she’d spent it all on a cab ride across the city to chase that gigantic jerk. 

“Hey,” came the call from the register. Amp glared back. Perks of a mask, she didn’t ever have to smile unless she wanted to. 

“You can just take that. If you want. On the house,” said the clerk, listlessly pointing to the can in her hand before returning to the television above the counter. 

“...Thanks,” she muttered. 

“We’re proud to support local heroes,” he said, motioning to one of the many stickers placed in the window. “Company policy.” 

She raised the can in gratitude and slunk off into the night. Company policy. Surprised that she couldn’t see the puncture wounds from the Elite’s claws. 

Reluctantly, she conceded that it wasn’t the Elite she was mad about. Not really. 

Part of her hesitantly admitted that the evil conspiracy made some sense, in a twisted way. There were more villains than heroes, far far more, and she’d seen what became of places where the balance was broken. She thought of home, and the cartoonishly evil hellscape it warped into since they’d left. 

No, what she was really mad about was him. The stupid, arrogant, lying green jerk. 

He was the biggest jerk around, and he was a douche, and an ass, and the only hope she’d had for so fucking long that it hurt so much worse when he turned out like that. 

Her legs buckled against a recessed doorway, sliding down to the sidewalk. Her mask stuck to her skin as she peeled the bottom up. The rest of her insults drowned in a sea of caffeine and sugar. 

When she surfaced for air, she held up the edge of her crummy cape outfit and screamed into her shirt. The stupid pattern stared back. 

It didn’t feel good. But the anger was gone. All that was left was a feeling of numbness. 

The one person in her life who ever listened, and he’d turned out like that.  

Dad cared but he was always so busy with work and whenever he tried help it made things worse.  She’d tried making friends, but that was hard as hell with all the moves. Teachers hadn’t listened, doctors hadn’t, the cops had arrested some repeat offender and pinned her ‘mugging’ on him. Made things nice and simple. 

Every attempt she made at being heard went wrong. The channel she’d built online was barely watched by anyone outside of die-hard cape fans, and they were only interested in more capes. They didn’t give a shit about her problems. Using it to build a reputation so that a corporate team would take her was dead in the water after tonight. The Wards would have been perfect, but she couldn’t risk them with the PRT connection. 

She’d wanted to be heard, and failing that, she’d wanted the money to get the hell away from her parents. Start anew. 

How stupid could she have been? She barely remembered what happened that day. Maybe she’d imagined Eidolon listening to her when she’d told the Endbringer to go away. Maybe the only person who ever paid attention had been a dream all along. 

Rain splattered against the gutters. At least it wasn’t dripping on her head any longer. 

Where did that leave her? The cape mafia knew where she lived. As if the house needed to be any less enticing. Dad was away with work for a few days, maybe she could beg him to move out of the state when he returned. Somewhere that didn’t have fake heroes on every surface. 

She’d text him later. From her actual phone that was currently tucked up in bed. She’d bought this one off of Sam years ago and kept everything cape-related on it. 

Part of her wondered what Sam was up to these days, or if she even remembered the weird girl who liked superhero video games. 

Someone hurried down the other side of the street, ducking under an umbrella. She didn’t move until they were long gone. God she was pathetic. Heroes were supposed to be brave; she’d promised herself she’d be brave, but one look from Agnes Court and she’d felt like she was home again with her mother bearing down. 

Then again, heroes were supposed to be a lot of things. They weren’t supposed to lie even if it made others feel better. They definitely weren’t supposed to abandon people. Didn’t matter how fucked up the system was under the surface, that was always true. 

Her phone chimed, and she flicked through the webpages without paying any attention to the words. So many capes, all rotten to the core. Local news, local bullshit... 

Until her thumb juddered over a picture she sworn she’d seen elsewhere. She had to scroll back up to see the woman waving at a camera, clearly exhausted but happy with their friends. Captions underneath were requesting any information about her whereabouts. 

It took a moment for her rotten brain to connect the waving woman with the secrets she’d unearthed this evening, but there it was. A missing poster advertising Acidbath’s first victim. 

Anya. That was the dead girl’s name. The Elite had thrown her away and the Protectorate didn’t care, but at least she knew. 

Down the rabbit hole she went, finding appeals on social media for any information about Anya’s whereabouts. Friends saying where she might have been. She’d liked to play tennis and only drank black coffee and hated summer. 

Now she was gone. 

Maybe Eidolon had been right. Maybe the heroes were stretched too thin and this was the best they could do. Maybe they couldn’t save everyone. 

Or maybe he’d been so full of shit that he couldn’t see daylight. 

Heroes do not abandon others. Yes, she’d learned it from cartoons and movies but that didn’t make it wrong. 

Because if he was right then they should have buried her back home. 

But she was here. Armed with a half-charged phone, a drone that represented everything she hated, and an empty can of drink. 

Nobody else was going to do anything. Nobody else cared. 

Agnes Bitch and her Bitch Brigade had already killed once. She’d heard their plans, an ambush at a studio. Would they even bother getting people out safely first? 

She couldn’t trust them to. She couldn’t even trust him to do it. Not anymore. 

So it fell to her. She could listen. Be there to stop anyone else falling through the cracks. 

She could do this. She could definitely do this. She was a hero, no matter what anybody else said. 

Anya might be gone, but she wouldn’t let it happen again. 

Sparky took flight once again, and she sent her soaring back into the city with a flick of her wrist. South Hollywood they’d said. She knew the area. Sparky could narrow down the exact location on the way. 

She wasn’t a failure. She could do this. 

Shaking off the rain, she took in a breath, crushed the can, and stood tall under the streetlight’s glare. Never let them see you at anything less than your best. 

Amp hit the ground running, sprinting back the way she’d come, one eye on her drone’s camera all the way. 

Chapter Text

Brooding. That’s what Hero accused me of doing too much. He’d understood the weight of what we did better than anyone, but he still found time to crack wise about it. I might have been the strongest, but he was the engineer. Everyone expected him to build the solution to their problems, yet that didn’t stop him from making time to lift everyone’s spirits first.  

He’d been right, of course. He often was. But I didn’t have much to laugh about these days.  

Los Angeles had lost its lustre remarkably quickly, even as I watched from my usual perch high above the city. Those thousands of lights didn’t seem quite so enthralling twenty-four hours later. Millions of souls blessed with another day, Court’s troupe had Acidbath in hand, and I’d followed the Doctor’s orders to the letter. A success on all counts.  

What did those feel like, again?  

The forcefield roiled beneath me, requiring a moment’s thought to settle. My legs were rooted in place, held aboard a tiny sliver of invisible energy thousands of feet above the buildings. A dancing monkey in the sky, watch him sign autographs as civilians die.  

It was a debate I’d heard from the Wards which sprung to mind. Every now and then, one of them would argue they could accomplish more out on the streets instead of attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies and hand-holding events with the general public. The response had been a very confused, “Do what on the streets?” followed by a reminder that Houston didn’t attract much parahuman crime on account of the obvious.  

They were old, rehashed arguments, but they still knocked on my door. The actions versus image debate had long been settled, with both being valuable in their own way. It had taken considerably longer for me to come to terms with the fact that when we did act, we couldn’t save everyone. Even if every hero, doctor, and firefighter never needed to sleep, we’d still lose some. That was realistic.  

I just wished it didn’t have to be so many.  

There were no easy answers here. Capes of all sorts across the nation were already committed in preserving the fragile peace we’d won. Maintaining that peace, keeping the veneer that this wasn’t all about to fall apart, that was meaningful.  

It was also the most we could achieve without something significant changing.  

Something like me.  

The Doctor had advised controlled risks. Little changes for a greater effect. Sitting around in Houston wasn’t a risk, it was stagnation. Even if it flew in the face of her orders, didn’t it make more sense for me to be out here contributing?  

Contributing by lying to the world while lives were spent in secret. As much as I’d tried to avoid thinking about her, Amp’s words kept driving home.  

We couldn’t save everyone, but that didn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Which raised disconcerting questions. Had I given up? Had she been right? Was it too late to change things?  

Two years. Would a little risk now really make a difference?  

Would it help those below sleep a little sounder at night?  

I let the forcefield drift on the wind, lost in thought on a chariot pulled along by air currents.  

Had we gone down the wrong path? Too focused on the end that we’d forgotten the route we should have taken to get there?  

Beneath me, the world had gotten a little brighter. The lights of several movie studios filming night time scenes blazed below.  

Technically, I was still following the Doctor’s orders not to interfere, but I couldn’t think of where else to go. The streets felt too confined. Up here, I could watch as the Elite did my job. Living vicariously through the heroism of others.  

Even at this late hour, there were people milling around, coffee runners jogging across lots or irate producers having long-winded conversations through their headsets. Half a dozen windowless buildings filled the space, each containing various sound stages for the newest blockbusters. The larger ones had solar panels plastered across the top. My forcefield dipped for a better view.  

I’d looked for Court’s followers, but the only people I’d seen in costume were actors. Although my observations had raised some concerns about her trap. The logic was sound, evacuating might tip off Acidbath and the allure of powerful, famous women surrounding the one who caused his downfall would be irresistible to someone like him. Still, it didn’t sit right that they were putting so many in danger for this. There were easier ways to contain him.  

Easier for me, perhaps. But I wasn’t on the board any longer. Maybe this was the best they could do with the capes at their disposal.  

I didn’t linger on that line of thought. Trying to figure out the Elite’s schemes always led back to prestige and wealth. Worthless trifles.  

The steady hiss of evaporating raindrops marked my movements as I dropped lower and lower, trying to avoid the questions that refused to stop hounding me.  

Should I be doing more? Was it worth the trade off? I’d had my doubts about facing the enemy before. Since then, it had been loss after loss. Echidna was undoubtedly a loss. I’d survived against String Theory, more than any other person could have managed, but that wasn’t enough for a victory. Freedom felt like a failure even though I’d accomplished the mission.  

Always that little doubt in the back of my mind, a need to restrain myself, draining the well in drips instead of floods. Perhaps that had been misguided.  

Was it maybe better for me to do as much as good as I could now, before I was entirely devoid of power? Leave the golden man to Cauldron, and save those who could spend the next two years preparing to fight him instead?  

Images of the pier flashed through my mind. Savouring that feeling, that I had been the one to make that celebration happen. I could dedicate the rest of my life to making those moments occur. Forging a stronger peace, a more joyous and hopeful one, seizing the remainder of the escapees so that the rest of the world could breathe easily.  

There was no need to stop there. Other lingering threats that there had never been the time to deal with, I could bring them in. Corral the Ash Beast, dismantle the Blasphemies. If we really were cashing in the chips, then Cauldron would want variables like that monitored at the very least. Ensure they made it to the end. Two birds with one stone, gilding the remainder of this earth’s time and keeping potential weapons secure.  

I’d have to be an independent, that much was clear by now. But I could do it. Work with the Protectorate against the larger problems, and spend the remainder of my days salvaging what little happiness I could for others.  

Followed by a blaze of glory against the enemy. A better legacy than I could hope for.  

If it would only affect me, I might have tried it already.  

What was the correct call? I could seek guidance, but who was left to offer it?  

The Doctor would advise staying the course. Cauldron’s plans weren’t perfect, but they’d accomplished considerably more than anyone else could have. Father Prescott would likely regale me with a parable about crossroads. But the Doctor had brought me to this juncture, and while religion was a balm it did little to solve the issue.  

That was it. Two people. Neither option appealed, but there was no-one else left to ask. The others had turned their backs, or they were gone.  

I rubbed the metal in my palm. I knew what she’d tell me to do.  

My thoughts coiled around me so tightly that at first, I failed to notice the increasing stream of people moving through the parking lot. The scene must have finished shooting.  

I wondered what they would choose, if our positions were reversed. If one of them had to be up here, and I was down there. Would they have buckled under the strain already? Could they have done a better job?  

Doubtful. None of them could have made the sacrifices demanded by this life. Too self-absorbed, too oblivious to anything outside their nest.  

That was good, that was how it should be. It meant we’d succeeded. I’d fight to the last to keep it that way. But sometimes, I had to wonder if there was anyone else who could have done better.  

Below, a director was shouting at a stream of interns following him like baby ducks, demanding to know something or other. There was an ear-splitting shriek that dwindled into a muffled rhythm before snapping back again as the studio doors bounced on their hinges. Someone had tripped the fire alarm.  

Perhaps I’d undersold Agnes Court. They knew how to keep a low profile. Clearly an evacuation was on the cards.  

Stragglers stumbled out of the doors, falling into the loose huddles that the sole fire marshal on site was organising. Some of them were yelling incoherently, but their problems weren’t getting through to the senior staff who were still demanding an intern’s soul as penance for setting off an alarm.  

No visible injuries. Nothing that would warrant intervention. Court’s reputation was well-earned.  

Maybe it was the exhaustion that kept me from listening as intently as I should have. Or the trains of thought on a collision course in my mind. Either would explain how I missed the terror underlying those yells.  

I didn’t miss the sirens.  

Suddenly, years of mental conditioning snapped into awareness. Civilians weren’t just startled, they were in shock. Some had their colleague’s arms slung around their shoulders, huddling tightly together. Others were pointing madly at one of the studios, a hundred voices all trying to take charge, demanding that something be done.  

Capes came next, in ones and twos, staggering outside. Some were already prone, gasping for air. A few were shielding what remained of their faces. Others clutched their chest, as melting globules of body armour or suit markings dripped across the concrete. Unsurprisingly, it was the men who were mostly upright. Acidbath had focused his ire on the heroines.  

Most of them were making for a man in blue at the lot’s entrance, whose lower half was a steadily churning whirlpool. That was an accident waiting to happen.  

He yelped as I landed, a tiny splinter of forcefield keeping me above the moisture.  

“Power down.” It wasn’t a request.  

“I say- oh hell.”  

Flashing red and blue lights lit up the night over my shoulder. “Move. You’re blocking the paramedics.”  

“Right. I’ll just... over here is good too.”  

He made to leave. I didn’t let him go.  

“Don't spread the acid around. It needs to be rinsed off completely.”  

Some of the capes stumbled as a late entrant to the party shoved the wounded aside in his hurry to get away. Specular, his immaculate suit slashed through with a diagonal burn, waved me down with a hand laden in blisters.  

“Situation?” I asked, sparing a glance for the whirlpool generator. He’d changed tactics, generating liquid with one hand that disappeared into the other, creating a jump rope of water that cycled out the contaminated fluid. Good.  

“The... the lady of the house... she- alright fuck this. Boss dropped the ball,” he winced, struggling to breathe without the fibres of his suit catching on raw skin. “Said she knew exactly how to deal with this guy and he still caught us with our pants down.”  

“How?” My eyes didn’t leave the crowd. Nobody was watching us. Still in shock, and the emergency services were only just starting to make headway through the chaos.  

“No clue. Doors were watched, floor was reinforced, we had guys checking the drains of all things,” he said, nodding towards the largest studio. “Smarter than we gave him credit for.”  

“I thought she prepared for this.”  

Specular grimaced. “Some of the people we were supposed to have didn’t show up in time. Gut says it’s a coup and one of the other cells are making the most of this.”  

“Court?”  

“Still inside. Leave her to rot. Didn’t even get the damn healer she promised.”  

Acidbath was a sadist, but he was only lethal by exception, rather than by rule. Breaking out of the Birdcage would have been his first chance to let loose in some time. Now though, he’d shaken the rust off and gone back to playing with his food. Specular barely warranted a second look, but it was clear his wounds weren’t fatal. Exceptionally painful, but he’d survive. Healing abilities were too useful to waste on him.  

I turned to face the studio as Specular snarled, latching onto a car with his remaining fingertips and heaving himself upright. He paused at the window, summoning up strength for the final push.  

“Is there anyone left with her?”  

A watery cough turned into a chuckle. “Some. Forget ‘em.”  

The driver’s window began to ripple as Specular heaved himself inwards, back into his unique dimension. Another coughing fit wracked his frame before he could dive in fully. I looked over my shoulder as he paused, seeming to weigh up his options.  

“Hey, if you see her again, tell her I said thanks.”  

"Court?” I asked. Perhaps it was his idea of a farewell.   

Specular hacked out another cough. “Nah, fuck her. I meant that pet you were dragging around earlier. Wouldn’t have made it out otherwise.”  

A chill shot through my veins. Specular looked genuinely grateful.  

“Repeat that.”  

He coughed into his palm, both movements causing a flinch. “Your kid. Busted in just as it went south. Pulled me out.”  

No. She’d left. Gone home. Left all this behind because she couldn’t stay, she was better than this, she-  

“She’s inside?”  

Specular’s lip split as he squirmed. “Who do you think hit the fire alarm?”  

He toppled backwards into his power’s embrace. No more questions. I could argue myself in circles later.  

I was out of time.  

The forcefield threw me into the air, hovering above the lot. Every moment I wasted out here, Amp was fighting Acidbath alone.