Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nothing like a blank white cell.

Invigorating, really. Good for the imagination. Also utterly boring , but Parrot really only could blame himself for that.

He collapsed in the corner after his fourth round of pacing around the room. They constructed the cell out of some material slightly springier than concrete, so any attempts at suicide by backflip wouldn’t work. Not that Parrot would attempt, period. He liked being alive more than he disliked being trapped.

Though, with the long hours stretching on, that seemed prone to changing.

Finally, finally , the door—the singularity of the otherwise infinitely blank room—emitted a soft click. Parrot didn’t bother standing, or lifting his fists, or doing anything to defend himself. If they wanted him dead, he would already be dead. Any rational mind could assume, therefore, that they didn’t want him dead, only vastly bored by the whitewashed not-concrete-ness of this cell.

Yes, things were getting a little unstable in Parrot’s mind if he was letting himself construct triple hyphenated words like not-concrete-ness.

The door opened. A guard stood before it, invisible apart from the body armor they wore. Plates of high-tech synthesized material created the slightest outline of a human.

They didn’t speak. Of course they didn’t—none of them did. Instead, they outstretched a hand (gloved with flexible black gauntlets) and beckoned for Parrot.

Parrot didn’t rise from his seated position. He only leaned back, letting his head tap against the wall.

The guard reached into their holster and drew a sleek black crossbow. The kind with tranquilizer arrows, the kind that got Parrot into here in the first place. The guard beckoned again, firmer this time.

Parrot rose and followed the guard down the blank hallway. Like his cell, it was completely white.

No use making small talk with the guard. They couldn’t speak anyway.

And, logically, it wouldn’t do to antagonize his captors further. That tranquilizer crossbow was always only a hairpin trigger away from lodging a needle in Parrot’s arm.

They took so many turns, Parrot nearly lost track. Nearly . It was difficult, but he managed to keep a sense of direction even amidst the labyrinth of hallways. If this place was designed to confuse him, it failed. It didn’t help that each turn was at a right angle. If Parrot were to design a maze, he would make it full of obtuse and acute turns, multi-hallway intersections, and perhaps even sloping paths—limiting oneself to the 2-d was overrated, really.

Eventually, they came to a stop at the end of a hallway that looked much like the others. A door—that also looked much like the others—greeted Parrot.

The guard pressed their gauntlet to the center of it. A click sounded. Then, the guard stepped aside.

They clearly intended for Parrot to enter. He found no reason to refuse, so he reached for the handle and pushed.

He found himself in another white room. Much like the others.

This room was different though. It was high-ceilinged, at least three regular stories tall (Parrot clocked it at around thirty–five feet). Much like the other rooms, it glowed with hidden illumination, cleverly designed to make every white wall look identical. What wasn’t identical was the setup of three chairs in the center of the room.

They were metal folding chairs. The kind you would find almost anywhere.

Parrot wondered if he should take a seat. He decided to do so, as it didn’t make much difference.

He sat, and he waited.

Time passed. He occupied himself with examining the metal structure of the chairs. Compared to the blankness of his cell, it was enough to interest him for days on end. He’d only gotten halfway through considering the slight unevenness of the legs, when he heard noises.

He froze. Immediately, he snapped to attention, listening with all his ability.

Distant swearing. The scuffling of someone kicking the walls or floor or ceiling. Insults, hurled, muffled occasionally, but clearly insults from the tone of voice (clearly male). Parrot couldn’t make out what , exactly, the insults were yet, but soon the voice became clearer and louder.

“… screw you, screw your little invisible mafia, you can go to hell and die on a—”

The door burst open. Parrot flinched in his seat as something came crashing into the room. The door slammed shut.

“—stupid tranquilizer crossbow. Actually, I’ll drown you in a bucket of milk first, bastard!” the person finished yelling.

Purple hair. Purple eyes. Parrot didn’t recognize this person at all, so he took the liberty of scrutinizing every inch of their appearance.

It was a guy around his age, no older and no younger. His purple hair—so purple it was violent, almost—trended towards messy rather than neat, spiky rather than soft. It was a little over-long, like he forgot to cut it. His purple eyes darted about the room very rapidly, narrowed and taking everything in. He wore a plain purple hoodie and jeans, something so extraordinarily normal that it made Parrot do a double take.

Just as quickly as Parrot finished taking in the newcomer, he finished examining Parrot as well. Deciding—evidently—that he had nothing against him, the newcomer hurled himself at the door, aggressively cranking the handle. When that didn’t work, he started kicking the door furiously.

Parrot’s eyebrows shot up as he refrained from audibly gasping. The newcomer actually made a slight dent in the metal of the door, but nothing more.

Alright, how strong is he? Parrot thought. Is he superhuman?

After that dent, the door didn’t budge. A litany of swears and curses (terribly inappropriate and exceedingly creative—Parrot had never heard someone threaten to use a bucket of milk in so many ways before) fell from his mouth.

Silence met his insults. The newcomer turned to face Parrot.

“Who the hell are you?” the newcomer said shortly.

“I’m known as Parrot. I think we’re in the same boat here,” Parrot said slowly. He didn’t want to antagonize this madman who swore like a sailor and punched like a bullet.

The newcomer observed Parrot for a moment, then moved abruptly. He crossed the room, standing behind the second chair. “I’m known as Wemmbu. Are these for us?”

“Not just us. I’d assume there’s a third person coming.”

Wemmbu stared at the chair for a long, long time. Enough to make Parrot think he had suddenly fallen asleep while standing or something.

Suddenly, he picked up the chair. With one fluid motion, he hurled it at the opposite wall.

Bang .

The wall remained undamaged. The chair clattered to the floor, crumpled in an unrecognizable shape.

Was that to intimidate me? Parrot thought. If so, consider me intimidated.

This guy was definitely superhuman.

Wemmbu defiantly took a seat on the floor, right where the chair had once been. He clearly had a rebellious streak, or anger issues, or both.

“Did they kidnap you too?” Parrot asked, deciding to approach the matter with caution.

“Damn right they did,” Wemmbu seethed. He ran a hand irritably through his hair. “Jumped me right in the street. I killed two of them before they shot me with that bastard of a crossbow.”

Oh, ok. No moral opposition against killing, Parrot noted.

He made no more conversation. If Wemmbu was here, that meant he was in the same class of person as Parrot. And that meant Parrot should shut up and ask no more questions.

The silence didn’t last long. After several minutes, the door opened and shut again.

Parrot and Wemmbu both turned to look. Parrot froze.

This newcomer needed no introduction. Parrot recognized his curly black hair, devilish smile, and milky white eyes. The rainbow paint streaked messily across his black combat clothes only confirmed what Parrot already knew. You’d have to be stupid not to recognize one of the most wanted civil terrorists in the nation.

“Spoke?” Wemmbu said.

That’s definitely his name, Parrot thought grimly. So he was stuck in here with a madman and a madman. Brilliant. He might have taken his boring cell over this.

“Oh, is that me?” Spoke cackled. With a bounce in his step, he waltzed over to the crumpled hunk of metal that had once been a chair.

Parrot watched him in fascination. So did Wemmbu, with a healthy dose of evaluation.

Humming, Spoke carefully balanced the damaged chair on top of his own. Then, he clambered up and sat on top of both, like some kind of insane throne.

“So,” Parrot said hesitantly, “we’re two for two on kidnapping right now. Were you… taken as well?”

“Oh, yeah,” Spoke said blithely. “Bad luck, right?”

Suddenly, an echoing, screeching voice resonated through the room. “ More than bad luck, I’d say. ”

Parrot clapped his hands over his ears, wincing. The voice triggered the fight or flight response in his brain, horrible and grating and entirely inhuman. It sounded warped, like someone had transmitted it through a black hole and tried to play it on stereo. It was a thousand screaming people at once, compressed and jammed into one voice. It came from all angles of the room, loud and echoing.

Wemmbu’s face twisted in pain as well. Spoke tilted his head, his expression remaining smiley, but a shudder ran through his entire body, rocking his unsteady throne.

“What the—” Wemmbu began.

“ Hello Parrot, Wemmbu, Spoke. ”

The voice had receded to a manageable level of… horribleness . Now it just sounded like fifty smokers speaking at the same time, but with a screaming goat in their midst as well.

“Who are you?” Parrot asked, jumping at the chance for answers. If this person was speaking, they weren’t under the invisibility oath.

A chuckle. Or what Parrot thought was a chuckle. He was really relying on context clues; it sounded more like a beached whale.

“ I’m known as the Director. Isn’t that the way your types say it? ”

That told Parrot precious little, but he quickly set to work analyzing it. This person knew they were criminals. “I’m known as,” was a phrase only the underworld used—because no one would dare to share their real names. So sobriquets did the job. That meant the person was also not a criminal themselves, judging from how they said, “ your types .” But they had enough knowledge of criminals to say that with confidence.

Of course, they could be lying. Playing the game on a higher level, phrasing things like that to make Parrot think they were someone they weren’t. But Parrot didn’t think so. He played the game on the highest level.

That, and they had blatantly just nicknamed themselves the Director.

“The Director of the ASC,” Parrot guessed.

A pause.

“ Tsk-tsk. That took you a while to figure out. ”

I did that very quickly , Parrot thought in indignation. He would bet that very few people could deduce this was the Director of the Association for Superhuman Control based on just context clues.

“Hiding behind a voice-changer is for cowards,” Wemmbu said loudly and rudely. “If you had the audacity to jump me on the street, you’d better have the audacity to get over here and fight me yourself.”

Another laugh. “ Patience, Wemmbu. Your provocations won’t work this time. ”

“Why are we here?” Spoke asked cheerily.

“ Ask your compatriot, Parrot. I’m sure he can deduce .”

And yes, unfortunately, Parrot could deduce. His mind was running wild now that he knew they were under the captivity of the ASC.

“The Association for Superhuman Control would only take us for one reason,” he said flatly. “Because we—all three of us—have been out of control. And they’re here to deliver justice.”

“ I’m disappointed. Use that IQ. Your crimes warrant a death sentence, you know, no matter your age. If we wanted justice, why wouldn’t we just kill you? ”

The Director was leading Parrot along, and he hated it. It didn’t change the fact that he was right. Why were they here?

“You can’t kill us without a fair trial,” Parrot accused.

“ That might have been true ten years ago. Times are different now. If you pose a big enough threat to national security… I can do anything I want. ”

Parrot felt his blood run cold. He didn’t know enough about Wemmbu—but Spoke and him definitely fell in that category. And that meant they were at the mercy of the Director.

“But you won’t kill us. You want us alive,” Parrot said. He stopped there, racking his brain for the reason as to why the ASC might want them alive. Context clues weren’t enough. He came up blank.

“ Parrot, ” the Director said. “ A promising young man to most. Graduated top of your high school class, on your way to the top of your university class as well. Also the singular most wanted hacker in our nation. The classified file leaks, the government shutdown, the offshoring of billions of dollars—that was you. ”

Parrot shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Wemmbu and Spoke’s eyes. This Director knew his file inside and out.

“ Wemmbu, the opposite. A failure. The companions we interviewed consider you to be a deranged conspiracy theorist in need of an institution. Unbeknownst to them, the killer of over fifty government officials in your search for… what was it? The greater truth? What a noble cause. Also in resistance to registration and arrest, which is considerably less noble.”

Parrot’s eyes widened a fraction as he considered Wemmbu in a new light. He sat sulkily on the ground, glaring at the white walls with so much hatred, Parrot wouldn’t be surprised if they cracked. He was one of those superhumans—the rogue kind, the lone mavericks who refused to play by the rules.

“ And Spoke. I don’t think I need to list your crimes. You’ve been very entertaining. ”

“Thanks for that!” Wemmbu gritted out. “Now tell us, why the hell are we here?”

“ Patience, didn’t I tell you? ”

“You can take your patience and shove it up your—”

The Director continued speaking over Wemmbu’s string of swears. “ All of you are young. Spoke exceptionally so; if you weren’t still considered a child in the eyes of the law, you would be headed straight for the gallows. And you know how the public loves to call for the redemption of promising young men. ”

“Redemption,” Parrot said dryly. “Is that why we’re here?”

His mind was working at a million miles per hour. If they’re talking so much about redemption, they want to redeem us somehow. Make a public example of us. Only, I’m not sure how they plan to accomplish that…

“ Yes. Three ex-villains, who know the underworld inside and out, who are still young and therefore malleable. You’re perfect to be redeemed. But, you’ll have to earn it. ”

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Parrot saw where this was heading, and he didn’t like it.

“ From this day onwards, all three of you are members of a special attack unit under the ASC’s direct supervision. With your experience in wrongdoing, you will catch other wrongdoers. You will be examples. You will be good citizens. You will be redeemed. ”

Wemmbu stared at the ceiling with abject horror, like being a good citizen was the worst thing in the world.

“ And if any one of you doesn't comply ?” the Director said. “ Then, redemption is clearly a futile cause. And all three of you will die. ”

The voice of ASC god was henceforth silent, and spoke no more. The room was quiet. Boring. Blank. Much like the others.

Chapter Text

As soon as they exited the room, Wemmbu bit one of the guards.

That ensued in a scuffle which Parrot was, unwillingly, caught up in. Two bruises and the nasty lingering effects of a chokehold later, the three of them continued down the hallway in magnetic handcuffs.

They were the kind that Parrot couldn’t lock-pick, because they had no lock. They relied on a special lodestone to remain secure and heavy around his wrists. The only way to open them would be with the matching magnetic device, which Parrot didn’t see any of.

It seemed like a reasonable safety measure, but Parrot saw beneath the surface level. He and Spoke hadn’t done anything; the guards had simply moved to apprehend Wemmbu, and they had been in the way. It was Wemmbu who acted out.

But all three of them were punished for it.

Parrot would need to ascertain the moral compasses of his new squad members, and fast . He was still reeling from the shock of it all, but he hadn’t survived this far by being dumb. He would do what he did best—think.

Spoke was clinically insane, he decided. He couldn’t rely on him to care for other people’s well-being, but he didn’t seem like he was about to revolt either. Parrot decided he was safe—for now.

Wemmbu was an issue. Either he was dumb and didn’t realize that a collective punishment system was being implemented, or he did realize and he just didn’t care.

“Wemmbu,” Parrot said, as they followed the guards to ASC god-knew-where. “If I were to stab a guard right now—”

One of the invisible guards stopped and rotated their head to look at him.

“—hypothetically, of course. If I did that, they would stab me back.”

The guard kept walking. Wemmbu glared at Parrot, his brows knitted in confusion and irritation.

“Then they would stab Spoke. Then you,” Parrot said. An edge entered his voice. “Do you get it?”

Wemmbu’s purple gaze narrowed very slightly. He said nothing.

I think that’s the best I’m going to get.

Hopefully, Wemmbu would refrain from doing anything dumb now. But Parrot wouldn’t count on it; he had long learned not to rely on other people being smart.

As they reached a four-way intersection, a guard took Parrot’s arm. Parrot flinched, but resisted from punching the guard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wemmbu stiffen at the touch of a different guard, but not lash out.

Good. That means he understands, then.

And just like that, the three of them proceeded down three different hallways.

They couldn’t be going back to Parrot’s cell. They were headed in an easterly direction (Parrot had assigned north to the wall of his cell which contained the door), not south, which was the way back.

They stopped at a metal door much like the others. The guard unlocked it with their hand. Parrot took the cue to step through.

This room was much like the others. White walls. Regular ceiling height. Although, there was a desk and two chairs in the middle. A person occupied the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

“Hello,” they said, with a rather flat inflection. They weren’t invisible, thankfully. They wore this horrible-looking green hat, not thankfully. “I’m Luigi. I’ll be your Public Media Consultant. Please take a seat.”

“They want me to play nice for the cameras?” Parrot said, sitting.

Luigi nodded. He seemed like a poor choice for a Public Media Consultant, because he couldn’t even make eye contact with Parrot. “Relatively.”

He launched into an explanation of what would happen next. There were three stations Parrot needed to go through, before he would be deemed presentable to the public. Then, he would immediately be leaving this place—which was the basement of a high-security ASC base—along with Wemmbu and Spoke, followed by a camera crew. They wouldn’t leave the ASC base entirely, but they would move to a different building for their new site of permanent residence (which, hopefully, wouldn’t look like a mental asylum).

It wouldn’t be live news. Of course they didn’t trust them enough for that. But they would be cutting select clips to show the public later, and they wanted them to look harmless and subdued.

Luigi didn’t say that part out loud, but Parrot got the vibe.

Luigi proceeded to tell Parrot exactly what to expect, exactly what to do, and exactly what to say. There were so many rules, it made Parrot’s head spin.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t glare, especially. Don’t smile too much. Don’t frown. Don’t say anything about how you got here.

If anyone asks you anything, say that you are grateful for the chance at redemption.

Don’t give the impression that you are anything but a youthful person who has made some mistakes.

“For the record,” Parrot said, “I think this is a horrible idea.”

Luigi cracked a smile at that. “There is no record for what goes on in the basement level of ASC, but I will keep that in mind.”

And if that wasn’t disturbing enough, he added that they would face consequences if they stepped out of line during the filming. He said this with a bit of a dry note, which made Parrot think that Luigi might not like the idea of consequences either. It read less as a threat, and more of a warning.

“Thank you,” Parrot said, as his time with Luigi ended. He seemed like he was genuinely trying to help Parrot, rather than catch him in some kind of gotcha .

The guard led him back into the hallways. They took several turns. At one point, they crossed paths with Wemmbu, and Parrot burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Wemmbu shot him a nasty glare. “Shut it,” he growled.

“You—bro, how much did you annoy the stylist?” Parrot laughed, pointing to the new buzzcut that Wemmbu had. They had chopped all his hair off, leaving him looking rather like a purple tennis ball.

“Shut up !” he snarled.

The guard prodded Parrot to keep moving. Parrot did so, laughing all the while.

Sadly, he didn’t get to see the brilliant person who cut Wemmbu’s hair next. He found himself surrounded by a flock of stylists, who were discussing how to make him look as innocent and non-threatening as possible. Parrot stood perfectly still as they examined him, looking longingly at a rack of clothes. Those would make fantastic weapons, if he was inclined to violent outbursts. Sadly, he actually had a moral opposition to killing, so he wouldn’t murder his stylists. They were, after all, only doing their jobs.

They settled on putting him in a fuzzy teal sweater that was so absurdly non-dangerous, even Parrot would be fooled into thinking he was a librarian or something. The illusion was reinforced by khakis and round glasses.

He crossed paths with Spoke as he was heading to the hairstylist as well, with a bit of disappointment and relief. Spoke’s hair was tamed but not buzzed, which meant that he didn’t look that funny, but which also meant that Parrot didn’t have to fear getting all his hair chopped off either.

He gave his compliments to the stylist on Wemmbu’s new haircut. Apparently, he’d been particularly rude. Hence the buzz. The stylist mostly left Parrot’s brown hair alone, giving it a trim and gelling it a bit.

And just like that, he was camera-ready.

It was more excitement than Parrot had experienced in hours. He had almost gone insane, being stuck in that little white cell with nothing to occupy him but that stupid metal door. It had only been a few hours, but still, a few hours was a long time when there was physically nothing in the room.

The guard produced the device that briefly unlocked his manacles. He was permitted to use the restroom and splash some water on his face with strict orders not to mess up his hair. Then the handcuffs went back on, and he went to the stairs.

It was a long staircase. Parrot found him in a group with Wemmbu and Spoke again. It was a shame the stylists didn’t give them any outfits Parrot could laugh at. Wemmbu was still in his hoodie, and Spoke had simply been put in a white dress shirt and black slacks (boring).

The reality of their situation set in as they climbed step after step. Parrot wasn’t going to die (he really had thought he might, for a moment). No, he was being given a chance at redemption . What a silly thing.

But good for me , Parrot thought privately. I need to play along for now, then get out and use that offshored government money to get me on a plane to the furthest reaches of this world.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, even Spoke was looking a little less cheerful. “We couldn’t have taken the elevator?” he grumbled, the first reasonable thing Parrot had ever heard him say.

“ASC bases don’t have elevator shafts,” Wemmbu said. “They’re a security hazard.”

How in the world does he know that?

One guard opened the metal door. One stepped through first. The third herded Parrot, Spoke, and Wemmbu through the door as well.

So many colors.

The concrete walls here were grey, but imperfections made them slightly blue in some places, slightly green in some others. Not blindingly white. A little dirty and cracked too. It was sensory bliss. Parrot smelled smoke; the air in the basement level was tasteless.

The hallway forked. They went to the left. Two turns, a door, and Parrot could suddenly see sky.

It was brilliantly, brilliantly blue. Actually, it was a middling feather grey, but it seemed bluer than any memory to Parrot.

Captivity had a funny way of making the urge to be free that much stronger. The manacles were much heavier on his hands now.

They were in a true, classic ASC compound. Bare grounds of flattened dirt. Blocky concrete buildings, with a slight attempt at doric columns that failed miserably. Electric fence. Miles of similarly flat, ugly buildings outside—the less secure parts of the base. Only the heart, the most important buildings were fenced off.

And there was the camera crew. A couple of people who looked very stressed, mounted with heavy camera sets that captured the faces of criminals in 4k. One had a microphone. “Hey,” they said, clearly trying to be friendly. They fell in line with Parrot as they walked. “How are you?”

“Tired,” Parrot said, feeling like that was the safest option. He was tired. Hopefully they wouldn’t put that in the video, it was rather boring.

“Yeah. How do you feel?”

“Grateful.”

“Grateful for what?”

And off Parrot went, parroting the things Luigi had told him to say. It was stupid, but he must have talked enough, because the interviewer quickly moved on to Wemmbu.

Parrot cringed internally at Wemmbu’s standoffish attitude. That wouldn’t do at all. He talked like he was cussing them out, even when he wasn’t swearing. But it had that tone.

Thankfully, Wemmbu passed with minimal confrontation. The interviewer knew when to cut their losses. They came to Spoke, shoving a mic in his face (which was very awkward to do while waking; it nearly hit him). “What are you thinking about?” the interviewer asked.

How grateful I am to have a second chance, Parrot recited in his mind.

And then, just then, because nothing could possibly go right for once in his life—

“Oh, about how I’m going to blow this place up,” Spoke said pleasantly.

Shoot.

Immediately, a foot on Parrot’s back knocked the air out of his lungs. He toppled to the ground, sprawling in the dirt. His handcuffs slammed into the packed earth, then slammed into his collarbone. Pain shot through his body.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but the boot of the guard dug deeper into his back, pinning him down. The tip of a syringe tapped against his neck, touching his skin but not breaking it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tranquilizer crossbow, poised perfectly to shoot him.

Parrot held his breath, his eyes watering, trying not to choke on the dust. He counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

He got to twenty–four before the pressure on his back released and the crossbow disappeared.

Parrot struggled to his feet. There was dirt all over his teal sweater.

The guards kept them moving. The message was clear. Talk back, make threats, and you get a tranquilizer to the neck.

He stole a glance at Spoke. He was still smiling, but it had taken on a certain edge, like the toothy grin of a great white shark.

Idiot? No. Selfish? Plausibly. Crazy?

Crazy , Parrot decided. Absolute deranged maniac. Get me out of here already.

The camera crew disappeared after that. They walked on in silence.

Now that Parrot was observing the compound and not the interviews, he had time to create a mental map of it. They had just come out of a low building which resembled an overlarge car. They seemed to be headed for one at the furthest end of the compound, which was considerably taller than the rest.

The place was swarming with invisible guards. As such, it was also completely silent.

Parrot had to appreciate the genius of whoever created the oath of invisibility. It was a truly effective psychological system to maintain absolute obedience and reduce the chances of betrayal to approximately zero (though nothing could ever be absolutely zero, of course).

Eventually, they made it to the tall building, entering through the front entrance. There was no ceremony to the room; just a high-ceilinged lobby with concrete floors, walls, and ceilings. A single desk stood imposingly at the center of the room for a receptionist, but no one sat there at the moment.

The disadvantages of getting thrown around by invis guards was that no one had the voice to explain anything. They just prodded and pushed them up a stairwell, climbing until they were at the fifth floor.

They came to a metal door, much like the others. A guard unlocked it. Then, without any warning, Parrot was shoved through with the two others into his new home.

Gray ceilings. Gray floors—oh, joy, there was a threadbare carpet. It looked somewhat like a regular apartment (goodness, Parrot missed his dorm), but much more depressing.

“Alright,” Wemmbu said, as soon as the door shut. “How are we getting out of here?”

Chapter Text

The first thing Parrot did was check for cameras. He found three—and he knew they were the only three, because they were everywhere he would put a camera. One obvious location, one non-obvious, and then one just because most people would stop looking after two. He covered all of these without truly breaking them (because he suspected that might warrant punishment). Parrot actually looked for a fourth one, but he concluded there wasn’t a fourth one, because the spot where he would put it (buried in the knots of the carpet) was empty.

Wemmbu watched him and called him insane.

Parrot gave no heed to him. The second thing he did was draw a map.

He found a box of chalk and some papers—they would let them write, but they clearly didn’t trust them with such deadly weaponry as ballpoint pens. Instead of using the paper (they would surely count the pages, wouldn’t they?), he kicked up the carpet and began scratching out chalk lines on the floor.

His mind was good enough to record the exact dimensions and directions of the ASC basement, but not good enough to sustain it for a prolonged period of time. If he didn’t draw a map now , he would forget. He ignored the irritated questions of Wemmbu, focusing on drawing each and every hallway. He finally added the staircase and sat back, satisfied with it for now.

“Don’t you dare smudge this map,” Parrot said, gingerly flipping the carpet back over it. It was as though nothing had ever happened.

“Okay, nevermind the map ,” Wemmbu snapped, clearly fed up with Parrot ignoring him. “You’re supposed to be smart and stuff. Stop looking for cameras, help me look for weaknesses.”

Parrot ducked into the adjoined rooms (three bedrooms, a restroom, and a mysteriously empty room that he couldn’t discern the purpose of), returning moments later. “I don’t think it takes a high bar of intelligence to realize that we’re trapped in a reinforced concrete box,” he said.

Wemmbu’s jaw dropped. After a moment of silence, he suddenly lunged for Parrot.

Parrot quickly took a step backwards, then realized it was only a feint. Wemmbu laughed, his eyes tracking Parrot’s every movement. “You’re scared of getting hit? What kind of supervillain are you?” he taunted.

“The kind who doesn’t waste his energy provoking the only people that might potentially be on his side,” Parrot said pointedly.

A beat, as Wemmbu processed that. Then he scowled, storming off without another word.

Parrot sat down on the carpet, burying his head in his hands out of frustration. How did it come to this?

One moment, he’d been in the process of offshoring the money he stole from the UUSMP government (United Understanding of Sovereign Marked Powers, the unnecessarily long name of their collective nation), the next he had been heading to a final exam, and the next he’d been shot in the neck with a tranquilizer.

He was only in his first year of university. He thought he might have made it to graduation at least before they found him.

But no, they’d found him somehow.

He had plenty of time during his stint of solitary confinement to wonder how they did it. Could they have traced his signature during the bank theft? Or did they track his movements when he physically broke into a government center to shut down their systems?

But he’d covered his tracks thoroughly in both those scenarios. Neither felt quite right.

His thoughts turned to Wifies. He’d been in the middle of splitting the money with him, after that job they pulled off. Parrot didn’t know Wifies’s real identity, so he could only assume that neither did the ASC. He would surely be confused as to where Parrot had gone, and where his money was.

Parrot smiled wryly, imagining the look on Wifies’s face when he saw him on national television. Then he would get an answer as to where his money was. Frozen in transit.

“I wish we had windows,” Spoke sighed, wandering into the room. At times, he spoke almost like a normal person. Then he broke the illusion by saying something utterly ridiculous. “Then I could watch you crash into them.”

Yep. Ridiculous.

Does he put everything he says through a randomizer? Parrot wondered. Yeah, I think that’s how he does it.

He stood, crushing the piece of used chalk underneath his heel in a place sufficiently far from the carpet to draw attention away from it. Then, he ventured to check his new room.

It was completely utilitarian. A mattress—not even a proper bed—on the floor. Nothing beneath it. A table tall enough to stand at. A shelf of books—which, when Parrot checked, were all exceedingly dry. They were the kind of reading material a first-year college student might be required to have (and consequently, he had already read many of them).

And that was it.

Some time in the later hours, the front door clicked open abruptly. Three trays of food were delivered. The door clicked shut again.

There was a clock on the wall which told Parrot it was 6:30 on the dot. He took his dinner, ate it, and then went to sleep. There wasn’t much else to do, and he needed time to sleep—and dream—and think about his plans.

He felt like no time had passed when a loud bang came on the door. Parrot started, scrambling to his feet. The clock read 4:30. A.M., judging from how bleary he felt.

The banging continued. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Parrot ventured out into the living room, still half-asleep. He saw Spoke poking his head in to check as well, while Wemmbu was sitting on the carpet like he’d been there the whole time.

Abruptly, the banging stopped. The door opened, an invisible guard standing behind it. They had manacles.

So the handcuffs went back on, and they were walking back across the compound to the basement level. It was still dark out. Parrot had no idea what was going on, but he paid attention to their route regardless—that map wasn’t going to draw itself.

They went down the stairs again, took a right, two lefts, kept going straight for a long, long time, then stopped at a door. It pushed open, the manacles came off, and Parrot entered the room.

Immediately, he was struck by the grand scale of it. No more white walls, no more blank minimalism. This room was high-vaulted, ribbed by great steel beams, industrial in aesthetic and purpose. An array of things that Parrot couldn’t even identify lined the walls. Crossbows; armor; quirky gadgets that he needed to examine.

“Oh, welcome!” a man said from the center of the room. His facial features were obscured by a loose mask, but he had warm brown eyes and a soot-stained outfit. His sleeves were rolled up, industrial-grade gloves covering his hands. Immediately, Parrot clocked him as a fellow engineer. “I’m Horace. How are you guys?”

Silence.

Yeah, we’re not the best people to ask that. It’s 4:30 in the morning.

He seemed unfazed. “Cool. Anyways, welcome to the armory for this base. You guys are supposed to have your first mission today, and I’m supposed to—”

“ Today ?” Parrot said, just to make sure he heard that right.

“Oh, I was supposed to say it in a more formal way. Hang on,” Horace said, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Welcome, Squad 6-V, to the Armory of ASC Base Gamma. Today, at 0700, you will be embarking on… uh… some kind of mission. Anyways, that’s not important, your handlers will tell you that.”

Handlers. That word tasted bitter.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t die! So, take these.”

In a moment, Parrot found his arms full of a pile of black clothes and tactical gear. Horace heaved similar piles into Spoke and Wemmbu’s arms, chattering all the while. “These are your outfits, standard issue military stuff. But they only gave me your measurements like, twelve hours ago, so I had to stay up all night tailoring them,” he said sourly. “Whatever. If you need help with anything—Parrot, Spoke, I’m looking at you two—Wemmbu, you probably have enough experience with this—just let me know, and I’ll help you. After you’re dressed, I’ve got a selection of weapons that you might like, because this mission will involve violence and such, so don’t damage the…”

He trailed off, muttering something about crossbow trigger mechanisms. Now that Parrot looked at him closely, the dark circles under his eyes did seem particularly pronounced.

“How much do they pay you for this?” he wondered aloud.

“Not enough,” Horace laughed, a little manically. “Anyways, there are dressing mirrors and full-length rooms over there. Go change, I want time to show you the other gear!”

I think he meant dressing rooms and full-length mirrors , Parrot thought. This guy clearly didn’t get enough sleep.

He managed to figure out how to put on all of the gear himself. There was a light layer of something that felt like silk on the inside and kevlar on the outside, which was almost perfectly tailored to his measurements (Horace probably had stayed up the entire night for this). Over it went a lightweight black hoodie, cargo pants with plenty of pockets and buckles, and a utility belt. It also came with a mask to cover the lower half of his face, and infrared goggles. Parrot left the mask pulled down and the goggles around it for comfort.

He looked like one of those government superhuman soldiers, and he hated it. All superhumans had to enlist for a few years once they turned 18, but draft dodging was pretty easy if you just kept your mouth shut about your powers. That was what Parrot had done.

Of course, that didn’t help when you ended up a supervillain (not really, but under the definition of the law, yes) anyway.

All the pockets were empty, but Parrot figured that his outfit would end up weighing a lot more once he started putting things in the holsters and compartments. Speaking of which…

Are they seriously letting us all in the armory unguarded? How stupid are they?

Here was—what he thought to be—all of ASC Base Gamma’s weaponry, armor, and other equipment. And they were here, unsupervised, with an inventor who was running on zero hours of sleep. How easy would it be to cause some mischief?

Parrot didn’t plan on it. He wasn’t a fighter—he knew his limits. Putting on all this tactical gear just felt like bad luck. But he could imagine how Wemmbu or Spoke—someone stronger, more powered, could get out of here.

But it was an armory. Maybe he could… pilfer a few spare parts.

When he returned to the central armory hall, Spoke and Wemmbu were there. Their equipment looked slightly different from Parrot’s (and considerably heavier). Spoke had some kind of reinforced vest with abundant pockets, and Wemmbu had some special-looking gloves and boots which Parrot couldn’t discern the purpose of. Parrot had to stifle another laugh at the sight of Wemmbu, who looked very military with his combat gear and buzzcut.

“You all look great ,” Horace said. “I knew that tailoring would pay off. Okay, I know your fighting styles. Spoke, lovely explosive power, you’re the squad’s melee damage-dealer. We’ll have you on the front lines—hope you don’t mind.”

“I do,” Spoke said, in a pleasant tone that indicated he didn’t.

Parrot’s gaze wandered to a tool bench that Horace currently stood behind, littered with scrap and tools and twisted pieces of metal. Horace, oblivious, continued talking.

“Yeah, take a look at these weapons, see what you like. Wemmbu! Pretty solid combat too, I’ve seen the security footage. We need you to be more of a support-slash-backup type combatant. These are for you. And Parrot—you don’t fight. We’ll have you on comms, but you’re still going to need to move around. So how do you feel about wings?”

“Uh…” Parrot said.

The last time he saw a demonstration of wings, their jet propellers had exploded, killing the tester, two technicians, and a member of the audience due to flying shrapnel. This had all been on national television, two years ago.

First of all, I don’t think technology has progressed sufficiently since then for this to be safe.

Second of all, I don’t think the… public fear about flying has decreased enough for the government to be doing this again.

“Great!” Horace said, taking his answer as a yes. “We’ve got a top-of-the-line pair of V-4 Elytra for you. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever made. We haven’t even issued this to the S-soldiers yet! You’re going to be the first one to try it.”

Oh dear, Parrot thought faintly. I’m going to be their guinea pig.

“No thanks,” Parrot said. “I really don’t…”

His words died in his throat as Horace presented the wings to him.

They looked like pure magic. Two paper-thin sheets of some kind of gleaming metal, hooked up to a featherlight frame. Its sleek and aerodynamic curves mimicked the appearance of a beetle, or maybe a dragonfly. The metal sheets were hexagonal-plated and flexible. Whenever they shifted, they caught a new hue of iridescent light.

Parrot had always wanted to fly. Birds were cool (he had a bird phase when he was younger). Flying, doubly so.

Unfortunately, he’d always been too risk-averse to try paragliding…

“Where are the propellers?” Parrot asked, lifting the wings out of Horace. They practically vibrated in his hands; they were so light, Parrot swore he felt them levitating a millimeter above his fingers.

Horace winked, snapping his fingers. “No propellers. Learned our lesson that time, didn’t we? These rely on magnetic force to keep you aloft when open, but said force is almost completely mitigated when closed, which is perfect to build velocity. Try it on, will you?”

With Horace's help, Parrot attached the wings around his back and shoulders, clipped onto his gear with buckles that seemed like they had been made for this. Finally, Horace stepped back, allowing him to test it out.

It felt like a second limb. Experimentally, Parrot flexed his back muscles.

The wings shot open, hurling him back several feet in the air. Parrot panicked, snapping the wings shut, then came crashing to the ground. His stomach was doing somersaults in his ribcage, probably. He felt slightly nauseous, but the thrill of being in the air was releasing adrenaline into his blood.

These things are sensitive. Ow.

“Yeah… you might have to practice with those. But they’re cool, right?”

“They are cool,” Parrot said, with a newfound respect for Horace. If these things weren’t going to blow up on him, he could deal with a few falls and scrapes.

Horace turned to check on how Spoke and Wemmbu were doing. Parrot seized the opportunity, reaching out and plucking a few tools that he recognized (and a few that he didn’t) and dropping them into his abundant pockets.

Once he was sure Horace hadn’t noticed, he looked at what Spoke and Wemmbu were doing as well.

“What is this supposed to do?” Wemmbu asked, holding up a baton-sized cylinder.

“That’s a close-field energy-projecting blade. It’ll emit a sword-length field of heat and also light, so you can see where you’re pointing your blade.”

“So it’s a lightsaber,” Wemmbu said flatly.

“It is not a lightsaber!” Horace exclaimed. “You’re not supposed to use it on people, because it can be very painful. You only use the blade to cut through non-living materials like concrete, wood, stone… yeah, do not use that on people.”

Wemmbu clicked a button on the handle experimentally. “How do you turn on the lightsaber?”

“It’s double-keyed, which means you need approval from at least two different authorized people—which does not include me—to trigger it. That goes for all the weapons. So don’t even think about trying to do anything unapproved,” Horace warned. “And it’s not a lightsaber.”

Parrot traded looks with Wemmbu as Horace turned to help Spoke. Even if they had their differences, Parrot could tell that they were on the same wavelength here. It’s totally a lightsaber.

And from there, their thoughts diverged. Wemmbu turned to look at Horace, a calculating gleam in his eye. Horace was completely unaware, struggling to sort through an enormous pile of weapons Spoke said he liked. His back was even turned.

If we could actually access the weapons , Parrot thought, now would be a perfect time to escape.

But they couldn’t. And it wasn’t like Wemmbu could do much with a cyli—

Without further warning, Wemmbu slammed the cylinder into the side of Horace's head, knocking him out cold.