Chapter Text
November 15, 2010
Emily wiped the handkerchief over her hair. Once it was smoothed down and dry--or not visibly wet according to the mirrored elevator doors, she stuffed the cloth in her pocket.
It was still raining outside. Roaring sheets of water washed away the last crusts of snow, but behind the PRT building’s thick walls, every last whisper of that noise disappeared.
The elevator was silent too, and only years of familiarity with its speed kept Emily from being surprised when the doors slid open. Tilt and Shadow Stalker stepped out, wearing newly-cleaned costumes.
Neither spoke. Tilt’s shoulders drooped fractionally, and Stalker’s arms were folded. Normally, Tilt would be the one to make a greeting, but she was clearly not in the mood. Fine. Emily was willing to forgive some teenage surliness as long as she conducted herself properly during the meeting with the Youth Guard’s representative.
Emily turned and waved the Wards forward. Her shoes clicked on the tile, backed by Tilt’s light steps.
The guards at the security station waved them through without question. Instead of crossing the hallway to the lobby, Emily stopped partway down and opened the door to the public-facing meeting room.
Potted plants squatted in three of the four corners, all vaguely tropical-looking with their enormous leaves, and windows lined the far wall, exposing the carpet to dim gray light that revealed the carpet’s dark blue pigment. In the shade, it looked black.
The table’s long side faced the door to the lobby, so that two groups, one PRT and one civilian, would face each other in an interview setup. It was more expensive than the ones upstairs, designed to make a good impression like everything else here.
It was the same reason Emily had decided to show up as a group and present a united front. But the representative had not arrived yet.
Shadow Stalker was first to take a seat. Emily half-expected her to lean back and throw her feet up, but she leaned her elbows on the table and stared intently at the door.
Tilt joined her, leaving a chair open in the middle for Emily.
“So, what should we expect?” said Shadow Stalker, “What’s their problem? Beyond the usual.”
Emily pulled out her chair, stepped in front of it, and pulled it up behind her before easing down. “Nothing. It is their usual problem. She- The representative will argue that the operation constitutes an unacceptable risk.”
“And we just explain how that’s bullshit? It can’t be that simple.”
Emily frowned. “Coarse language doesn’t bother me, but it may convey to a Youth Guard rep. that our
Image department isn’t doing its job.”
Stalker turned her mask on Emily. The wrought face’s expression was neutral and blank. It was easy to imagine that it represented annoyance or derision. At other times it seemed angry or amused or whatever else, like a magnifying mirror for the subtleties of its wearer’s body language.
“Got it,” Stalker said. At least she was taking the meeting seriously.
“To answer your question: there are some unusual risks to the plan, even with Commander Calvert’s modifications and my own.” Emily was still irritated that Tilt had gone to Calvert for help, more at him than her. On top of everything else, she now had to worry about that scorpion having an undue influence on her Wards. “For instance, our plan places support from PRT agents farther away than we usually allow, even for Wards engaging villains with far fewer allies than Rune.”
Stalker snorted. “But the Youth Guard doesn’t want Wards fighting at all. They should focus on making that happen, and once they fail, they should cut their losses and let us do what we need to do instead of nitpicking.”
Emily found herself agreeing. In the abstract, she felt the Youth Guard deserved a bit more respect than Stalker’s tone contained, but practically, it was for the best that Wards across the country saw them as a nuisance. Whenever they started talking, problems arose.
“I’ve seen their website. Their forums.” Tilt spoke for the first time, softly. “They think we’re child soldiers. How can we convince them we’re not?”
Emily sighed. “If you tell anyone I said this, especially Miss Militia, I’ll deny it, but the Wards are soldiers.”
Tilt looked at her, helmet cocked. “But you said-”
“They are soldiers we cannot properly train or discipline, but soldiers nonetheless,” Emily clarified. “And it’s my job to sell the program to the public.”
“So, you’re just cool with child soldiers, huh?” Now Shadow Stalker sounded amused.
“I am not at all ‘cool’ with the state of the world. In fact, when I first accepted this post, I agreed with the Youth Guard’s position more or less completely.” Almost. They tended to grossly underestimate what damage could be caused by children wielding superpowers.
“What changed?” Tilt asked.
“Endbringers.”
Both Wards sucked a breath in, no doubt ready to point out that the first Endbringer appeared nearly twenty years ago. Again, Emily preempted the objection. “Obviously, children should never be allowed anywhere near those monsters, but as I learned more about how defenses against their attacks are organized, it became clear that the only way to prevent your average Ward from participating in the defense of their hometowns would be to physically restrain them, a task that could only be carried out by adult heroes, and only safely and reliably by an entire team of adult heroes, thus robbing a defense effort of a crucial portion of its participants.”
Emily paused to take a breath, pleased to see that she had the rapt attention of both Tilt and Shadow Stalker. “Then you consider the villains. You’d be shocked to know how much a city relies on its villain population to respond when an Endbringer shows up.” Bitterness crept into her tone. “Even attacks on more remote locations draw in dozens of villains from the nearest population centers. Point being, it’s fine if a few of them flee from the fight. Villains are flighty, everyone knows that, and morale survives, but if the local Protectorate team doesn’t even show up because they’re busy wrangling their Wards, all of the defenders get cold feet.”
“You’re saying there’s no choice but to let Wards fight Endbringers,” said Stalker, “So there’s no point stopping us from fighting villains either?”
“That’s one reason, yes. It would be hypocritical to allow child heroes to assume the massive risk to life and limb inherent to fighting an Endbringer, then turn around and bar them from fighting even the most dangerous villains, but that argument only accounts for the risks and not the rewards. Heroes who face Endbringers are ‘saving the world’, but organizations like the Youth Guard don’t place a similar value on fighting crime. Not even adjusting for the smaller scale. The risks are all they care about.”
“So the argument doesn’t work on them?” Tilt said.
“Exactly.”
“You said ‘one reason’,” Stalker said, “What are others?”
Emily made eye contact with the shaded eye-holes in her steel mask. “We never know when or where an Endbringer will appear next, only that they inevitably will. Heroes need to be prepared, and the only practical experience that might help one survive combat with an Endbringer comes from combat with parahumans. Large-scale team-to-team combat, ideally.”
Stalker turned her eyes back to the door. “Simple as that, huh?”
Emily grunted an affirmative. In the conversation’s lull, she could make out the muffled patter of rainfall through the windows. The room was chilly.
Two more minutes passed after that, by Emily’s watch, only interrupted by Tilt removing her mouth-guard and making a visible effort to sit up in her chair and smile.
Then the door swung open, held by an agent wearing a suit in place of body armor. In walked a short woman in a black pencil skirt and an eye-piercing yellow blazer, with a matching umbrella under her arm. Her skin was brown, and she wore her straight, dark hair in a high bun.
“Hello!” She stretched the pair of syllables out into a sing-song exclamation. She didn’t introduce herself; all present knew her name, Emily from several phone calls, and the Wards from individual meetings--Fernanda Moura. Stepping forward and reaching out for a handshake, she said, “Director Piggot.”
“Spokeswoman.”
Moura nodded and grabbed the left-most chair of the three on her side of the table. She spun it forty-five degrees before sitting down, closest to Tilt, but facing Shadow Stalker at a diagonal.
That would be her opening gambit for the negotiation--nevermind the fact that ‘airing concerns’ was the official purpose of this meeting--she would cut Emily out of the conversation when she could, talk past her and make appeals directly to the wards. Emily knew it wouldn’t work. This wasn’t a case of the PRT pushing too much responsibility on some hapless teen heroes, but a result of those heroes’ own initiative. Moura, of course, was not aware of that.
“Tilt! Shadow Stalker! Good to see you both again. We haven’t talked since we met about your costume designs, have we?” She grinned sheepishly, spreading deep laugh-lines across her lower face and acting as if the lack of contact was somehow an oversight on her part and not the Wards deciding they had no reason to speak to her.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” said Tilt.
Shadow Stalker said, “Hi.”
“I was a few minutes late--sorry about that--I’m sure you all are keen to get started.” She set a manila folder on the table. “We took a look at the documents you sent over, and the folks in my office have some misgivings.”
Emily interlaced her fingers. “I believe we can guarantee Tilt and Shadow Stalker’s safety with a similar degree of certainty to a scenario where they were approaching an independent villain.”
“We’re more worried about the precedent this operation would set.”
Emily resisted the impulse to furrow her brow. Of course, ‘setting a precedent’ was the whole point, but she hadn’t expected Moura to concede that preliminary point to cut straight to the meat. “On the contrary, we are working in accordance with long-established procedures: Wards respond to Protectorate-level threats when the Protectorate itself is preoccupied. Brockton Bay, as you know, has an extraordinarily high Parahuman population per capita.”
Moura smiled, and this time it was a flat line that didn’t reach her cheeks. “Let’s hone in on the word ‘respond’ for a moment. What imminent ‘threat’ are we responding to here?”
“I would argue that Empire 88 constitutes an ‘imminent threat’ by its very existence. It is often treated like any other street gang, but it would be more accurately classified as a terrorist organization.”
“And I would agree.” Moura chuckled bitterly. “But it’s rich to hear that from you, when the PRT has historically treated the Empire as a useful counterbalance to the ABB. Or the Teeth before them.”
“Is this the part where you call the PRT racist?” In Emily’s experience, it was prudent to get out ahead of these sorts of accusations. “If you disapprove of our past priorities, feel free to think of this as a course correction.”
“Maybe I would, if the operation were to be conducted by Protectorate heroes.”
“All busy. Besides, if Rune were accosted by, say, Dauntless, she would likely retreat and seek reinforcements. Our plan requires her to stand and fight.”
“Is there some reason you can’t call in heroes from Boston? Or even New York?”
“Believe me, I would love to hear an answer to that question myself.” Dozens of requests had gone ignored or declined over the years.
Moura sighed, and the room went quiet for a moment. Eventually, she put her smile back on and turned to Shadow Stalker. “And how have you been?”
She shrugged. “Good. Better. It’s not like the first time we talked.” She jerked her chin at Emily. “They’re finally letting me do my job, and now you’re the one trying to stop me.”
Interesting. Apparently, Shadow Stalker had lodged complaints with the Youth Guard at some point, probably about her probationary status. Emily hadn’t considered that possibility, though it wasn’t surprising.
“I’m sorry you see it that way,” said Moura, “I’d like to remind you both, if you’ve ever felt that the PRT has mistreated or taken advantage of you, do not ignore those feelings. Speak up.”
Emily was tempted to roll her eyes. “‘Advantage?’ Considering the trouble some of them cause, I’d say it’s the Wards who are on the better end of this bargain.”
“Why do you look at Shadow Stalker as you say that? I believe Tilt is the one who caused a media uproar after joining the Wards. The only reason we issued the PRT a warning instead of levying a fine is because our interviews made it clear that nobody could have reasonably predicted that she would throw herself between two villains.”
Tilt glanced at Emily, with alarm clear in her posture. Emily returned the look and subtly shook her head. Hopefully, Tilt would put the pieces together and realize that Moura was focusing on the first Hookwolf incident because Emily had made sure the Youth Guard never found out about the second.
“Tilt never earned an arrest warrant.”
“This is the sort of thing I’m talking about--Treating a Ward like an active criminal even as she serves her sentence.”
“Vigilantes sometimes pose greater threats to public safety than villains. We have to take these cases seriously.”
Moura scoffed. “The PRT’s lobbying is responsible for legitimizing vigilantism in the first place, knowing young heroes will always make mistakes sooner or later and using them as a pool of candidates for forced recruitment.” She maintained eye contact with Emily, but she was clearly talking to Shadow Stalker.
Emily shook her head. “You’re describing a conspiracy.”
Moura shrugged. “Letting vigilantes and villains tangle each other up costs fewer resources than arresting both. And recruitments are always opportunistic. The PRT follows its best interests. No conspiracy needed.”
Emily had no response to that. If she understood the necessity of the PRT’s policies on vigilantes, what was she criticizing?
“More generally, the Youth Guard also objects to the treatment of juvenile parahumans as ‘threats’ first and foremost--and don’t tell me that’s not accurate when every Ward is assigned a ‘threat assessment rating’.”
Emily laughed. “You think that hurts their feelings? Wards treat power ratings like a scoreboard!”
Moura ignored her. “Tilt, your current rating is Thinker Two, meaning the PRT believes, and I quote, ‘an alert, exceptional, well-equipped, or trained individual should be able to answer or address the ability in question, but it can still prove problematic’. It also reminds agents to employ ‘standard countermeasures’, which involves incapacitating Thinkers before they have a chance to speak.”
Resentment churned in Emily’s gut. Undermining her working relationship with the Wards, giving the unfounded fears that the PRT was planning contingencies to arrest them, could only serve to put them in greater danger. What was the point? She considered interrupting before Moura moved on to Shadow Stalker, but that might appear to lend credence to her argument.
“Shadow Stalker, you are rated Breaker Three, meaning that ‘several trained PRT agents’ should be the ones to arrest you. The handbook does not mention Protectorate heroes here.”
“Believe me,” Emily said, “Someone being arrested by Armsmaster is safer than someone being arrested by PRT agents. And I don’t say that lightly. It’s not true of any--or most--heroes. You might understand that if you were more familiar with law enforcement practice.” There had been nothing inappropriate about that decision.
“You can’t impress me like that, Director. I’ve seen how the PRT lauds the Wards as law enforcement officers until one of them uses excessive force and suddenly becomes ‘just a kid’. I know my history too, and the PRT was initially proposed as a civilian organization for outreach to parahumans and oversight of existing law enforcement in dealing with them. Maybe under those conditions, the Wards program could also become what it was meant to be: a place for young people to learn to live with their powers in peace and safety.”
“You’re ignoring the reality of the situation,” Emily said, “With gangs actively recruiting young capes, structuring the Wards program as solely a source of free housing and income, rather than a job, would be tantamount to allowing superpowered children to extort money from the government using the threat of villainy.”
Moura paused to stare at Emily, eyes narrowed, with reproach written in her face’s lines. Let her rant till she was red in the face about the PRT or Protectorate ‘forcing’ the Wards to fight. Emily had no patience for it. No sympathy. They both knew parahumans would end up fighting anyway. It’s what they did.
“We’re off-topic.” Emily kept her voice flat.
“Yes, we are.” Moura cleared her throat. “Speaking of ‘housing’-” She eyed Tilt. “You cannot have a fifteen year-old living on a paramilitary base full-time.”
Oh. That might actually be an issue. Emily had allowed Taylor Hebert’s custody drop to the bottom of her priority list. A thought popped into her head, expressed in the same absurd, intrusive, self-destructive voice that sometimes told her to smash her dialysis machine: ‘just say you’ll adopt her’.
“That would be my fault, ma’am.” Tilt’s voice snapped Emily back to alertness. “I’ve been staying with two of my father’s friends, but I haven’t told them I’m a Ward yet. That’s what’s holding things up. I was procrastinating, really. I’ll sort it out as soon as possible now that I know it’s a problem.”
“Glad to hear it.” Moura frowned, probably annoyed to lose a point of leverage. “Now, to return to our concerns about this mission…”
“Yes.” Emily took a deep breath, collecting herself. No reason to let the Wards see how frustrated she was that Moura had hijacked this meeting to pitch the Youth Guard’s agenda.
“I can tell you right now that my office isn’t going to buy any rhetoric about ‘emergencies’ or ‘desperate times’. This is an offensive operation. Preemptive. They’ll take one look and see a PRT Director using the fact that two Wards had encounters with a murderous villain--which never should have happened--as flimsy justification to deliberately place them in a similar situation, when the correct course of action would be to step back and evaluate their mental wellbeing.”
“Tilt has logged several hours with our on-site therapist over the last few weeks-” Emily let out a one-note laugh. “-and Shadow Stalker spent two years fighting a guerilla war against Empire 88 alone, so I think she’ll be fine.”
“Okay, that’s racist. More to the point, it’s the Youth Guard’s job to ensure the Wards’ safety, and if you go ahead with this mission, we will be seeking greater oversight. Your department has already incurred one penalty-”
“Years ago.” Emily grit her teeth, not sure what detail Moura was objecting to.
“-and if we have our way, it won’t just be sensitivity trainings this time.”
Emily knew it wasn’t an idle threat. If the operation went poorly, with either Ward injured, Moura might be able to get Youth Guard staff installed in PRT HQ, with veto power over Ward activities. On the other hand, if Rune was captured bloodlessly, Emily doubted there would be any repercussions. The most likely outcome, which Emily was actually banking on, was that something minor would go wrong, and she could recall Tilt and Shadow Stalker smoothly from the field.
An anticlimax like that wouldn’t hold the public’s attention, but it would show that the PRT could keep Wards safe even against villains backed by organized crime. But if the Youth Guard stuck their noses in, insisting the operation had been too risky, or that its outcome was a fluke, the good and bad press might add up to zero. Looking at that, the other departments would come away with the impression that if they tried to use their assets to their full potential, they’d just run into more red tape.
“You’re willing to bet we can’t convince Christner to back us up? He won’t declare an official state of emergency, of course, but he might echo our ‘rhetoric’ if he thinks it’ll score him points.”
Moura shrugged. “I lose nothing if I wait and see.”
Damn it. Bluff called. “Then I don’t think we have anything else to discuss.”
Moura was already pulling a form and a pen from her folder. “No, I don’t believe we do.”
Emily signed the form with only a quick glance at the headings. It was boilerplate: an acknowledgement that the meeting had taken place. She capped the pen and slid the paper back across the table.
Moura stood, then paused. “Actually, maybe you two could give us a minute alone.” She held her hand out to Tilt and Shadow Stalker. They shook, then exited the way they’d entered.
Emily stayed seated. “What is it?”
“I just wanted to say that Shadow Stalker probably needs more support than you think.”
“Noted.”
“Is there anyone she trusts? Adults, I mean. Anyone in the Protectorate she admires?”
Emily pressed her lips together, thinking. “No, I really don’t think there is. To her, they’re all fools. Too lax or too rigid. Doesn’t matter.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Emily hummed.
“Get her in therapy then. You can tell her the Youth Guard ordered it; I don’t mind being the bad guy.” At least she was aware of how the Wards saw her.
“I don’t envy you. You bash your head against the wall, even more than we do, telling them they’re not invincible or all-knowing, and they hear: ‘you’re incompetent’.” Emily smiled, pulling her lips in and trying to look sympathetic. “That’s why you can’t convince them to trust you. Parahumans just don’t want to hear it.”
“Kids their age don’t want to hear it,” Moura said, “You know, I am sincerely trying to help these kids. I wish we didn’t have to butt heads like this.”
“I believe you. Your best move politically would have been to let the mission play out, hoping for a disaster that would get you inside the building.” Emily gestured broadly at the ceiling. “But that’s not what you did. For the record, I think your goals--keeping young parahumans out of conflict--are admirable, but also unfeasible.”
Moura smiled using only one side of her mouth. She suddenly looked very tired. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that over the years.”
Emily recalled that the woman was some kind of semi-retired tort lawyer. She probably wasn’t only talking about her work with the Youth Guard. “Anything else?”
“No.” Moura reached for the door handle, but it swung open from the outside.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good evening.”
Emily glanced at the window, which had become a reflective dark blue pane at some point in the last hour. She checked her watch. Not even five. Ugh.
Now that she was alone, she could make as much noise as she wanted standing up, grunting with the effort.
Shadow Stalker was waiting outside the door, pacing. Tilt wasn’t with her. Emily looked up and down the hallway. There, past the security station, Tilt was talking to Vista, who wore her helmet over civilian clothes. The discussion seemed heated, judging by the arm-waving.
“What’s the verdict?” Shadow Stalker said.
Emily turned to her. “We back off for now.”
“What? Why?” Her fists clenched.
“She called my bluff.”
“What bluff? Why are you bluffing?”
Emily mustered up her best scowl. “Because theoretically, the Youth Guard has the discretion to impose penalties on the PRT whenever they feel it’s necessary.”
“That comment about ‘oversight’? It was a ‘no’?”
“Basically, yes. It comes down to political capital. In a town like Brockton Bay, with high crime rates and an excess of villains, the Youth Guard is rightly seen as vestigial. Donations and volunteer work are vital to keep them afloat, so their Head Office is unlikely to support actions that jeopardize either.”
“But?”
“But thanks to you and Tilt, our Wards program is experiencing turbulence. Seeing a Ward mauled by a villain makes them think they can impose penalties without risking their bottom line. Or that it might be worth the dip in revenue.” Emily had to admit, silently, that seeing the offending villain arrested by a different Ward went a long way toward softening that effect.
“Wait, you mean we’re just hoping that people would get mad enough at the Youth Guard if they fucked with us that they’d stop giving money?” Stalker sounded incredulous.
“Yes. And these are the same people who believe they’re somehow supporting the Wards directly by donating to the YG. According to the polls.”
“Fuck,” she repeated.
Emily stayed quiet. She could hardly object to Stalker’s language when it echoed her sentiments so exactly.
Movement drew Emily’s eyes away. Tilt was walking toward her, storming really. Her shoulders were square, and she leaned forward. “Director Piggot,” she said in a strained voice, “Vista just told me that Rachel’s file was updated.”
Fuck. Again. Emily did not want to be the one to break this news. Not when she’d just finished breaking bad news to Shadow Stalker, and would have to repeat herself to Tilt.
Tilt flung her hands out to the side, pleading. “Why the- why is she marked as a suspected ABB affiliate?”
OOOOO
November 13, 2010
“Hey, no, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a fan, I guess.” The clerk laughed, hands in the air, apron flapping in a breeze from the automatic doors.
“Something funny?” Rachel slammed a palm on the counter.
“No,” he said, laughing again, more quietly, “No.” This time, he shut his mouth. Better.
“Hand over my change.” She knew she was owed something. She’d counted.
“Right.” He opened the cash register and scrabbled in the drawer, counting frantically under his breath.
“Keep the coins.” Rachel snatched the bills and pushed her cart out into the parking lot. It was loaded down with dog food and groceries. She’d return it tomorrow.
Squinting against the sun and buttoning her coat against the cold, she walked along the strip mall’s row of retail stores, with the endless stretch of asphalt on her left.
Brutus, Judas, and Angelica ranged across the lot, sniffing at soot-blackened crusts of snow or pissing on lamp posts. Butterscotch watched them as he padded along next to Rachel, just close enough that his leash wasn’t pulled taut.
She tried not to dwell on how loose the folds of her wallet felt when she patted her pocket. That thought led to thoughts of how soon she’d have to leave town, which led to Taylor. After their meeting Rachel was back to not knowing if she was tricking her or just stupid. Square fucking one.
She’d learned from foster siblings, parents, and caseworkers that lies often sounded like truths, but what the hell did truth sound like?
She’d gone into that meeting ready to tear Taylor apart if she had to. Might have tried to scare her if Arm-man wasn’t there.
She’d asked if Taylor was happy, wanting to know if she was like Brian and Alec, who seemed to get something from each other amid their movie-watching and game-playing. Something Rachel couldn’t get from her dogs. She’d watched movies with them, of course, or near them, but it wasn’t the same as what she had overheard from the bottom floor when they thought she was gone.
And Taylor had answered with some bullshit about the PRT. Rachel already suspected being a hero was just like being a villain with the teams reversed. Why would she care what color jersey she’d be wearing?
That’s what had melted her anger into hesitance, she realized, mulling it over. Taylor was nervous. Desperate. Like a shelter dog who’d been abandoned one too many times to believe its new home was permanent. Except she was probably right.
Did Rachel really want to walk into that?
Abruptly, her dogs went still. Butterscotch started whining, and the others trotted back toward Rachel, making a beeline. Half a second later, she felt a crackle in her ear canals, like she was climbing to the top of a big hill.
“You feel that?” The voice came from her right. An old woman in flannel sat on the curb, smoking a cigarette.
Rachel sized her up. She was crouching, elbows on her knees. Butterscotch stepped over, eyeing the cig. She held it out of his reach and held her hand out to be sniffed.
“Ear pop?” Rachel said. “Yeah.”
“Me too. Weird.”
“Something’s off.” Butterscotch was still whining. Air pressure was wrong. “Get inside.”
The woman narrowed her eyes, searching Rachel’s face. After a second, she stood and dusted off the seat of her jeans, taking a long pull that burned her cigarette down to the filter. “Hell, alright. You seem to know something I don’t.”
As soon as the woman turned her back and ducked into a sports bar, Rachel began pouring power into her dogs, bracing herself against the shuddering feedback. Even Butterscotch. Couldn’t let him get caught unarmored if they were under attack.
She left the cart by the sidewalk and stalked out into the parking lot, rotating on her heels and scanning the horizon and roof-line. She couldn’t see anything, but yeah, something was definitely not right. There was a light breeze, but it felt like it was rising straight up from the ground. Pulling.
Movement. Someone ducked and crouched behind the concrete base of a lamp post, only thirty feet away.
“Who the fuck’s there?”
Silence.
“Why are you hiding? Answer me!” Her dogs’ shoulders reached her waist now, and she leaned down with one arm braced on Brutus’ back and one on Angelica’s, gripping the ridges of their exoskeletal spines.
Silently, a woman rose from behind the post, wearing denim overalls. Scars criss-crossed her arms from fingertip to bare shoulder, and a pair of sickles hung from her belt loops. She was white, with pale hair buzzed close to her scalp, hard to make out between the bars of the rusty steel cage over her head.
She pointed a snub-nose revolver at Rachel.
The first shot went off before Rachel could take cover behind Angelica’s flank. It took a heartbeat of panicked patting over her face and chest to confirm it had missed. “Stay! Guard!” she shouted. “Brutus, kill!”
Startled barking gave way to obedient action. Even Butterscotch calmed down, following his older siblings’ cues.
Cricket--had to be one of Hookwolf’s lackeys--spaced out the next three shots so that every time Rachel wondered if she was safe to rise, she’d feel the impact of another bullet thudding into Angelica’s hide. ‘Suppressing fire’, Grue would’ve called it. She was being stalled.
Rachel reached around Angelica’s neck and pulled her head down, out of the line of fire. She was still small enough that a lucky shot could kill her. Rachel buried her face in wet, half-furred wrinkles, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her teeth. Cricket would die for this.
The last two shots--assuming the phrase ‘six shooter’ was accurate--didn’t hit Angelica. Cricket was probably aiming for Brutus now. Rachel peeked under Angelica’s belly and saw the woman dive into a somersault to avoid his pounce, tossing the gun aside and drawing her sickles. She was quick.
Rachel tensed her legs, ready to swing her leg over Angelica’s back and run Cricket down, when a high pitched ringing pierced her ears. It was different from the popping sensation earlier. It felt like someone had broken a bottle over her head, but with no impact or pain. Her eyes lost focus, painted parking spot lines doubled and blurred, and she crumpled against Angelica, who was stumbling herself. If she tried to mount up now, she might slip and end up face-down on the pavement.
Judas leaned his shoulder against her back, ridges digging in, and Butterscotch whined. Brutus dry-heaved, head craned forward, bringing up thick strands of bile and saliva. At least that meant that his transformation had progressed far enough that he was drawing from his power-created stomach, which was empty. It meant Brutus’ real body was safely curled up in the abdominal cavity.
Rachel felt queasy too.
She watched Cricket make a pair of probing slashes at Brutus’ tendons, but between the bone interspersed with the muscle, and Rachel continually replacing his flesh with her power, she had no real effect. An airy, unvoiced hiss left her lips.
Rachel heard screaming. Parked cars revved up. It all sounded very distant.
“Hellhound!” A deep, scratchy voice boomed, behind and above. Rachel turned her head slowly, trying not to vomit. A man floated in mid-air, three feet above the bar’s roof, bare-chested, wearing jeans cinched with a chain for a belt and a metal cat mask. Wind swirled around him, roaring. A long copper pipe dangled from his right hand, with its tip crumpled into a rough point, holes drilled along its length, and fins welded to its base like feathers on an arrow. “Really trying not to showboat. You know why we’re here. Got anything to say before we kill you?” The air carried his voice. Amplified it.
“Eat shit!”
He raised the spear, cocking his arm and holding his off-hand out for stability, the eddies swirling around him became a vortex, funneling air into a single point. Rachel’s ears popped again.
Rachel had just enough time to point at the spear and shout “Butterscotch, catch!” Brutus was too far away, Rachel needed Angelica to stay upright, and Judas could barely jump anymore.
Stormtiger’s javelin spun through the air, whistling, propelled by a deafening burst of wind. Butterscotch hopped, tail wagging, and caught it between his teeth. It bent almost in half.
A glance at Cricket saw her dancing around Brutus’ snapping jaws. Distracted. Rachel took a lurching step over to Judas and transferred her arms to his back. “Angelica! Butterscotch!” She pointed at Stormtiger. “Jump! Kill!”
As the wind died down, she noticed a sizzling sound. It took a beat for her still-ringing ears to pin it down. The spear.
“Butterscotch! Drop!”
Too late. A fiery explosion engulfed the horse-sized dog’s head, and he crumpled to the ground, twitching. He’ll survive, Rachel reminded herself, his real brain is just too small to control that big body on its own.
Angelica took a running leap, mouth open wide. Stormtiger floated up, not fast enough to out-distance Angelica’s reach, but he didn’t seem worried. He pulled in another vortex, centered on his fingers. Rachel could almost make out transparent curved shapes extending from his nails before he swung and released the compression.
Blades of air scythed across Angelica’s forelimbs and chest, heavy enough to gouge bone and tear out chunks of flesh, but too light to stop her movement.
Stormtiger raised his legs and leaned back, as if he was floating belly-up in a pond. Not enough. Angelica had too much momentum, even with a wall of air pushing her away. Her tongue reached out, long and sinuous like her tail, to pull Stormtiger’s waist into her maw.
Then a meaty crack cut through the muffling wind. One of the long bones in Angelica’s left forelimb snapped in half where she’d placed it on the roof’s edge. She fell, and her chin struck the roof on the way down, shutting her mouth like a trap and severing her tongue.
Rachel’s eyes were glued to Angelica. A shout rose in her throat, but Judas was pulling her around to face Cricket. Angelica was in danger. Stormtiger would be ready to rain down more cutting blasts of air, but Rachel trusted Judas.
She turned with him, pushing. Fucking Cricket had managed to climb onto Brutus’ back and plant her sickles in his eyes. He thrashed in circles, as if chasing his tail.
Cricket ran along his spine, hips rolling to perfectly compensate for his movement, and took a running jump off the base of his tail.
Rachel waited until the last moment, swallowing bile as the vertigo effect worsened with Cricket’s approach, then threw herself to the ground and yelled “Judas, kill!”
She stabbed one dagger into his snout to pull herself over, and rolled smoothly across his neck, landing on her feet over Rachel and slashing down without pause.
She curled into a ball and grit her teeth against the line of cold pressure drawn across her upper arm and ribs, followed by searing pain. Stormtiger’s attacks boomed behind her.
Judas bought her a reprieve as he snarled and snapped unseen above her. She painstakingly rose to her feet, leaning heavily on her knees. Her coat’s hem whipped around, yanked by gusts of wind, and tugging at the sticky blood trickling down her side.
Angelica and Butterscotch were up and walking--limping--away from the sidewalk. Rachel’s head was going fuzzy with fatigue, but she had to push her power to heal them. Make them bigger. Get them out.
“Brutus, come!” she said.
He perked up and followed her voice, bending his head down at a touch to let her work the sickles free of his face.
A hand grasped her cut forearm and twisted it behind her back. Rachel screamed, hoarse, and struck Cricket’s gut with her elbow. She didn’t budge. In the corner of Rachel’s eye, she saw a knife rise over her shoulder, pointed at her throat in an icepick grip.
Stormtiger screamed, so maybe Angelica or Butterscotch managed to get their teeth in him. At least they’d take one of these fuckers down with them.
Despite herself, Rachel closed her eyes. Like she used to do when doctors tried to give her shots, unable to watch the syringe.
The knife didn’t fall.
Something pulled Cricket off of her, and she fell on her ass, eyes flying open. A figure in black, holding a dagger of its own hauled Cricket away by her shoulder strap. She lashed out with her knife, and the pair traded a short, vicious flurry of stabs, not bothering to block, opening punctures on each other’s arms, hands, chests, and bellies.
The knife fight ended abruptly when Cricket punched her arm through her opponent’s body, which crumbled into white powder and revealed another figure standing behind her. Rachel put the pieces together at the same moment she spotted the red horned mask. Oni Lee.
He stuck a knife in Cricket’s back and left it there, unfazed by the blade she put through his eye in return.
The ringing in Rachel’s ears hiccupped, and her nausea abated, returning only partially, in rhythmic, throbbing pulses.
After that, Oni Lee couldn’t seem to catch Cricket off-guard again. He’d teleport a clone behind her, but she’d be ready to catch his wrist or quick-step out of reach.
“Come!” Rachel didn’t add a name to the command, calling her whole pack to her side. Angelica’s nose prodded her low in the back, and she draped herself over the massive bony face, awkwardly pulling herself with elbows and knees, into position over the dog’s neck.
Stormtiger was shouting something, drowned out by his own power. He had a red line across his chest, and blood droplets orbited him, caught in the cyclone like beads while ash fell like snow.
Angelica’s gait wobbled, even as Rachel patched her wounds with power. Judas galloped at their side, and Brutus and Butterscotch brought up the rear.
They picked up speed, leaving the now-empty parking lot behind. Police and fire sirens gradually emerged into audibility.
An Oni Lee crouched on the roof of a shopping cart return. Right in her path.
“Fuck off!” she yelled. Her whole body was trembling. She didn’t have it in her to wonder what he was doing here, but he was bad news.
He nodded, but stayed where he was.
Rachel glanced over her shoulder, following his gaze. Stormtiger and Cricket cut down clone after clone with flashing daggers and compressed air. For a moment, they stopped materializing, and the pair took a moment to catch their breath, chests heaving.
Stormtiger floated down and stretched his arm out. Before he and Cricket could make contact, a handful of clones appeared above them, falling. Each one pulled pins from a pair of grenades belted to their waists.
Rachel was far enough that Stormtiger and Cricket were bug-sized to her view, but the explosions still blinded her for an instant, leaving livid orange streaks behind her eyelids.