I'm glad people seem to like it. I hope not to disappoint xD Slight clarification: Poem has nothing to do with the nine. Legitimately a coincidence. The number nine comes from something else. Also, thanks Assassins Stole My Pants for pointing out a typo.

An outstanding arrest warrant had been issued. The looks on his team's faces when he'd told them that… if it were possible, he'd say they'd fallen. But it was hard to fall from rock bottom. For one moment, he hated being in charge.

No kill order. Not even a provisional one, for if 'Jhin' struck another of the children he was sworn to protect. After six hours of paperwork, the sheet had been processed in record time, with a resounding 'no' from an automated filter. Apparently, only having one singular death attributed to them was enough for the form to be rejected on principal, before it even reached the Chief Director's ears. Director Piggot had offered to inquire further for him, but the message was clear.

As much as it bit him, it was very, very clear. Unless they did something worse, they would have to play with the kiddy gloves. And no matter how personal the matter got, he would never 'accidentally' let himself slip. Nor would any of the others. Triumph, possibly, but he didn't have a killing bone in his body. Battery, she was too soft. All of them had minor things like that.

For him, it was the thought of what would happen to his career, as much as it was about avenging his ward. The thought made him sick. He despised the thought. But you couldn't hide from the truth.

Disturbing accusations had come up about Shadow Stalker, too. Problems about her school. Horrendous, horrible accusations, such as a years-long bullying campaign in her leaked civilian identity, and the usage of lethal bolts on solo patrols. If he ever found who was behind the leak, he… wasn't sure what he would do.

It was a disaster the PR team would be spending months cleaning up.

Somehow, a ward being killed had fallen to the side, in light of that. Some were calling it justice. Truly, it was amazing to him. Just how easily people talked ill of the dead. As though, even if everything she'd been accused of was true, that somehow changed her death from a murder into something legal. Something moral.

Something not worth talking about.

The accusations had come out remarkably quickly. That helped. Because now, at least, he had a lead – a minor one. The chanced of Sophia's killer being the one to post it evidence was low. But there could be no half measures. Not for something like that.

Colin Wallis had someone to talk to.

(90_09)

For the rest of theday, her elation never dipped. Not for one moment did the smile leave her face, and periodically she would break out into laughter that, had anyone else been around, likely would've made them concerned. Finally, she had accomplished something. And even though it hadn't been a full day, she was getting thrilled by the prospect of performing again. But, there was a problem, even if it wasn't enough to dip her good mood.

Nobody knew who she was.

Sure, she'd made a splash. The death was attributed correctly, and threads and news programs couldn't stop talking about her. Having an enthralled audience gave a warm feeling, in her chest. However, no one had a face to put to the name. Most didn't even have a name, yet. Having art appreciated was one thing, the most important thing, but she couldn't stop there. Painters shouldn't hide behind their brush, and while being a bogeyman had its appeal, there was… something about the more personal touch.

It couldn't be her actual face. People wouldn't take her seriously. She knew she was bland, and uninteresting, but that was a good thing for reconnaissance. For performances, she needed something better. Even with extremely limited funds, it was easy to acquire some cheap clay from the boardwalk. A full costume would be needed. Like her whisper, most of that could be made from what scrap she'd been salvaging. But a mask? That needed detail, and effort. Finding a suitable heat sorts to harden it would be difficult, if her father hadn't had a small furnace in the basement. Well, not an actual furnace, but it would serve as one.

Her way home was uneventful. Not really unexpected. She was just… average, no one had any reason to bother her. The self-proclaimed 'father' wasn't home, so she got to work. Not on the clay, but with her notepad. Making a decent costume would take a while. But that didn't let her stop the hunt. It would take some doing, finding a villain, at least more than finding a hero. Starting that night would be a good bet. In the back of her mind, there was a tiny, directional niggle. Without the chemicals, her scope was useless, but the niggle had been changing direction with every step, and every second. There lay her target.

Finding them wasn't the hard part – finding where they would be, on one, fateful day was what took effort. Deciding where their impactful part would be played. Where it would be noticed. Not a rally. Striking the same stage twice would set a pattern, not to mention be unprofessional. It had to be somewhere she could set up a proper show, with someone to witness her. Not just the shot, her. Getting a balance between witness and people stopping her could be a challenge. Her best solution would be some kind of recording device.

But, she was getting distracted. None of that was relevant, until she had the target's behaviours, and had marked them.

Thought, given how tough to put down her next target would be, it could be easier to just kidnap them, and record it in private. An easy way out, but it would let her introduce herself right, without any worry of interruption. No last minute twitches. Far less sporting than she'd like.

Once again, she was getting ahead of herself.

It was tempting to put off the target and focus on finishing everything. The mask, her Whisper, and the second, and third guns. But all she needed was Whisper and the costume, so that was all she would wait for.

Whisper had been damaged more than she'd expected. While the firing mechanism was untouched, part of the barrel had fallen off. Instead of making three, it might be easier to just make Whisper's barrel removable, so it could double as her hand cannon. A grenade launcher was… optimistic, even though it was more 'single explosive' launcher, than a proper one. Plans started to come to her. Not for the guns themselves, she knew what she needed for them, short on materials though she was. No, not the guns, for the performance.

Her first sketch was finished, just as there was a knock on the door. That was unusual. Her father had a key, and no one else had reason to visit. After a while her no reaction, there was another knock, a bit more forceful. Rude. It also showed they wouldn't be going away any time soon, so it might be better to get it over with. She wasn't even in costume. You didn't just… come backstage, you waited for the show to start.

Grabbing the pepper spray her father had insisted on buying when she started running (a sniper had to be mobile), and stuffing her notebook into a random drawer, she made her way over. The smile settled to a more neutral expression, as she cracked it open…

And came face to face with -

Well, that was unexpected. Time to put on a mask of a different kind, she supposed.

"Mr. Herberry? Yea, I just need a signature for this. Yep, thanks. Right, have a nice day."

Somehow, she stopped the bafflement from showing. Since when did her father even purchase things? Let alone for delivery. When opened, it appeared to be some kind of blender. With him out, she could always hide it down stairs, and he'd be none the wiser.

It would delay her lack of materials issue by a few more days, at least.

(90_09)

Even though she'd found the man in white that evening, it only took three days to properly observe him, before her pattern was clear. They were a wily one. No consistent pathways, but each night they returned at a time, to a place. A single habit of little variation, easy enough to plan around. What was a bit more difficult was the fact that every 4.201 seconds, his body would undo whatever damage it had taken. Oh, the possibilities. Her instincts told her to take him down right after the reset, hard. She liked her instincts.

Getting the timing right was difficult, but that night, she managed to assemble it. Her first trap. Flawless. It had only taken almost the entire blender to put together well. Even if Whisper was tinged in bronze, her trap had to be perfect, for it's one, fleeting moment.

Taylor's traps were strange things. Delicate, ornamental lotuses, on a hairspring trigger. They didn't detonate immediately, instead creating a mirage, and a warning. One that most wouldn't be able to put to good use. One second's hesitation at the strange change in light, and it would be too late.

She hoped it worked. If she weren't working with scrap, it would've been easier, but to make something so delicate, from so little, it took a lot of care.

Oh, what she'd do for better materials. The things she could make. Like a voice modifier, to add a joyous resonance to her speech. Sadly, she had neither the funds, the time, nor the sources. Waiting too long between performances would dull the hype.

After making something so flawless, throwing together four more bullets was nothing. Her only meaningful challenge was the fourth. One to three didn't matter, but four took a bit of time, weaving to painting-to-be, even if not for her current target. Six bullets total, one of them was special. But she didn't load the four bullets. Leftovers would be enough to draw a target into a trap.

On instinct, she checked the compass, only to pause. A smile made its way onto her face, followed by raucous, wheezing laughter.

When she'd shot the normal bullet at Armsmaster, it had sprayed his armour, and his beard. Only a tiny speck, not the full body, so usually pointless – especially with him being an esteemed member of her audience. But no, the niggling in her mind, where her target would be… it was almost a perfect overlap. Through some miracle, it was like the stage was setting itself. Clearly, someone above must be enjoying her work as much as she did.

Never let it be said she'd refuse the call to an encore.

It was an absurd distance. But according to one of the phones she'd stolen, there was at least half an hour until the targets crossed paths. More than enough time to set up.

As it turns out, the phone had been recording, for whatever reason. Must've bumped it in her pocket. The playback was her insane laughter. Yet another blessing in disguise, there could be a use for that, later. With better equipment, if she could ever get it.

The night streets were cold, but her heart was pumping in excitement. Putting on her ornate mask dulled that to a cool professionalism. Adding the cloak's weight, even thrown together from fabric salvaged from old clothes, finalised the image. Even with her undignified sprint, she felt graceful. Powerful. No one was around to see anyway, so speed was more important than form. A chance like that couldn't be passed up.

Her trap sung to her. Tonight, it would fulfil its purpose, in a beautiful painting.

(90_09)

Even at an ungainly sprint, she had barely made it. The secondary target was still nearby. Closer than they'd been when she left. Doing a patrol of some kind, and they must've doubled back. Just close enough for some noise to attract them. Primary would round the street corner in less than ten seconds. She coiled her trap, flicking on the mechanism, and planted it with great care, stepping away immediately. To her, it was visible. Not to others, she knew. Final position time. Her nervousness was swallowed, as she stood under a street light.

It rounded the corner, saw her, and paused. No costume on, so not a perfect event. It would do.

At first, it was cautious, but didn't know her. A gentle approach, and a cautious hail, try to start a conversation. Taylor could think of one thing to talk for her.

The first of two bullets rang out, impacting dead centre of the chest. A simple shot, nothing fancy to it – why bother, when it wasn't to kill? Through being fired, its purpose was to start a fight, and to let out that deafening bang she expected without the silencer, which was part of her extended barrel. Even then, it was loud. As a hand cannon? Without the mask, her ear drums would've burst.

Okay, maybe she was exaggerating a bit. Not by much.

Its body collapsed, and she counted. Right on time, it got back up, then charged her.

"Shall we dance?~" Her voice rang out. No guns. It hadn't been expecting a fight. Still had a knife though.

It would've been too easy to have set the trap in its path, end things then and there. But that would defeat the point of a costume. Knives weren't much threat. They sounded like they should be, but it was effortless, ducking and weaving through sloppy swings. She'd never known fighting could be such a joy. And so… inelegant.

Instead of retaliating, at all, Taylor took a glimpse into her scope. A distant howl on an engine had started. Time to set up the main event.

Before, her dance had been of necessity, nothing more. Now, it held purpose. Too direct, and she'd give away the game. Too slow, she might be stopped. Of course, there was a much simpler way of doing things, of goading an opponent into doing something stupid.

Her next dodge was 'mistimed', and the knife dug into her right shoulder. Meaningless. At worst, it would bring discomfort – with no nerves touched in places that would have an impact. Not even a falter in her grip. One a false grunt of pain was more than enough to elicit more empty dialogue from the target, and to justify her carefully measured 'stagger' backwards.

The target was talking. Two steps to the right, then a third, and raise her pistol.

Target two's engine screeched around the corner. One was reacting to it, but they'd already made their mistake. It was already over.

After all, they were part way through a step. By itself, that wouldn't take them in range of the trap. But all she needed was some momentum, to work with. Shot two buried itself in its right leg, toppling them forwards. 0.203 seconds before their face trigger her trap's timer. She leapt backwards into a second street light. Primary let out a screech of pain, and secondary shot a glance her way. With a careful eye and a glowing laugh, she watched.

Just under four seconds later, the bullet wound reset, and Armsmaster had started to say something to her. Alabaster didn't even get to register the fact, because two microseconds later, her trap denotated. Instinctively, she knew he wouldn't get back up.

From up close, it was beautiful. A spray of blood, in a carefully planned pattern… even the headless corpse couldn't take away from the gorgeous tree, carved across the ground. But she couldn't stay to appreciate it. Armsmaster was horrified, for just one moment. Taken up by the suddenness. Letting out a shallow breath of ecstasy, she slipped away, dropping a piece of paper she'd scrawled on. Not her current show. That would stand for itself. But another hint of what was to come.

(90_09)

He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. Probably for some way to get his mind off things. But unsurprisingly, interviewing each of the guests at the… fateful press conference hadn't routed out the killer. Of course it hadn't. Colin knew where the killer had been, during the conference. It hadn't been in the crowd. No, they'd been impossibly far away, crafting message to taunt him, remind him of his failures. A little poem claiming to have 'set Sophia free'.

They either had high confidence in themselves, or low confidence in him, to post a clue about their next assassination. One he and Dragon had been able to see through pretty quickly. Not one he could do anything about, assuming it was accurate.

What the hell could he even do to protect someone like Alabaster? He was an empire cape. Who could survive being shot lethally. Arrest him? Easier said than done. A small part of him didn't want to protect him. To save one murderer from another. Even if only one of them had killed a ward.

But despite his mental anguish, there really was nothing he could do, other than patrol slightly closer to empire territory, and hope to catch Jhin in the act. A two for one of murderous villains. One week ago, the thought would've brought a spark of joy, and determination. Now, it was hollow. All he could hope for was to put the psycho behind bars before they took another one.

He hadn't expected it to work, deep down. Which was why a deafening, familiar gunshot took him so off guard. Nothing like the crack of an ordinary firearm. Less than a kilometre away, and this time, not shot towards him. His body was still in shock, for one moment. Then, professionalism kicked in, and he moved.

"Armsmaster to Miss Militia. Shot fired near my current location. Audio is concurrent with the parahuman 'Jhin'. What's the status on backup?"

"Triumph here. I heard the shot, eta about three minutes."

There was a moment's pause, and he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Despite the fire in the teen's voice. Not an adult. Legally, he was, but to Colin, he was a kid. Had been a kid, until a few months ago. He'd already seen one of his wards die.

"Velocity can get there in less than two."

"Affirmative, Militia. Triumph, do not engage. I repeat, do not engage."

Not even a moment's static, before the well-justified complaint started to come through. He needed to emphasise his position before Triumph did something stupid. Like turn off his comms, and the wards sometimes did. Feign not having received their last orders. Not here.

"Triumph, do not engage. Enemy parahuman will be striking with lethal force. I have armour, Velocity is mobile. Repeat, do NOT engage."

He hoped the desperation didn't leak through. There was a moment's pause.

"U-understood, sir."

"Good man," he whispered.

His bike rounded the corner. Standing in a spotlight was a masked figure. Not a normal mask, either – an elaborate, full-face one. Armsmaster's eyes shot to the bloodied body near their feet. Inhumanly white features, but no costume. Was that –

Alabaster reset, and his head exploded, the blood forming distinct, impossible pathways.

…

…

…

He didn't reset again.

Colin's eyes shot up, but the other parahuman was gone. A curse slipped out, and he revved his bike. But no, there would be no point. Too many wasted actions. It couldn't keep happening.

"Velocity, search the area for a masked figure. If located, alert me immediately."

"Copy."

If a speedster couldn't find them, he would have no hope. If anything, he would be getting in the way of the search.

They'd left a piece of paper. No traps. The last one had shown up on his sensors. Both of them. But both times, he'd been too surprised.

There was no trap on Alabaster's body. No, apparently that was a one-off thing, to maim and scar Vista. Panacea had healer but, she whenever she was alone, she was still shaking.

He picked it up.

~(And so we meet again, birdy.)

(You must be eagre to see my)

(work. I trust, this time, to not)

(be found lacking. Art is fickle.)

~ Yours, Jhin.

(Little Foxie, runs away)

(Prays in a false heaven)

(A layered guard, a deep façade)

(T'was the last for mister seven)

"Velocity, any signs?"

"No, sir. Nobody at all in the nearest five blocks."

It would be wonderful to dismiss that as them being a stranger. But no.

"Militia, see to it Jhin's thinker rating gets raised. It can't have been chance for them to get past Alabaster's power. No update on Tinker rating."

"Understood, stir."

He revved his bike again.

"Velocity, keep sweeping. Anything moves, I want to know about it five minutes ago. I'll look for hiding spots."