o8. Sleeping Bees
Though as their principal, Kayden Russel held the authority to issue them absolute orders if she so wished, under her command, Night and Fog had come to enjoy an autonomy of action so far unprecedented within their lifetime - vastly less restrictive than the schedules and mission parameters that had defined their existence as Gesellschaft operators. The extreme permissiveness of the woman's leadership style had been difficult for Night to adjust to early on - but once she'd gotten past the apparent absence of direction, she grew to comprehend that in truth, Kayden expected them to independently recognize the overarching goals of her team, and to take initiative toward their completion without prompt.
Evening patrols about the Downtown had been the plan that Night and Fog had eventually settled upon. Aside from relieving antagonists to the city's Caucasian populace of weapons and usable funds, increased exposure permitted them to build rapport with the rank and file of the Empire Eighty-Eight. Already, after several months of local activity, they were tolerated as 'external assets' to the group's chain of command, despite the fact that they were associated only via Kayden's status as a former officer. If things got dangerous for the men on the street, irrespective of allegiance, Night and Fog were now welcome to intervene at will.
It was by one such intervention that Night initially crossed paths with the cape then known as 'Virtue.'
"Have you spotted the intruder?" she asked in Deutsch, crouched upon the corner of a rooftop.
Partially reconstituting his neck and lower face in the air beside her, her partner made his report:
"Not yet."
Fog's perception in mist-form was fundamentally flawed. With a degree of discrimination inversely proportional to his dispersal, and limited by the extent to which diffusion robbed him of capacity to coordinate his spread, it was a largely 'tactile' apprehension of solid exteriors - good for open, unobstructed terrain, but not so much enclosed spaces or areas dense with complicated structures.
The streets and alleys of Brockton Bay were thankfully not so narrow that he couldn't perform basic outdoor reconnaissance.
"There's a man unconscious to the rear of the building," he continued. "He had his weapon drawn - which makes it likely he was incapacitated only after the alert came into effect."
"Possible hiding places for the hostile?"
A hand gloved in white and the forearm sleeve of a pitch black dinner jacket materialized, pointing down toward the three-story warehouse behind Hookwolf's facility.
"The buildings nearby aren't easily accessible from the ground floor," said Fog. "The shipping depot is the only structure within range that would provide ample cover for escape."
Night nodded.
"I'll check inside, then," she said.
She didn't order him to 'look away'; he'd been assigned as her support for long enough that there simply wasn't a need. With the dispersal of his face and arm, she felt his attention slip from her flesh; her limbs rapidly elongated beneath the fabric of her dress as she dove from her five-story perch, hardening at their epidermis to chitin, and segmenting like the legs of an arthropod.
On the blacktop below, she landed with a softness borne of preparation.
Fog's attention was again upon her, and her body abruptly collapsed into itself as she padded barefoot into the warehouse - an intentional reveal of her identity so as to unsettle the prey, per their usual strategy.
"Burn anything that comes out," she whispered.
Sensing the enemy's gaze momentarily, she awaited their first blink - and then /dashed/.
In her monstrous state, subjective time was slowed; a second on the clock extended to a significant fraction of a minute. Inertia, unfortunately, was unaltered - and though she was much faster than a baseline human, she moved only as quickly as the strength in her limbs could overcome her mass. Navigating the obstacles that filled the building for maybe forty seconds, she located her quarry: A tall, masked girl in grey military fatigues, crouching beside a large wolfdog.
With her hand - a mantis-like raptorial appendage that terminated in a double-edged blade - Night directed a cut to the girl's neck.
Miraculously, her opponent dodged - slowly diving aside as the blade sliced past her and cleanly bisected the shelving unit she'd been facing. Night didn't dally; before the girl could turn her gaze, she was off again - haphazardly delivering another slice to the shelf to fill the girl's line of sight with visual obstruction.
'A combat Thinker with high-speed reflexes?' Night wondered, circling out of sight, and then to the opposite end of the girl's aisle.
Arriving at her destination, she blinked her compound eyes.
The shelves had by now entirely collapsed, and she could see the dog trapped beneath the metallic frame and a mess of cardboard. The girl, however, was nowhere to be found.
'She's buried under all that trash?'
Rushing to where she'd last seen her mark, she swept her blade-hand through piles of boxes that now filled the aisle.
She wasn't rewarded with the sensation of parting flesh.
By the time she completed her swing, her arm was again human - and the edge of a knife was pressed against the tender skin of her throat.
"Yield?" asked the girl.
By way of reply, Night detached one of the stun grenades hooked to the bottom of her corset, dropping it to the girl's feet. Transformed in the moment of detonation, she delivered a forceful kick to the girl's side, launching her through the shelves in the next aisle over - and losing sight of her in the afterimage of the flash.
'Stranger power and accelerated perception,' thought Night, unsteadily trampling over the fallen debris in the rough direction the girl had flown. 'She's a bad match-up for me.'
The chitin of her leg lifted - and the skin upon the sole of her foot pressed down against the cool linoleum of the warehouse floor. The girl's attention was again upon her - and once more, Night didn't have a clue as to where she was. Biting her lower lip, she drew the automatic pistol holstered at her side, cautiously pacing forward.
Spotting a movement in the corner of her eye, she turned, squeezing off a shot.
The bullet punctured the surface of an empty cardboard box, knocking it over. Glowering, she unloaded several more rounds at random, tearing through the packaging littered about her.
'She's using her Stranger power to conceal herself,' she thought, clenching her jaw and holding her gun low. 'Either that, or she's done something to me. A Trump ability?'
"My love," said Fog, partially materializing beside her. "We should be off. Hookwolf's men have pulled out, and Armsmaster is quickly approaching."
Reluctantly, Night nodded her assent.
"This isn't over yet," she said, slowly backing away toward a nearby entrance.
When the pair finally vacated the premises, I lifted the box that I'd taken cover beneath and set it aside - clenching my jaw at the pain in my left knee.
[It's definitely dislocated,] said Dragon. [Just keep calm, and stay where you are, alright? I'll call for an ambulance.]
Disregarding her, I grasped the underside of my leg in my right hand, bending it slightly.
[Wait. What are you-]
Gripping my lower leg with the palm of my prosthetic, I applied a brief burst of strength, forcing it in the direction of my knee. There was a loud, cracking snap, and the incredible pain that shot through my leg elicited an involuntary scream -
Then, it was over. The joint was set again within its socket, and the pain was rapidly fading.
[... what?] asked Dragon. [But, that ... that was a serious injury ...]
"I'll live," I said, pushing to my feet.
With a slight limp, I made my way over to the wolfdog to check on his condition. He whimpered at my approach - but once I'd removed the heavier parts of the metallic frame pinning him to the floor, he was able to pull himself free, apparently uninjured. I supposed the cardboard boxes that covered him must've somehow cushioned the blunt impact of the shelf collapse.
"You're a lucky, lucky boy," I said, rubbing him behind the ears.
Between Night's flash-bang and the wolfdog's stunning, the marks that I'd accumulated had all but vanished. It was something to keep in mind: Both my own positional awareness and that reliant upon a 'partner's' perceptions didn't persist beyond a sharp interruption of consciousness. I still wasn't all too clear on the underlying mechanics, but somehow reestablishing my connection with the dog, I could confirm only the familiar silhouette of Armsmaster drawing near, seated upon what I assumed to be his motorcycle. The Empire thugs had evacuated during the fight, and were nowhere within range.
Limping toward the side of the building closer to Armsmaster, I exited into the evening air - looking on as he pulled up in his bike and cut the engine. As he disembarked, the wolfdog growled behind me, but seemed to calm when I gestured for him to back down.
"I gave you this assignment because it was relatively safe," said Armsmaster gruffly, walking over. "Freeing the dogs was unnecessary and dangerous. You should've just escaped when you completed your task."
I winced.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
For a long moment, he stared at me with thinned lips, as if judging. Then, he spoke again.
"You did good, maneuvering Night and Fog into retreat," he said. "More experienced capes would have trouble doing the same." He tilted his head, looking to my left leg. "You'll want to get that leg checked out in a hospital, though."
Not wanting to seem discourteous, I nodded.
"Can I keep the dog?" I asked.
Armsmaster regarded the wolfdog, who looked back at him with thinly disguised wariness.
"I'll see if I can arrange it," he said. "But first, let's make sure he has all the necessary inoculations."
As if he understood that it might involve needles, the dog curled behind my legs and whimpered.
