A/N: Thanks again to itsnotkristoff (tumblr) for fixing all the stupid errors I make.
Three and a Half Years Ago
Elsa's muscles quiver, the constant strain of using them to the limits day after day pulling her to the breaking point. She can't remember the last time she had a proper sleep, or even anything that constituted as more than a fitful nap.
After Arson destroyed half of South Carolina, no one caught sight of her for a week. During this time the media was in a frenzy, some boasting how the Protector league finally rid the universe of Arson, but most blaming them for the destruction of a state and the death of millions. The American President was ready to blacklist the current and future Protector superheroes from the USA indefinitely, when from the ashes of the defiled state, the troops securing the perimeter caught sight of their worst fear. Arson, ambling towards the edge of the ruin she created, eyes burning red and silver.
Before any of the soldiers had time to shoot, she was gone – breaking the sound barrier as she flew away.
The world was on edge, and the league did their best to stop all the bombs fired from twitchy fingers, but they didn't always succeed. They didn't have enough manpower to deal with an upheaval of this size.
That's when mercy came, in the form of Kida—or Zeus, as she called herself after the league explained superhero names—a lightning wielder from the 'God planet' Asgard, and Hercules – a resident meta-human with superhuman strength that, she claims, outmatches Arson's. Calhoun did a background check on both of them—a short one, the league didn't have time to waste—and cleared both for active duty, but promised to finish a detailed analysis before the week was out.
Fourteen days after Arson's confirmed survival, and two days after Zeus and Hercules were accepted into the Protector ranks, the villain fire-master made a reappearance with new, disturbing additions to her outfit. Arson's clothes were bulkier than before and, after a few skirmishes, the league determined the source to be advanced, flexible armour. Her mask, while the same suppression mask it was before, was modified to have six motorized, retractable slits to allow the use of black fire. The most disturbing thing, however, is the mechanical skeleton attached over the skin of Arson's arms and hands. While covered with gloves and long sleeves, the Protector members still caught glimpses of the technology.
And now, Elsa surmises as she stares down the fire villain, she realises the league should have left well enough alone.
Arson cackles low in her chest, her voice rumbling like the shockwaves of an incoming comet, and she says, "Shame on you, Blizzard, for leaving a job half done." She lifts her arms, wiggling her fingers. Her red and silver eyes flash with mirthful malice. "Really, you should know by now that I only come back stronger once you leave me for dead."
Elsa doesn't know that, but the surety in the villain's voice gives her pause. Arson sounds like she's speaking from experience, but the only two encounters Elsa and her shared before now had Arson kicking her ass. The fire-master could be referring to the latest incident, where she levelled half a state and the league assumed her dead, but one example is nowhere near enough to define a pattern.
The winter hero clenches her fists, her muscles trembling with the effort. She doesn't have the strength to continue fighting, neither in magic nor in a physical show of power. Even if she was charged and ready to go, Elsa doubts she would be any match for her former idol. Her powers can stand up to Arson's regular fire but not her black fire, and physically? While all magic-inclined metas have minor qualities of super strength and endurance—it comes with the magical territory—Elsa has no chance in hell beating a meta more dominate in those areas than her. It would be like a child trying to beat an adult at arm wrestling; possible under the right circumstances, but not fucking likely.
Kida, in somewhat better shape than herself and Tarzan—who passed out halfway through the battle—circles Arson with a sharp gaze. Arson ignores her for the most part, but her awareness shows in the tilt of her body, the angle of her feet. While the villain has shown weakness to Kida's electricity, Kida has shown susceptibility to white fire and a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat, which Arson excels.
Arson lowers her arms, her gaze boring into Elsa's. A sweat breaks over the hero's skin, the chill of her icy armour be damned.
"You have grown weaker," Arson comments, the unnatural howling of black fire hissing through the six open slits in her mask. "Even more reason to be disappointed in you."
"Weaker?" Elsa barks, gritting her teeth. "Last time we fight you told me I was getting stronger and, if you've forgotten, I beat you. Crippled your arms." For a time, at least. Although, Elsa supposes, Arson's arms might still be crippled, if the mechanical skeleton she wears on them is any indication.
"The last time we fought I left you to bake in the desert on Achilles Four," Arson dead-pans, "and you hardly crippled me. As you can see"—she lifts her arms again, gesturing to herself—"my limbs work fine. You should really get your head out of the clouds. It doesn't suit you."
Elsa seethes. What in the hell is this bitch going on about?
"I've never heard of Achilles Four," the winter hero growls, "nor have I ever been there."
Arson rolls her eyes, the spiteful action chilling Elsa to the bone. "Take your inability to accept your limitations to Athena and cry your heart out to her. Oh, wait," Arson stops, throwing back her head and laughing like the madwoman she is. "You can't!" she howls, gripping her stomach as it shakes with sick jollity. Then, as soon as it starts it ends, and Arson pins Elsa with the darkest look she's ever seen. In a low, dangerous rumble, the villain says, "Because I killed her."
Lightning lashes out, and so does Arson. Her and Kida lock in a dangerous scuffle, the ground trembling with the force of their powers.
Elsa limps her way to Tarzan, wanting to drag the unconscious woman out of the line of fire but not knowing how, not when Elsa herself feels like she's on the verge of collapse. Still, she hooks her arms under Tarzan's, hugs the woman's back to her icy chest plate and slowly, but surely, drags her away. Just not far enough to count.
She's not sure how much time passes until Kida is forced to take a knee, but Elsa can't say she's surprised once it happens. Kida may be strong, but she's had no training for this sort of thing. Hell, even those who have had training for this sort of thing are nothing but useless cannon fodder against Arson's superior experience.
Calhoun had told them that Arson was the weakest of the old elites before they tried subduing her two and a half weeks ago, but the AI neglected to mention how strong the other elites were in comparison. If she had, maybe the heroes could have avoided all of this. But Elsa doubts that. All she can be glad for is that Arson was the one who took the plunge instead of one of the other four; the league wouldn't have stood a chance.
"Really, Kida," Arson says, her crotch an uncomfortable distance the meta-alien's face as the villain reaches down and weaves her fingers in the lightning-welder's hair.
"My name is Zeus," Kida spits, her heavy accent combined with her struggling making her words a tangled mess, but Arson understands her, if the disturbing amusement lacing her glowing eyes are any indication.
"Zeus, is it?" Arson chortles, the air around her shimmering. The hidden lines on her clothes light up, the red arches a warning to the activation of her powers.
Arson never used to be about show, Elsa recalls, but she must admit – Arson is no longer the person she used to be. And while it breaks the blond meta's heart to the core, she has to accept that the hero she loved is gone, or else she'll find herself dining with the old elites in the afterlife much sooner than she should.
"Since when did you take an alias?" Arson mocks, her silver pupils dilating when Kida tilts her head back to glare at her. The villain tightens her fingers, sucking in a sharp breath through her nose. Elsa swears she sees Arson's hips roll forward, but she has to be imagining it. She has to be. "Using a separate name but wearing nothing to hide your features defeats the purpose of donning a superhero title," Arson adds, when no answer from Kida is forthcoming. "Allure not using a mask is one thing, because she's a nobody," she taunts, her pupils blowing ever wider when Kida's glare sharpens. "But you're a princess," Arson breathes, a small, wanting groan sounding at the back of her throat, "and princesses will be recognized, and sought after, and wanted."
Elsa's eyes widen, chest constricting her heart. Out of all the horrid things her once wondrous hero has become, Elsa never once contemplated that she had fallen far enough to— to violate people.
Arson keeps one hand in Kida's hair, using the other to fumble with her belt. "If you're good," she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement when Kida's struggling renews with vigor, "I might even let you see your family again. I'll give them a good show with you, and when they can't take any more I'll put them out of their misery. That sound like a plan?"
"No!" Kida cries, tears misting her eyes as Arson opens her belt and moves on to the button. "Please!" the meta-alien wails, trying to summon her powers and failing. She wore out her magic during the battle – using too much raw force and not enough precision.
"If you're bad," Arson continues, a nerve-wracking smile in her voice, "I'll make your life a living hell." She undoes the button, and moves on to the zipper. She laughs. "Let's be honest, I'll make your life a living hell either way, but at least if you're good you'll get to say goodbye to your loved ones." She pulls the zipper down.
Elsa thinks she's going to be sick.
"Hmm, how to do this," Arson hums, thumbing the edge of her open pants as she holds them up. "Like this?" she asks, taking a pointed step forward. "Or with you lying on the ground?"
Kida's breath puffs in and out, her body trembling in fear. With Arson's advance, Kida's nose is close enough to touch the villain's underwear if she so much as twitches her head forward. The tears clouding the royal's eyes spill over, Arson's smell cementing the reality that yes, this is happening and no, you can't stop her.
Tarzan stirs in Elsa's arms, and the winter hero has half the mind to knock her out again, to spare her from seeing the scene on stark display before them.
Arson broadens her stance and releases her armour-laced cargo pants, allowing the garment to stop high on her thighs instead of falling to the ground. "Keep your hands locked behind your back if you don't want to get burnt," Arson says, with a chuckle. "Or do it anyway. I have a thing for inflicting cigarette burns."
"I don't—" Kida's voice cracks and she grits her teeth, unable to stop her tears from flowing. "Please," she begs, her chest hiccupping in repressed sobs, "let me go. I promise I won't oppose you again." The words are almost lost under the meta's accent, muddled with emotion. Elsa can't make heads or tails of the sentence, but Arson doesn't appear to have any trouble deciphering it.
"Many people have said that to me in the past," Arson muses. "Except for the rare percent, all of them have lied. So this is how it's going to work," she states, tapping the waistband of her underwear. "If you want to see your parents again, and I'll even give you a couple minutes alone with them before I start fucking you, you'll pull this down with your teeth and do all the work yourself. If you want me to torture your parents for decades before killing them, you'll make me force your head into place. Either way, you'll be doing the same deed. Make a choice."
After a pause, Kida asks, with a tremor to her voice, "How do I know you'll keep your word?"
Arson arches an eyebrow. "I'm going to make you regret being born no matter what you do," she says, tone flat. "And whether or not I keep my word doesn't really matter, because if you don't at least try you'll regret not doing everything you could have to save your loved ones from years of pain and misery. I'm giving you this choice for your peace of mind, which is more than you deserve. But who knows, maybe you'll be good enough to convince me to keep my promise. Stranger things have happened."
Kida hisses out a harsh breath, one that has Arson's eyelids fluttering.
"Wha— what's happening?" Tarzan airs, as if she was punched in the chest. Elsa winces.
"Kida wore out her powers," Elsa murmurs. "You and I don't have any juice left, and the rest of the league is dealing with other villains. Arson is"—she cringes—"taking advantage of the situation."
Kida, after a dreadful pause, locks her fingers behind her back. She straightens her kneeling body, giving her the height to nudge Arson's shirt up with her nose, her lips hovering over what she knows is the beginning of the end. The villain sucks in a sharp breath, her body quivering with anticipation.
"How are your arms holding out?"
Arson blinks, glancing over her shoulder. Elsa and Tarzan look, too, and both of them slump in relief. Elsa never thought she would be so happy to see Scar, the junior-leaguer-turned-villain-mastermind who has been raining hell on the heroes whenever Arson was too preoccupied to do it herself.
"Fine," Arson bites, her eyes narrowing.
Scar raises an eyebrow, glancing up from his tablet. He takes in the scene, shrugs, and goes back reading the information on his screen. He waves an uncaring hand.
"I'm not here to stop this little affair, if that's what you're worried about," Scar says, trotting over the debris and broken ground between him and his fellow villain. "I'm here because you've been fucking with my tech." Once he's close enough he flips his tablet around, allowing Arson to analyse the information.
"Oh," Arson mutters, with an uncaring undertone, "that's because I was struck by lightning a few times. Indirectly, of course," she adds, when Scar narrows his eyes at her, "but the electricity charging the air could have done something."
"'Could have,'" Scar mocks, jabbing a finger to the screen. "That looks more than a 'could have' to me."
"Fine, so it did," Arson grumbles, turning her attention back to Kida. "Don't mind him," she says, twitching her fingers in warning, "keep going."
Scar turns the screen back to himself, flipping through the information. "It also looks as if there is major impact damage," he states, accusing.
"I punch things and get punched back," Arson deadpans. "I mean really, use your head." Her breath staggers out of her lips, head tilting back as Kida grips the elastic of her underwear between her teeth, and pulls.
"Your arms won't be healed for a long time," Scar scolds. "And the tech you're wearing isn't easy to replace or repair. Use your head and treat this tech right if you enjoy not depending on others to wipe your ass every time you shit."
"Language," Arson tsk's, "there's a princess present." Her eyes flash with sick amusement, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Scar's lip curls into a sneer.
"Can you take nothing seriously?" Scar snaps, his fingers tightening on his tablet hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Arson laughs. "As if you're any better!" she cackles. "Sentient lives mean nothing to you anymore. At least I'm aware they have feelings, even if it's just to crush their hopes and dreams."
"Yes," Scar murmurs, clicking a few options on his screen. A second later, a dart is sticking out of Arson's neck.
Arson's blown pupils narrow into pinpricks, and in a swift move she pulls up her pants and underwear, knees Kida in the face and kicks her away, yanks out the dart and does up her pants and belt. She whirls on Scar, a growl rumbling in her chest and black fire screaming unearthly cries at the back of her throat. Scar's eyes tighten, but he holds steady. Arson stomps forward, but before she can attack, her legs tremble and she stumbles to catch her bearings.
When the fire villain collapses to the ground, clawing at her hair, Scar releases a breath of relief. From the shadows, the Headless Horseman emerges, his hulking, headless form shimmering and misting around the edges, as if he doesn't really exist.
"A good shot for a man with no eyes," Scar compliments, gesturing in a specific direction. "Bring her to the transport. The drivers have already been informed of your destination, so there's no need to tell them."
The Headless Horsemen, a speechless villain, balls his fingers into fists. Scar smiles. It isn't comforting. Without further shows of complaint, the seven foot tall man lifts Arson and carries her away.
In the brief second Arson had to send a pained glower in Scar's direction, Elsa noted the villain's natural teal irises had started overtaking the red that had set up residence there.
When the Headless Horseman is out of sight, Scar's pretenses fall away, and he faces Elsa and Tarzan with a grave expression.
"Do the universe a favour, and never attempt to subdue Arson ever again," Scar says, his eyes hard and his tone damning. "She may not have been the strongest hero due to her own reservations but, as you just witnessed, she makes a fucking terrifying villain if you push her. So don't, push, her." He turns heel. "Treat her like the cretin she is all you like, but never, ever go far enough to make her eyes change colour. Keep her irises teal and her pupils black, and you'll never have to worry about mass casualties from her ever again. She may have become a fiend, but as long as you don't make her snap, she's a fiend with morals; and a nightmare with standards is better than monster without them." He starts walking away.
"Wait!" Tarzan cries, reaching out. She tries to stand, only to collapse back into Elsa, a cringe twisting her features.
Scar pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. He doesn't speak.
"Why did you help us?" Tarzan asks, her throat raw. She swallows. "You're a villain now, just like her."
Scar hums, glancing up to the sky. He takes a moment, then huffs a half amused breath. "I owed an old friend a favour," he admits. "Their request aligned with my own self-preservation, so I agreed." He shrugs. "Villains don't like being pushed around anymore than heroes do," he says, walking away. "Which should tell you something, considering the only person who agreed to stand up to Arson has no powers to speak of, and had to pay out the ass to get one of big-bads to reluctantly help out." Scar stops at the top of a small mound, sending Tarzan a meaningful look. "Not even villains cross Arson anymore. So do us all a favour, and get with the program."
With that, Scar turns and disappears over the mound of dirt.
Tarzan closes her eyes, strain pulling her features taunt.
Elsa sighs and lays Tarzan on the ground, pushing herself onto shaky feet and limping her way to Kida's unconscious form. She's going to need someone to hold her when she wakes.
Present Day
Esmeralda—Allure—watches with raised eyebrows as she witnesses Ariel pinning, who she assumes is the programmer Shadow went after, to her chest on the couch, cuddling the young woman as if both their lives depend on it.
"It is way too fucking early for this shit," the Romanian grumbles, padding her way to the base's kitchen. To her lack of surprise, Belle and Jane—holding a cup of tea and coffee, respectfully—are present, talking in hushed toned beside the coffeemaker. "May I?" Esmeralda grunts, pointing to the machine.
Belle and Jane look up, courteous smiles tugging their lips as they step out of the way. Esmeralda's eyebrows raise, her sharp gaze scanning both her friend's faces, their fully costumed bodies, sans the headgear. She sighs, grabbing a cup bearing her symbol from the cupboard. "Will I need to be properly caffeinated before we delve into this conversation?" she asks, popping the strongest black coffee k-cup the base has available into the machine.
Jane shrugs, taking a sip from her mug. She winces, and puts it in the microwave. "I wouldn't think so," she says, sending a pointed gesture to her warming coffee. "But it can be a touch discouraging."
"Does it have anything to do with Poseidon koala-ing that poor woman out there?" Esmeralda asks, watching the coffeemaker—or hot chocolate maker, in Elsa's case—dribble her morning salvation into her mug.
"Yes and no, leaning on yes," Jane answers, smirking when the Romanian sends her a flat look.
Belle rolls her eyes, keeping her voice low as she says, "Anna was injured when she arrived, kicking Poseidon's protective instinct into high gear. Justice was hardly able to drag her away from Anna's room when she settled down for the night."
Esmeralda pauses, mulling over the words. "But that isn't why Poseidon's behaving this way now," she guesses, more from experience than any indicator in Belle's tone.
Belle nods. "Anna couldn't sleep last night," she confirms. "I found her in Calhoun's core room when I was done assisting Blizzard and Archer's teams. Anna was troubled, to say the least. When she started to explain why, she broke into sweat, her breathing laboured, her eyes glossed over and she started crying. I broke her out of the trance, but when she looked at me it was as if she was looking at someone else. Someone who terrified her."
Esmeralda closes her eyes, allowing herself a second to take a breath. "She suffers from post traumatic stress?" she asks, seeing where this was heading. It's hard not to, considering she bore witness to half the league members developing the disorder first hand, and dealing with the fall out of those who already had it when they joined. The saddest part is that all cases were developed with Arson as the sole or root cause.
"Yeah," Belle breathes, swirling her tea. "Unlike all of us, her case appears to be"—she winces—"bad."
Blinking, Esmeralda turns, ignoring her finished coffee. "She's worse than Archer?" she questions.
Jane snorts. "I don't think Archer suffers from PTSD," she says. "Or if she does it's overshadowed a hundred times over by her obsession with mounting Arson's head on pike."
"Good point," Esmeralda consents. "Then who is she worse than?"
Belle and Jane share a look, one parents use when breaking uncertain news to a child.
"We're not quite sure of the extent," Belle says, words slow as she considers the best way to explain. "But I think it's fair to say she's worse than all the leaguers combined." Esmeralda's muscles jump in surprise, and Belle twitches a pitying smile. "She's not a meta like us, nor was she trained to deal with whatever hell she was put through. I can't say whether or not the events in her life can contend with ours, only that they affected her on a much deeper level than our tragedies have affected us."
Esmeralda runs her fingers through her hair. Releasing a steady breath, she grabs her coffee and downs half of it, wincing when it burns her tongue. "Will this stop her from helping us?" she asks, her eyebrows pinching.
Jane takes her mug from the microwave, swirling the contents. "That is a possibility," she concedes, "but if the Anna I remember is still in her somewhere, she'll choose to help us instead of being conquered by her fears."
The telepath hums, staring into the black liquid in her mug. "It might not make a difference," she murmurs, taking a more cautious sip of coffee. "She might want to help us, but that doesn't mean she'll want to risk her well being in the process. According to you," she says, turning to Belle, "Anna already went through hell once. There's no guarantee she'll risk going through it again. I can't say I would, in her shoes."
"I can't say I would, either," Jane agrees. "Some memories are too horrible to experience twice."
Belle stares into her cup, eyebrows furrowing. "Then where does that leave us?" she whispers. "The only way we can gain elite access ourselves is if the last of the old elites die, and the last time we went up against Arson, really went up against her—"
"Half a state paid the price, we all got our asses kicked and Zeus was sexually assaulted, we know," Esmeralda snaps, her eyes hardening.
"Allure!" Jane barks. "We do not mentio—"
"But it's true!" Esmeralda grits, the muscles in her jaw bulging. "As much as we try to ignore the past by never uttering a word, every move we have ever made against Arson has blown up in our faces. The only times it didn't was because Arson wanted to prove a fucking point. Her actions over the past three years may have proven that the hero we once knew is still in her somewhere, but it didn't stop her from slaughtering the old elites, or from becoming a mass murder, or from trying to kill us, or from trying to rape us." She raises her hands in mock surrender, a scathing smile on her lips. "Sure, she's docile enough when we run into her and she's not up to no good, but she's still a villain. The only reason she helped Blizzard with her parents—by torturing Scar, mind you—was because someone else wanted her to."
Jane and Belle share a look, muscles twitching at the hostile reminder.
"You know, I've been thinking on that last point," Belle says, once again sidestepping the league's history. "Blizzard told me that Arson's exact response when asked why she helped, was, 'I owed someone a favour.' My question, is who in this universe has enough of Arson's respect, or at least enough dirt, to get her to do whatever they want? Scar is out of the question, considering the circumstances, but who else—"
"Archer and Zeus have departed from Moscow," Calhoun reports, her voice startling the occupants of the kitchen. "They'll be arriving within the hour."
"Jesus, don't do that," Jane hisses, resting a hand over her heart. Belle smirks.
"You should be used it to by now," the genius teases, before turning her attention to one of the cameras; Calhoun's eyes. "Did you inform them to remain in costume?"
Calhoun hesitates. "Yes," she says, considering, "but I haven't told them a reason other than 'the league is housing a temporary guest.'"
Belle's eyebrows dart into her hairline. "Why would you do that?" she blurts. "They would be ecstatic to—"
"Zeus, maybe," Calhoun relents, "but not Archer."
A silence stretches, but when the AI doesn't elaborate Esmeralda takes the plunge, asking, "Care to explain?" She pauses, then frowns. "Or is it classified?"
"It isn't classified, at least not specific details," Calhoun says, "but it is rather . . . personal. You see," the intelligence stops here, mulling over her speech options. With a sigh, she admits, "Archer and Anna knew each other before the Ambassador incident; long before Archer even considered becoming a hero. They had a falling out when Anna failed to show to the funeral of Archer's mother, who perished when her plane was taken out by the Ambassador ship debris drawn through our atmosphere."
Esmeralda whistles. "Have they made contact with each other since?" she asks.
"Only once, a couple weeks after the funereal," Calhoun says. "As far as I understand it, Archer pushed Anna out of her life and Anna didn't fight the decision. That's not the outcome Anna wanted, mind you, but I think she was dealing with too many things in her own life to forcefully interfere in anyone else's."
"This . . . might be a problem," Jane pounders, with a frown.
"No shit," Belle says. "Archer is a loose cannon on the best of days."
"I'd say she's more psychotic," Esmeralda intercedes. "Or maybe a vengeful maniac with a short temper."
"My point," Belle grits, "is that Archer being blind sighted by Anna will not work in our favour."
"I doubt an advanced warning will be any better," Jane argues. "You know how she gets."
"I suggest you don your masks," Calhoun interrupts. "Anna is coming to the kitchen."
Jane sighs, and grabs her helm. "This discussion isn't over," she says, putting on the piece of armour.
"It will be if we don't come up with a solution before Archer gets back," Belle protests, grabbing the fabric mask pooled around her neck and settling the top over her nose.
Esmeralda—who doesn't wear a mask, like Megara, Ariel and Kida—takes another sip of her coffee. "Hercules can restrain her if she gets out of hand," the telepath reasons. She frowns. "Assuming she gets back before Archer."
"She won't," Belle says. "The mission she was on was a success, but General and Hercules are tying up loose ends, Shadow is passed out here at base but she won't be waking up anytime soon, and Blizzard and Golden Flower are staying home with Blizzard's parents for a few days. Not that I blame them."
"Blame who?" Anna asks, ducking around the corner and pressing her back against the wall.
Jane raises an eyebrow. "What are you doing?" she asks.
"Hiding from Poseidon," Anna hisses. "She keeps trapping me in fucking bear bugs."
Esmeralda coughs coffee back into her mug, laughter shaking her lungs. "Yeah, she's like that," she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement. "She only wants to make you feel better."
Anna cringes. "I wish she wouldn't," she whispers, almost too soft to hear. Louder, and before anyone can comment, she adds, "Look, I think I figured out a way to get back my access without making a LCC."
"Anna," Calhoun warns.
"Oh shut up," Anna snaps, glaring at the closest camera. "We both know you have more than enough information to ruin me. The only thing that stupid confession would do is fill in the details."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," Calhoun retorts, voice hard. "I know what you're going to suggest, and it's not safe. You shouldn't even be considering it."
"Maybe," Anna relents. "But I can't do a locked confession, Calhoun. The memories alone send me into a panic attack—last night is a prime example of that—but explaining them?" The blood drains from her face. "I can't—" her voice cracks, and she swallows. "I can't do that."
Calhoun sighs. "I have medication to suppress mental breakdowns," she says, her tone gentle. No one needs to ask why. "And after the LCC is complete, you know I can suppress or dull the recollection of it to help you cope."
"Wait, what?" Jane blurts. "You can do that?"
"Yes and no," Calhoun answers. "The ability is strictly related to LCC's and contingency recordings, as per the old elite's programming. There are exceptions to the rule like any other, but the conditions are defined."
Esmeralda raises an eyebrow. "Contingency recordings?" she asks. "What are those?"
"They're something the old elites used to do," Jane answers. "They're messages they used to record prior to dangerous missions, in case they didn't come back. They had a general message for the league, a personal message for them self and the other elites, and sometimes messages for the junior leaguers. The personal message was what Calhoun would suppress; that way the elite wouldn't know what their past self said when it was played back."
Anna raises an eyebrow. "The elites forced the junior leaguers to make a few of the recordings too, if I recall, but," she adds, pointing to Esmeralda, "if her reaction is anything to go by, no one has done them in a while. Since you're not one of the surviving junior heroes, how do you know about them?"
"There is such a thing as active communication," Jane clips.
Anna hums. "So General and or Shadow told you and no one else?" she questions. "That seems . . . convenient."
"You assume that from one hero's reaction?" Jane scoffs, dumping her coffee into the sink.
Anna stares for a moment, a remorseful smile lingering on her lips. "Of course, how presumptuous of me," she murmurs. "I apologize." Clearing her throat, she says, "I'll make a deal with you, Calhoun. If I succeed in the override you give me my former civilian access without qualms. If I fail, I'll do the LCC and you can pump me with drugs to help me cope. Who knows; maybe I'll be a better person as an addict."
"Override?" Belle questions. "Just what are you planning to do? Get yourself killed?"
"Fuck the override," Esmeralda intercedes. "I want to know why the hell we've never seen these general messages." She sends Jane a pointed look.
Jane winces. There's only so much detail she can reveal with Anna within earshot. The techie might not be a meta, or be anywhere as smart as Belle, but Anna is still perceptive enough to tie Jane's old superhero identity with her new one.
"They would have played to the junior leaguers after each elite's confirmed death," Anna explains, easing the tension in Jane's shoulders. "After that, the general messages will only play upon direct request. The personal messages, on the other hand, can only be accessed by the intended recipient or by high ranking league members twenty-five years following the death of the final surviving recipient, unless the last remaining survivor or survivors agree to unlock the messages early. Any and all confidential information would remain cut out of the video and faces blurred to protect ties to family and loved ones, however."
Belle's eyebrows dart into her hairline. "The old elites revealed what they looked like?" she asks, excitement bubbling in her chest.
"In the personal messages to the other elites," Anna confirms. "Not the general messages, though, since those are technically public to all league members, and not to the junior leaguers."
"Oh," Belle airs, mask wrinkling as she frowns. "So Arson"—she spits the name—"is the only person who knows what the old elites looked like?"
Anna laughs, eyes sparking in surprise at her own mirth. "A lot of people know what they looked like," she says, "but if you're referring to people who knew they were superheroes, then the count goes down to at least three people per elite."
Esmeralda tilts her head. "Why three?" she asks.
"Because only three people still alive know the identity of all five elites," Anna replies.
Jane hums. "Is this including or excluding Arson?" she questions.
Anna twitches a self-deprecating smile. "Two are Athena and Hades' parents and the other is me," she answers, if indirectly. "Look, I'm going to head over to Calhoun's briefing room and set everything up," she says, turning heel. "Join me if you'd like, but stay to the outskirts of the room if the override has already begun."
"Why the briefing room?" Esmeralda asks. "Wouldn't it be easier to go to her core?"
Anna pauses, glancing to the telepath over her shoulder. "Calhoun's core room isn't big enough to handle the process," she says, as if it were obvious. "And unless all the access panel locations have changed since I've last been here, the briefing room is the only logical place to do it. Everywhere else is either too small or has too much stuff." With that, she leaves – skirting Poseidon as when she passes through the living room.
"Okay, now I'm curious," Esmeralda admits, downing her coffee and setting her mug on the sink. She only gets halfway out of the kitchen before realizing the other two heroes haven't moved. The telepath raises an eyebrow. "Are you coming?" she asks.
"In a second," Jane says. "I just need a little time to think."
"Same," Belle agrees, glancing at the direction Anna left. "She knows so much more than us," she murmurs, "it's uncanny."
Esmeralda shrugs. "Suit yourselves," she says, trotting off.
Silence drags for a couple of moments, their minds weighed down with thought.
"Calhoun," Jane finally spokes, "is Arson the only person remaining that keeps the old elite's contingency messages locked?"
"No," the AI replies. "The other remaining people preventing the yearly countdown are General, Shadow, Scar and yourself."
Jane frowns, her eyebrows furrowing. "How is that?" she asks. "I didn't receive a personal message, nor did General or Shadow." Scar was gone before the general messages were unlocked, so even if he did receive one he wouldn't have been able to view it.
"The unlock applies to every single message the old elites ever recorded," Calhoun clarifies. "While any but the last ones are outdated, they would all be made available should an unanimous vote be cast or fifty years after the death of the last recipient."
Jane's muscles jolt in surprise. "Fifty?" she sputters. "What happened to twenty-five?"
"Twenty-five years only applies to the latest recordings," Calhoun says. "Too much information is contained within all of them to release at once."
Jane sighs. "So the only way I'd ever see the personal messages they made for me is if we can get Scar and Arson to help us," she mutters. So much for that plan. Getting Scar to help, surprisingly, wouldn't be too difficult. Arson, on the other hand? Not so much.
Calhoun hums. "Good luck with that," she utters, the tone perking Belle's interest.
"What makes you say that?" Belle asks, glancing at each camera in turn.
The AI sighs. "While Scar wouldn't give two shits either way," she says, confirming Jane's thought, "Arson . . . well," Calhoun chuckles, but there's little humour to it. "Arson hasn't watched any of the messages made available to her following the deaths of her comrades. Outright refused."
Belle's eyes harden. "Figures," she spits. "That bitch doesn't care about anyone other than herself."
"I . . . wouldn't be so sure," Jane whispers, taking the tip of her thumb between her teeth. "She's a murderous bastard, I'm not denying that," she amends, when Belle glares at her, "but sometimes Arson does these things that make me question whether—" she stops herself, and sighs. "General and I are of the belief that Arson should die for what she's done, no matter her reasons, but Shadow never truly gave up hope."
"I"—Belle frowns—"I didn't know that," she utters. Her eyebrows furrow. "Why hasn't Shadow given up? It's not like Arson has ever done anything to make us think she's anything but a villain."
Jane shrugs. "It's just something Hades' said in his general message," she says. "There's no way he could have known what Arson would have done so General and I didn't take much heed to it, but Shadow and Hades' had a strange, sibling-like bond that made her take his words more seriously than she should have. She still watches his message every now and then, you know. I don't know why; for courage, maybe. Or maybe to reaffirm that she's doing the right thing. Or maybe she just misses him."
Belle rubs the back of her neck, her eyes losing focusing. "What did Hades say, in the message?" she asks.
"You'll find out when you watch it," Jane says, avoiding the question. "I can't do his message justice, but . . ." she twitches a guarded smile. "The key to Shadow's hope in Arson remains in the last line of advice Hades' gives before the recording cuts. Just be prepared to have a very widely agreed opinion shattered in the meantime."
Belle frowns. "What the hell are you talking about?" she asks. "Stop being cryptic."
Jane huffs through her nose, tilting her head to stare at the ceiling. "Belle," she breathes, as if talking to a misbehaving child, "Hades' message is about the Ambassadors."