Author's note - Thank you for your reviews, follows, and patience. My apologies for a short chapter: I was going to combine this and the next chapter into one, but decided I ought to put this up first and post the other later, so you all know that I'm still here at least.

As mentioned before, I plan to revise this fic in its entirety once I'm done - and we are coming near to the end! For now, focus on the story and not the potential typos or formatting inconsistencies. Thanks!

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38.

"Hey!" shouted Reynie, having unexpectedly come to, and as McCracken spun around in shock, the teenage boy threw a punch with surprising ferocity. "Don't - you - dare - hurt - her!" he yelled, pummelling the villain, whose arms flew up automatically to protect his chest. Milligan seized Harper's hand and murmured something in her ear, to which she nodded grimly.

"Now, that won't do," said McCracken, finally gaining his composure and a vise-like grip on Reynie's wrists. "Ryan, if you would deal with this young man?"

Leering, a Ten Man whipped out a laser pointer and aimed. Milligan had somehow disappeared; Reynie struggled, cringing, when, out of nowhere, the weapon was whacked out of his grasp. "Now, I don't think that's right at all," said S.Q., casually flipping Ryan over onto his back. "You leave my friends alone, now."

"Don't just stand there, do something!" cried McCracken.

In a flash, a dozen Ten Men were wrestling Milligan, Reynie, and S.Q. to the ground. They fell in a heap of grunting and kicking limbs, each one holding their own and nobody making any progress.

"The handkerchiefs, you bleeding idiots!" McCracken bellowed. "Brute force won't knock them out on its own!"

One Ten Man reached into his breast pocket, but his smug expression was quickly replaced by confusion, and then horror. "What the devil - ?" For his fist brought up nothing but air, and Harper stood at the other end of the room, waving twelve gleaming bandanas and smirking.

"Bet you didn't reckon on her being an excellent pickpocket," said Milligan. The remaining Ten Men, refusing to believe that they'd been so easily foiled, were caught off guard and their prisoners easily overcame two or three of them apiece.

"What are you going to do now, then?" asked Reynie, coming to his feet, red-faced and furious. "With ten Ten Men down?"

McCracken sneered. "I've got plenty more," he said complacently, and motioned.

Another wave of his minions materialized, revealing annexes that it seemed only they had access to and that expanded the size of the chamber considerably. In smooth simultaneity, they all reached for their briefcases. Cleo suddenly leapt up and tackled one man by the knees. Two others advanced quickly on her; she shrunk away with a frightened squeak, but Sticky appeared, eyes on fire as he seized a gold ink pen from a Ten Man's hand and tapped it lightly on his head. He collapsed, down for the count, and Sticky helped Cleo to her feet, saying, "C'mon, it's not over yet."

McCracken stood in the middle of the room, watching his world fall apart. It was brutal, it was painful, and it was well-deserved. Part of him knew that this was only fair, that he had had this coming to him for ages. And so when Constance blinked into consciousness, she immediately tugged at his mind. He was vulnerable; he knew what she was doing, that he was being manipulated. "Leave me alone," he said weakly.

The girl's gaze was blazing, flush spreading across her cheeks, sweat beading up on her forehead. He was laid bare; he was defenseless; she twisted his thoughts until he had utterly no control.

"Stop," he begged her.

Still concentrating, still drawing out memories and equations and nerves, she crossed her arms and demanded, "Why?"

"I didn't - do - anything -"

"To deserve this?" Reynie spat. His shirt was torn now, and bruises formed spots across his face. At his feet, though, lay several more Ten Men, and as one groaned and tried to sit up he slammed his foot on him - it, really, for McCracken's rule had reduced human beings to mere devices - unmercifully. "There's a great big list, actually. However, I wouldn't want to waste your time."

"Please - just - stop -"

"Constance, watch out!" S.Q. swept in and lifted her swiftly up onto his shoulder just as McCracken lunged clumsily for his index cards, which he aimed sloppily and ended up taking out two Ten Men. The girl's life was saved, but the connection was lost.

What neither noticed was the Ten Man beside them, playing dead, who sneakily crept nearer until he jumped up, reaching for his shockwatch. Constance yelped; S.Q. lunged, and before either of them could do anything, Mr. Benedict had attacked him, hurling the watch across the room and crying, "Take him down!"

McCracken spun wildly around. It was as if he was moving through a thick jelly, and the harder he fought, the stiffer it became. Panic pumped through his veins and overflowed. He heard himself scream, watched the love uniting this incorrigible group of people take down everything he'd sacrificed, all to produce what? A button that he now inexplicably found himself unable to use. Perhaps it was that meddlesome, foolish girl's act of protecting Harper, the way she threw herself in front of her, that rendered him physically incapable of reaching for it. It must be her fault that he stood so paralyzed... yes, it was her fault indeed.

Of course, we all know that if anyone was to blame, it was not Kate. No, she only shook his confidence in a way that nobody had mustered up the courage to do before. At some point, everyone must face a reality check, heroes and villains alike, and, it would seem, this was an unusually cruel and fitting one. McCracken's entire life had always been devoted to pure evil. To tearing those down who made him feel inferior, and building those up who he saw as weak enough to fall under his power.

I dearly wish that this could be some sort of lesson to you all, you know, something about making the proper choices and not going down the path of mass destruction, but alas, I cannot bring myself to that. McCracken's tale - though far from over - is a tragic one, and I do believe a lively story with no intended moral is long overdue, wouldn't you say?

At any rate, McCracken's hand was trembling rapidly, much akin to a leaf in a dreadful storm, when his lapel began beeping and blinking.

"Damon," he sibilated. "Oh poor, poor Damon."