Disjoint looked at the woman in front of her, the mercenary that she finally had a chance to meet. Faultline's eyes were impossible to see beneath the mask, but her head remained fixed firmly on Disjoint as she approached. Gripping the table, the woman spread her arms wide as she leaned forwards, narrowing her attention to the newcomer. On the opposite side Disjoint let herself trail to a halt, standing behind the aluminum chair placed on its own along her side of the table.
"If you're here to make an attempt at arresting us, you should know ahead of time that it isn't worth it."
Faultline's warning was missing the arrogance and condescension she would have expected to accompany those words. Instead, Disjoint felt a flash of respect towards the other woman for her courteous tone; as unnecessary as it was, her sincerity was evident. She truly didn't want to fight. In return, Disjoint could only offer her reassurance.
"I was telling the truth on the phone. I'm here looking for information – nothing more."
At her words – or perhaps her lack of accompanying movement – Faultline leaned back upright, assuming a slightly more relaxed posture. However, she still didn't look away. It was a disorienting feeling, watching the flat mask that fully obscured its wearer's expression. Only now did Disjoint realize how the heroes must have felt, staring into her own vacant hood. The fact that they had managed to pick up on so much nuance was undoubtedly the product of years of practice, something she herself was suddenly wishing for. She could feel the mercenary judging her, looking for something that Faultline herself only knew.
Evidently she found what she was looking for, as the peace held, strained as it was. Faultline merely spoke again, transitioning towards a more conversational tone.
"You certainly seemed suspicious enough. A brand-new hero, calling us out of the blue, wanting to meet in person. Raises a lot of flags."
"I am sorry about that," Disjoint replied softly, with a helpless shrug. "Meeting you all was something I needed to do. In more ways than one." Faultline twitched, and she hurried to clarify.
"Nothing like that. I meant what I said. I'm only here to talk. Please, don't be afraid."
Beside Faultline she heard a quiet sound of amusement, and the mercenary finally broke off her gaze, glancing at her teammates around her. The interruption seemed to act as a cue for Faultline to step back, gesturing at each of the four capes in turn.
"Well, now you've met us. This is my team: Gregor, Newter, Labyrinth, and Spitfire."
At one end of the table the man identified as Gregor nodded to her tranquilly. He was an enormous figure, folds of flesh wrapped around his obese frame. Instead of hiding it, his upper torso was bare; organs and bones were visible beneath translucent flesh and a smattering of growths dotting his skin.
Next to him was a teenage boy with bright orange skin. Compared to Gregor he looked almost ordinary, but besides the odd coloring Disjoint could make out a number of differences. His hands were slightly elongated, and a long prehensile tail peeked in and out of view, curling idly behind him. In contrast to his skin, the teen's eyes were solid blue, radiating outwards to fill the entire socket. As Faultline introduced him, he gave a casual wave with a smile.
On the opposite side of Faultline, the third member sat with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her outfit was similar to Disjoint's own, featuring a long robe and full-face mask. Unlike the others, she wasn't paying attention to her surroundings. Instead she stared down at the floor, ignoring the conversation around her.
Finally, at the end of the line was the shortest member. Their gender was impossible to determine, figure heavily obscured by a thick fireman's suit, complete with gloves and a gas mask. Out of the entire team their outfit was the closest to Faultline's, with various accessories attached at the hip. Under the sudden scrutiny they fidgeted slightly in place, head twitching between Faultline and Disjoint.
As Disjoint glanced back down the line, her eyes came to rest on Gregor again, noticing a mark on his left arm. Peeking out just above the crook of his elbow was a Greek omega, a dark stain against his otherwise-light skin. Beneath her mask she frowned in concentration, a nagging feeling rising briefly until the realization landed a second later.
She had seen the symbol before, in person. One of her final memories, of Manton and his manic warning. She remembered now, clutched in his hands, the vial. He had drawn it out frantically from an open briefcase laid haphazardly on the table between them, and along the underside of the lid that very emblem stared upwards. A phantom shiver ran through her hands as she recalled holding the cold glass tube, clutched tightly between her nervous fingers.
The confirmation was a heady feeling, seeing the connection right in front of her. She had sought out the Case 53s for any insights they might have about missing memories; now proof lay out in the open before her. Whether they knew it or not, there was something that they shared: a life irrevocably altered by that mysterious symbol.
Gregor's head tilted sideways in curiosity and Disjoint realized she had been staring at him in silence for several seconds now.
"It is not a very nice sight, is it?" the man rumbled. He didn't seem particularly offended, but Disjoint shook her head in denial of his words.
"Your tattoo… it's familiar. Not something I expected, but relevant to why I'm here."
She could feel the attention from Gregor and Faultline increase a notch as she admitted knowledge of the mark. Gregor in particular transitioned from his laid-back, impassive posture into something strained, brimming with contained energy. Even their distracted third member in green looked up for a moment, as if she could feel the change in the air.
"You've mentioned you had information about monstrous parahumans. About two of my teammates," Faultine filled the silence. "What are you looking for, in exchange for that knowledge?" She had returned to her professional speech, but the heightened undercurrent persisted through the rote words.
"Case 53s – monstrous capes – all have amnesia, right?" The non-sequitur was in response to Faultline but she aimed it at Gregor and Newter, waiting for the confirming nod. Once it arrived she continued, bringing to light the reason she had sought them out.
"I'm looking for information myself, potentially related. Have you found, or do you know anyone who can manipulate memories? Remove them, bury them, add new ones?"
It was hard for her to say the words, to admit to something so personal. Even without details it was an intimate subject, and Gregor and Newter's confirmation had helped, a reminder that she wasn't alone. In return it seemed like her courage had paid off, as Faultline and Gregor exchanged a speculative look. Only, a second later, Gregor's mouth turned down as he shook his head. Inside, the burgeoning hope stalled.
"There is… someone," Faultline spoke, the grimace evident in her tone despite her covered mouth. "A group we investigated ourselves, recently. A cape who's power involves manipulating memories. But as Gregor reminded me, they had nothing to do with the mon– the Case 53s. I'll trade you the name if you want it, but I don't think it is what you're looking for."
Disjoint let out a small sigh as the mercenary leader spoke, feeling the wash of disappointment as another lead faded out. It had been a long shot, hoping that Faultline's crew had found any clues in the form of missing memories, but she already counted herself lucky to keep what she did. As hard as it was on her, it was likely far worse for the ones who remembered nothing before their awakening.
"I will pay you for whatever information you have," Gregor cut into the conversation abruptly, and the entire room turned to look at him in surprise. Perhaps he could read the disappointment in her body and feared she would leave, but whatever the reason a previously-unseen urgency had filled the large man.
"Thank you, but that's not necessary. I knew it was a long shot before I asked to meet; I wasn't expecting much."
"I would like to know," he repeated.
"That's not what I meant," Disjoint replied. "I only held it back to try to learn more, but you don't need to pay me. There is no reason not to share. I'm supposed to be a hero, aren't I?" In front of her, Gregor's eyes widened in surprise.
"There are two things I know, two things that you all deserve to hear as well." In the room the air turned brittle with tension, an unavoidable consequence of the subject matter. Disjoint could only push through. The first was the most important, the knowledge she had suspected from Manton's ramblings and had finally confirmed with the sight of the tattoo, cementing her previous speculation. Without the last piece of her memory she could have only offered guesswork, instead now it came out as a statement.
"Case 53s aren't born. They're made. A mistake, or a side-effect, or perhaps just bad luck, but whatever it is, it comes from a vial. A small glass vial out of a briefcase with the same mark that is on every single Case 53."
Disjoint glanced around as the news settled in, laying across the group heavily. It was an extraordinary claim, she knew. However, Faultline was already drumming her fingers on the table in thought, slowly nodding to herself.
"That… not an impossible claim. They're only rumors, but for as long as there have been parahumans there have been people with wealth and connections looking for a way to gain more power. There was never any concrete information, just vague whispers that would rise and fade every few years. I'd always assumed it was wishful thinking, but if what you say is true, someone out there has figured it out. How reliable is your source? Do you have any pictures, or the full description of the vials?" the other woman questioned, and Disjoint raised her hand to stop her.
"I held the vial in my own bare hands," she stated, "and when the case sat open in front of me I saw the mark, shining on the underside."
A riot of emotion crossed the faces in front of her at the admission. Confusion, suspicion, and an intensity so strong she could almost feel it physically rolling off of them.
"Where… How… What did you do, to get that vial? Who did you contact, who was it that's responsible for all of this?"
Gregor was standing now, and Newter was beside him in a flash, and then they were all staring at her with tense eyes and clenched fists and expressions that mixed anger and hope and a thousand questions, all tangled together. The air shuddered, filling with a coppery scent as wood groaned underfoot. Before it all she came to a stop, movement ceasing as her power flowed out, a perfect, artificial stillness.
"I'm sorry," she said sadly, cutting off the rising questions instantaneously. "I don't have the answers you're looking for. I didn't reach out, I didn't go looking, and I never found anyone. A man came to me, handed me a vial from his own hands. He warned me, about pain and death and the chance of becoming someone… different. And I took the risk, because I thought it would be worth it."
Disjoint could see the question, rising on the lips of each face in front of her, and spoke before they could even form the words.
"His name was William Manton."
A heartbeat passed; not hers, for she had no heart left to beat, but the memory of one instead, of a moment in time. With it her posture cracked, her robes whispered as they flowed again, and the men and women in front of her stopped, tension bleeding away into the air.
Faultline was the first to regain her composure, shifting backwards in concession as she chewed the words that had just been spoken. Turning, she tapped the orange teen on the shoulder, gesturing to her other side.
"Newter, take Spitfire and Labyrinth to the back, out of here. Keep an eye on her, we'll join you once we've finished up." Nodding, the young man moved quickly, wrapping his tail around the vacant girl's wrist and pulling her gently. As the three departed, Faultline looked back at Disjoint, speaking again.
"Manton's dead. He's been dead for a decade now. Forget about a trail gone cold, there isn't even a trail left at all." She didn't sound rejected, just resigned. Another dead end, another useless bit of information to file away and forget about.
"He was a researcher, a professor," Disjoint spoke, feeling a twinge as she thought of him once again. "Every parahuman knows about his most famous ideas, but even his other works would have spread. In journals, amongst colleagues, or in his own notes."
"You think that he would have written down and published an article about how he was turning people into amnesiac monsters?" Faultline asked rhetorically, but then stopped as she reconsidered her own words.
"No, but he wouldn't need to. He couldn't have worked alone. Any research he was doing might have overlapped, disguised as something else, something innocuous enough to share and collaborate on. Insights on regular powers that cause physical changes, or mind-altering powers in general, or something similar…" She was mumbling to herself now, putting together a list of possibilities, of potential.
Beside her, Gregor caught Disjoint's eye.
"Thank you," he stated. "You have given us an opportunity. Valuable information. I made a promise that I would pay you, and I will honor it. I do not have much cash at hand, but I will get more, and contact you.
Disjoint shook her head in response. "I told you before, I don't want your money. I have no use for it anyways.
"However, there is one thing…" she trailed off as Faultline rejoined the conversation, eyeing her in curiosity at her next words.
"Whatever you find, however long it takes, I want to know. Anything you learn about Manton, anything you learn about Case 53s. I won't demand it – it's not the cost of what I've told you, but as a favor."
"That's all?" The words came from Faultline, a note of surprise in her voice, and the woman an amused huff. "You need to work on your negotiating skills," she said, tone light but shifting to sincerity. "Of course we will. It's nothing compared to the information you've given us." Her mask dipped in a nod, and Gregor mirrored it a moment later.
"And to think I was worried about an ambush," Faultline muttered, moving back towards the remainder of her team.
In the space that formed there was a quiet, stark contrast to the loud words and action that had threatened to erupt just minutes prior. Within, Disjoint took a moment to ponder.
Overall, the meeting had gone better than she anticipated. There weren't any easy solutions to be found from Faultline's crew, but instead she had secured something else: a promise for the future. Alone she could have searched for years without turning up a single shred of information, but the mercenaries had contacts, networks, and a reach that she did not. It might take time, but judging from the hunger she had seen she wasn't the only one desperate for answers.
She turned to leave, looking back into the dark restaurant behind her, and Gregor called out her name. He had returned to his seat, staring at her with the same calm eyes that had greeted her when she had first entered the room. Within them was a question, lacking judgment, bearing only the feeling of someone seeking to understand.
"Disjoint. When you had the vial in your hands, you thought about the risk. I do not remember what I was like before. So tell me. In the end, was it worth it?"
The question was a surprise, a jarring transition from their previous conversation, and she could hear the vehemence in his words. It was the first time that he had displayed anything other than stoic attention, and it was far stronger than some idle curiosity. In front of his eyes he faced someone who remembered their normal life, and he wanted to know.
She thought back, to the blurry impressions of cruelty and death, moving through the world uncaring and impassive, inspiring terror with her very presence. She thought back to the recent days and weeks, of meeting the heroes, going on patrol, the people she had rescued as a hero. In the end…
"No." The words slipped out quietly.
"It was not."