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Supernova 16.1

"Dragon," I called as I spooned tea leaves into the mesh cup. My back was to Bonesaw, my armor off—a gesture of trust, though I doubted that she could hurt me, unarmed as she was—as I busied myself at the counter of a break room in the San Francisco PRT building.

The door to my right slid open. Dragon stepped inside, electric blue eyes looking Riley up and down before coming to rest on me. "Mairë," she said neutrally. "What do you need?"

"First, are you all right?" I asked. She looked unharmed, but I knew her primary body hadn't reactivated until she'd done some field repairs on it with one of her other suits.

"I'm okay," she said, frowning. "I have to admit, I didn't expect whatever that was with Jack Slash and—Broadcast, it called itself?"

"Nor did I," I admitted. "I acted like we were somehow immune to the powers of the Shards by virtue of the Rings and Song. But that was just because the Shards tended to only give more mundane abilities to their hosts. I'd forgotten just how powerful the Silence could be, when its servants weren't held back. I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault," she assured me. "Or at least I don't think so. We're all fine. No permanent harm done. Anyway, did you need anything else?"

"Yes. Make sure Eidolon doesn't leave before I've had a chance to talk with him," I said. I had a few conversations to get through tonight. "And let me know when Burnscar wakes up, would you?"

"Will do," she said. Her eyes darted to Bonesaw at the table. Her voice spoke in my mind. Taylor—you know I trust you. Are you sure about this?

I looked over at her, held her gaze for a moment. Yes, I told her. As I said it, the kettle chimed by my hand.

Dragon nodded. "Before I go, I have a couple of logistical questions. I'm sorry, but they can't wait."

I nodded as I poured boiling water into the teapot. I covered it with the lid, then turned around and leaned against the counter. "That has to steep, anyway. What's up?"

Dragon gave Bonesaw another hesitant look, then turned back to me. "I have transports ready," she said. "Who am I taking where?"

"Are all of the Nine bound for the Birdcage?" I asked. "Or are some of them slated for more conventional prisons?"

She shook her head. "All of them have been sentenced to the Birdcage in the event of capture," she said. I heard a quick intake of breath from Bonesaw where she was seated at the table in the center of the room.

"Okay," I said, thinking quickly. "Burnscar and Bonesaw both stay here at least until I've spoken with them. Keep Manton sedated for the moment, until I have a chance to ask Contessa if she wants him for anything. We should see if Regent has any requests regarding Cherish. Mannequin and Shatterbird are both safe to send to the Birdcage."

Dragon nodded. "Okay. I'll keep Manton and Cherish on tranquilizer drips for now, and load Mannequin and Shatterbird into a transport."

"Do that," I agreed. "I'll be out soon to talk to everyone." Mentally, I added Alec to the list of people I needed to speak to before I could sleep.

"All right," Dragon said, backing out. "By the way—it's Kicker now. Not Regent."

"Oh, right." I didn't think I'd heard Alec's new name before now. "I'll remember."

She smiled slightly and slid the door shut behind her.

I turned to Bonesaw. "Sorry about that," I said. "I probably shouldn't have talked about what's happening to the rest of the Nine in front of you, should I?"

"It's okay," she said softly, looking down into her lap.

I brought the teapot over to the table, then two cups and saucers. I set one before her, and another in front of myself. "That'll be another minute," I said, nodding at the teapot. "How about we don't talk shop until it's ready, yeah?"

"Sure," she said, still looking down.

I studied her as she fidgeted. She was older than she acted, I realized, probably by three years or more.

"Are you comfortable?" I asked. "Too hot, too cold? Stiff?"

"I'm fine," she said. I'd expected as much—getting an answer wasn't really the point. The point wasn't even really to make her feel more comfortable; it was to break her preconceptions. Put her in a headspace more open to being challenged, changed.

I lifted the teapot and poured us both helpings. "It's still hot," I warned. "Sip, don't gulp, or you'll burn your mouth."

With slightly shaky hands she reached out and took her teacup. She sipped gingerly at it, then made a face.

I laughed. "Bitter?" I asked.

"A little."

"It's always good to try a cup of tea before adding sugar," I said, standing and returning to the counter to grab a few sugar packets and a pair of teaspoons. I returned to the table with them. "It gives you a sense of how much you need. How much would you like? One packet? Two?"

"I'll try one," she said. Her voice was starting to strengthen now, as she got used to the idea that this was a more pleasant conversation than she'd been anticipating.

I obligingly poured the contents of one packet into each of our cups, then handed her a spoon. She took it and stirred the tea slowly, watching as the amber liquid slowly turned in her cup. I did the same with my own mug.

"What's your name?" I asked. "Since I don't think 'Bonesaw' is going to work as your identity for much longer."

She hesitated.

"I could look it up," I told her gently. "I'd rather hear it from you, though."

"...Riley."

"Thank you, Riley," I said. I took a sip of my tea, then set the cup down. My voice took on a more serious tone. "I want to know your story."

Her eyes flicked up to mine. "My… story?" she asked hesitantly.

I nodded. "I want to know how you ended up with the Nine," I said. "How you came to be in Jack Slash's care. And I want to know why you were willing to talk to me."

She swallowed. "Do I have to?"

"No," I said. "But I don't know how much I can help you if I don't know what I'm helping you with."

Her eyes narrowed, a keen intellect suddenly glittering within them. "What help are you offering, exactly?"

I laid my left hand on the table. The One Ring glimmered on it. "I have been building a group I call the Penitent," I said. "It's comprised of people who have done things they regret, things they wish they hadn't done, but which they can't take back. We know we can't undo the harm we did—so instead, we focus on being better in the future. On growing into the people we want to be."

Her face was ashen. She looked away and didn't answer.

"That is what I want to help with," I said gently. "I know how it feels, Riley. I looked around one evening and realized that I had turned the city where I was raised into my personal fiefdom. I killed people because it was easier than exercising restraint. I have my share of regrets, and I'm trying to grow past them. My regrets are different from yours, though, and so my road to getting past them looks different from the one in front of you. You can walk that road on your own, but it'll be very, very difficult. I think I can help, even though it will still be hard—but only if I know how you got here. Otherwise, I won't be able to help you figure out what to do now. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," she said. And she began to speak.

She spoke of a loving family, one she barely remembered. She spoke of one terrible night that lasted for what felt like years, as those loving parents were slowly mutilated in front of her and she frantically tried to heal them, again and again, until the things she was putting back together barely even resembled her mother and father anymore. And then, at her lowest point, Jack Slash had offered her a way out.

He had actively prevented her from developing, I realized with a sick feeling in my stomach. He had deliberately kept her in the headspace of that child, sobbing as she tried to stitch her own parents' organs back into their ruined bodies, so that she would never resist him, never grow to understand her own hatred of him.

I had pitied Jack Slash before. I no longer did.

"And in the end, all I needed to do was just..." She mimed a small cutting gesture with one hand. "It was so easy."

I nodded slowly. "Thank you," I said quietly. "I know that must be a hard story to tell."

Her eyes were red. "Yeah."

"Jack Slash," I said quietly, "thought he buried Riley that day, six years ago—buried her deep and set Bonesaw up as her tombstone. He thought he'd killed you. But I don't think he succeeded."

She swallowed. "You're saying I don't have to be what he made me," she said. "But I don't know how to be anyone else."

"Yes, you do," I said gently. "You've never forgotten. Look at yourself here, drinking tea in peace and quiet, talking to me. You're already remembering how to be Riley, even though you barely remember what your life looked like last time that was your name. He buried you, but he never broke you. Not all the way. I think if your parents could see you now, already coming back to yourself after just a few hours… I think they'd be proud of you."

She swallowed convulsively. "They were dead by the time Mr.—by the time Jack Slash let me stop working on them," she said. "I don't even know how long they'd been dead." She looked up at me. "I think that was the worst part," she said. "I don't even know whether he killed them, or if I did. If one of my surgeries went wrong."

"Even if it did, he killed them," I said gently. "None of that was your fault. That night was horrible, and it was something that happened to you. It wasn't your fault, and you didn't deserve it."

"But now I have a kill order," she said softly. "Clearly, the rest of the world doesn't agree with you."

"I didn't say you weren't responsible for anything," I said. "Six years have passed, Riley. Six years during which you had choices, even if it didn't always feel like it. You could have stopped. Jack Slash was persuasive, charismatic, and deadly, but he was no Simurgh. People can—and have—planted themselves like a tree as they faced him, and refused to bend. It would have been hard, but you could have done the same. I think you know that, too."

She nodded, looking back down into her tea. She took another sip. "I don't remember how many people I've killed," she murmured. "I tried to keep count, for a while. He made me stop."

"He wanted you not to think about it," I said. "It's easier to keep going if you don't think about the path you're walking."

She looked up at me. "It was dozens at least," she said. "Maybe hundreds. Way more than you ever did, as Annatar. Do you really think there's hope for me?"

I smiled softly at her. "One of my Penitent is a woman who lost track of how many people she'd killed, directly and indirectly, more than a decade ago," I said, thinking of Fortuna's desperate face as her Shard forced her, for the first time, to think on her own. "And although you may have killed more people than I did in Brockton, that wasn't where my story started. I'm far older than I look, Riley—and I promise, I've killed many more people than even your harshest estimates."

She frowned at me. "What are you talking about?"

"The story is difficult to believe," I admitted. "I swear it's true, though. I'm not actually human—I'm the reincarnation of a creature called a Maia who lived long, long ago. My name back then was Sauron. It means The Abhorred. And I earned that name."

She blinked at me slowly. "You're right," she said. "It is hard to believe."

"I've gathered plenty of evidence, at this point," I said. "I'll share it with you sometime, but not right now. My point is, I believe we can become more than we were, grow past our crimes. I have to, do you see?" I sipped my tea. "I want you to walk that road with me."

She met my gaze. She seemed to be aging right before my eyes, casting off the armor of infantile Bonesaw. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from her chrysalis. "It won't be easy," she said. "If I do this, the face of every person I've killed will haunt me every night. It would be easier to just… stay Bonesaw. Not care."

"Yes," I agreed. "Do you think it's worth it?"

She looked solemn. "Yes," she said. "I think it is."

I opened my left hand. On my palm glittered a Ring of Power, gold with an obscure red-orange stone set in it—clinohumite. "This is Hromenya," I said. "The Ring of the East. If you choose to take it, it will be a promise, to you and to me. A promise to make each day better than the day before. A promise to keep moving forward, until one day, you can look in the mirror and see Riley, without any of the trappings of Bonesaw."

She stared at it for a moment. "When Jack said he was nominating you," she said softly, "I never imagined this. Not in my wildest dreams." Her lips twisted slightly. "Admittedly, I haven't used my imagination much lately, except when it came to Tinkering." She took a deep breath, then reached out and took the Ring. As she slipped it onto her finger, I felt her slot neatly into my mental network. Her eyes slid shut, and I knew she felt it too. When she opened them again, they were determined. "I'm going to get some sleep," she said. "And in the morning, I'm going to see what I can do to help."

I smiled at her. "I'm proud of you," I said. "I'll see if we can find you a bunk."

I talked to Alec next. He was willing to send Cherish to the Birdcage, but I could tell it hurt him, even if he wouldn't admit it. I suggested to Dragon a high-security prison somewhere near enough that Alec could see her sometimes, if he ever wanted to. She agreed.

As we were speaking in a hallway, a voice suddenly broke into my thoughts. I just got a call from Carol, said Amy, sounding groggy but alert. Did you actually offer her a Ring?

I held up a hand to stop Dragon. "Sorry," I said. "Amy wants a word."

Dragon nodded. "I'll go find a place for Cherish," she said, and left down the hall.

I did, I admitted, glancing at a nearby clock. It was half past five in the morning. I closed my eyes and met Amy's mind with mine. I'm sorry for not asking first. I was going to, around lunchtime. I hope she didn't wake you.

She didn't, Amy said. I have a shift in half an hour, and she knows my schedule. She knew I'd be up.

She knows your daily routine that well? I asked, surprised.

Look, Amy said crossly. Just because we're talking again, even getting along, doesn't mean I want to have her literally living rent-free in my head.

You wouldn't be connected directly with her, I reassured her, any more than you're directly linked to Dean or Colin. You're tied to me, and only indirectly to each other. But I still should have considered how you might feel about it.

Yeah, you should have, Amy grumbled. Then she sighed. But… it's okay. I hadn't thought about her like that, but I guess I see it. She was never exactly a villain, but that's not what your Penitents are about, is it?

No, I said. It's about regrets. And Carol Dallon has plenty of those.

Silence fell for a moment. Okay, Amy said at last. Yeah. You can go ahead and give her a Ring, then. If you think it's a good idea.

I do, I said. But are you sure? If you have any reservations, just say the word.

Reservations, sure, she said. But, if I'm honest with myself, I think it's a good idea. Just… one I have to get used to. I will, though. Go ahead.

Okay, I said. Thank you, Amy.

Don't thank me, she said dryly. I'm not doing you a favor, here. Just go and put a Ring on it, I've got to get to work.

I smiled. Sure, will do.

I pushed off the wall I'd been leaning on and went out in search of Brandish. I found her dozing in an armchair in an otherwise empty break room. Her eyes blinked open the moment I opened the door, however, and flicked up towards me.

"Mairë," she said. "Amy said she needed to speak with you. Has she?"

I nodded. "She has," I said, crossing over to her and reaching into my pouch. I pulled out Formenya and let it rest in my palm, held out to her. "She agreed with me that you would make an excellent Ring-Bearer," I said. "You've heard my pitch already. What do you say?"

She considered the Ring for a moment, then reached out and took it. "Thank you," she said, meeting my eyes as she slipped it on her finger.

"Thank you," I said, smiling. "Especially for keeping Amy in mind. You won't be directly connected to her—your link is only to me, and I can relay messages. But I still should have considered how it might make her feel. Thank you for doing so."

She nodded, looking grim. "I've screwed up plenty with that girl already," she said. "I wasn't about to add to it." She looked down at Formenya, then back at me. "I'm going to sleep some more," she said. "I have no commitments for a couple hours, and it's been a busy night."

"Go ahead," I said. "I have more work to do, I'm afraid. No rest for the wicked."

I went to Burnscar next. She was lying in a bunk in an otherwise empty barracks, staring up at the ceiling. Her face was pale, her skin clammy, and her hands shook as she held them against her stomach.

"How are you feeling?" I asked as I pulled a chair up next to her bed.

"Sick," she said. "I might throw up on you."

"It's not a normal illness, is it?" I asked her.

"Define normal," she said.

"Bacterial, viral," I said. "It's not a flu or a cold."

"Nope," she said. "God, I want a fire."

"Withdrawal," I surmised. "At least in part. But I'm guessing that's not all, is it?"

"Nope," she muttered. "Fuck, it's in my head…"

There was silence for a moment.

"What's your name?" I asked quietly.

"Burnscar," she said.

"No," I said. "Burnscar was the person who the Nine took and made their own. I want to know who she replaced. Who Jack Slash turned into Burnscar."

She swallowed. "Mimi."

I nodded slowly. "Mimi," I said. "What's in your head? What's going through your mind?"

"Burning," she whispered. "People, burning alive. Screaming. Melting skin. Fuck, do you know how bad melting skin smells?"

"I do," I said. "It's been my skin before."

"When I'm—when there's a lot of fire around, I like that smell," she said. "But without it, fuck, it makes me want to throw up."

I considered her for a moment. Then I reached down and picked up a bucket, which I offered to her. "Do it," I suggested.

She stared at me. "You're serious?"

"You'll feel better," I pointed out. "That's sort of how vomiting works."

She stared for a moment more. "Yeah, fair enough," she said, then buckled like a snapping thread, retching over the bucket. I ignored the acrid smell of bile, watching as she emptied the contents of her stomach.

After about a minute, she settled, breathing heavily over the pail. I took it from her and laid it back on the ground, a snippet of Song helping to soothe her stomach and throat. "Any better?" I asked.

"A little," she admitted.

I nodded. "Sophia already talked to you," I said. "She told me you wanted to change course."

She was silent for a moment. "I guess," she said at length. "Fuck, I just wanna be able to control myself. I don't want to be a slave to my own power anymore."

"Powers can be a force for good or evil," I said softly. "Some are naturally bent one way or the other. More often to evil, I've found."

"Sure that's not just us?" she asked dryly.

"Quite sure," I said, thinking of the hulking things I'd seen lurking across a thousand dimensions. I reached out and touched her hand. "Mimi," I said softly. "I can do one of two things for you."

She looked me in the eye. "Okay. What?"

"I can take your power away," I said. "I can make it so that you can never hide behind it again, but also so that it can never drive you to do horrible things again either. After that, it will be up to you what you do with your life. I'll do my best to absolve you of your crimes—an insanity defense will probably be pretty effective. It'll be hard, but the worst of it will be behind you. No matter how low you sink, you'll never go mad to the flames again."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. What's option two?"

"I leave you with your power," I said, "and you try to move forward with it. No shortcuts, no safety nets. Just you, a power that will fight you every step of the way, and the long road to redemption. It will be hard—incredibly hard—but at the end, you can be more than just a decent person. You can be a fighter for goodness. A hero."

She stared at me for a moment. She swallowed. "You want me to take option two," she said.

I shook my head. "I want you to do what feels right," I said. "There is no shame in option one. It's not the easy way out—the easy way out would be refusing all of this and going to the Birdcage, where you could tell yourself anything you wanted to make yourself feel better. The question is not one of strength and weakness. It's simply a question of whether you're done fighting, or if you want to take up arms for the other side."

"When you put it like that, the choice is easy," she said. "Take it away. Please." She swallowed. "Set me free."

I nodded and reached out mentally. The Shard fought for a moment, but I grasped it firmly and pulled it free. Mimi winced as it disconnected. Then blinked. Her eyes widened.

"It's gone," she whispered. "I don't feel it."

I nodded, casting the Shard away into the dark. "Yes, it's gone," I said.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you." Her eyes slid shut and she fell back against her pillow, already asleep.

I smiled slightly as I picked up the bucket and carried it out of the barracks.

Eidolon was sitting with his head in his hands in one of the meeting rooms. This room had a view across the bay, at Oakland and the Berkeley hills. I could see the first rays of dawn peeking over the horizon.

I sat across from him. "Talk to me," I said.

"He was right," he whispered.

"How do you know?"

He looked up at me. What little I could see of his face was ashen. His eyes were red. "I started to notice that my powers were fading in '89," he said. "In '91, I noticed that they got stronger when I was fighting. The harder the fight, the stronger they were."

I frowned. 1991? What had… Oh. My eyes widened. Oh.

"You see it, don't you?" he asked, despair in every muscle of his body. "I needed… needed strong enemies to fight. I just wanted to feel powerful—not because I wanted to make people safe, but because I wanted to be the one making them safe. Do you know how many people they've killed? Have you any idea?"

I opened my mouth, and for the first time in weeks, had no idea what to say. Even I never killed so many—the world was smaller when I was at my worst.

He slumped. "I wonder if they'd stop if I was dead," he muttered. "I doubt it. Grey Boy's bubbles don't stop just because he's gone. Nilbog's monsters outlived him, although not by much. Although," he considered, "the Siberian vanishes when Manton is incapacitated."

"They're not projections," I told him.

"No?" He laughed mirthlessly. "You think Carte Blanche was wrong? That I'm crazy for listening to him?"

"No," I said softly. "No, I think you're right. I think your pride, your need to be the best, woke them up. But they're not projections, Eidolon. They're engines, and you're not their power source."

He looked at me, visibly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"At the core of each Endbringer is an object," I said quietly. "A gemstone, each lit from within by the captured light of the Sun and Moon—from before they were the Sun and the Moon. Wars were fought over those gems in ancient days. Terrible strife was born from the desire to possess them." I swallowed. "They were called the Silmarilli. At the end of the First Age, one was thrown into the sea, one into the heart of a volcano, and the last was carried into the sky on the Vingilot, the ship of Eärendil." I looked at him. He seemed perplexed, overwhelmed by all the strange terminology. I brought the conversation back on track. "You may have woken them, but you didn't create them," I said. "They were designed to wield those stones. Designed to turn them against us."

"Designed by the Entities," murmured Eidolon.

I nodded. "But now the Shard that was meant to direct them is bound to you," I said. "Maybe you can learn to control them?"

He huffed breathlessly, void of joy. "Control the Endbringers?" he asked. "Fuck. I can't even control the powers I know I have half the time."

I looked at him speculatively. "How many people do you think they've killed?" I asked.

He shuddered and folded in on himself. "Millions," he murmured. "Hundreds of millions. Maybe a billion, by now. Fuck."

"Are those deaths on your head?" I asked. "In your own mind, I mean. Regardless of what other people might think. Do you believe you bear the guilt for those deaths?"

He looked up and met my eyes. "You're going to offer me a Ring," he murmured. "Mairë, I don't know if I can take it. I thought I was a hero, and suddenly I'm realizing that I'm responsible for, literally, the majority of violent deaths since Scion first appeared. How do I even come back from that? I feel like a compass that's lost magnetic north."

"I can help you find it again," I said. "I know it's hard. God, I know. But we can only face up to it, or run and hide from it. If you choose to face up, I can help you. I can stand with you."

He held my gaze for a moment. "I… yes. I'll try."

I held out the last of the Rings of Power, a gold band with a violet spinel embedded in the band. "Numenya," I said. "The Ring of the West. Last of the Nine."

He reached out and took it. With shaking hands, he slipped it onto his finger. I felt him link into the network with a sense of finality.

Twenty Rings and twenty Ring-Bearers. It felt like an ending.

He took a deep breath, staring at the Ring on his finger. "Mairë, I—"

He cut off with a choking sound, his hands shaking worse than ever. I felt the blood rush from my face.

The Endbringer sirens were sounding.