Many thanks to Assembler, themanwhowas, frustratedFreeboota, skyrunner, BeaconHill, and ShadowStepper1300 for betareading.

Many thanks to MugaSofer for fact checking.

Interlude 7b: Missy

The moment they were safely in the van, on their way back to the PRT building, the floodgates shattered.

"What the fuck?" Shadow Stalker said. "Powers in a can?"

"Hard to believe," Kid Win agreed. "Feels weird to imagine. People getting powers without, well…"

"It's fucked up," Vista finished for him. "Triggers are the only common ground we have—and now we don't even have that?"

"It can't be real," said Clockblocker. "It's gotta be bullshit."

"It's real." Annatar's voice cut through the hubbub like a knife. They all instantly subsided and looked at her. Her eyes were downcast, staring at the briefcase strapped to the floor of the van.

"Vilya was practically screaming at me to listen to Skidmark," she continued. "What he was saying was important. More important than it could be if it were a lie. It's real. These vials are…." She trailed off, grimacing like something sour was on her tongue.

Vista swallowed. Annatar wouldn't lie to us, she told herself. And she wouldn't act any more certain about this than she really was. If she's saying it's real… then it is. Superpowers in a can.

"I can't even…" she found herself saying, and then trailing off. She tried again. "It doesn't… it doesn't even compute."

"Yeah," Shadow Stalker agreed. "It doesn't make sense. Like, powers in general don't make sense, but triggers are the one thing that I thought was constant. Take that away…."

"I'm not even ready to think about what this means yet. For us, or for everyone," said Aegis, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee. "Where did these vials come from, is what I want to know. How did the Merchants get them? And are there more?"

"And if there are… who's used them?" Browbeat asked. "Do we know someone who got their powers from a vial?"

"Yes, you do."

Vista blinked. Slowly, her head turned to the young man sitting beside her.

Dean was hunched over. His head was almost between his knees as he stared down at his own feet. His forearms rested on his thighs so that his hands hung loose between his knees. His armor rattled faintly, and Vista realized that he was shuddering slightly.

She'd only seen him shake like this once before.

"Gallant?" Aegis' voice was low.

Dean didn't move. "Can it wait until we get back to base?" he asked. "I—Amy should hear this too. And Grue, I guess."

"No way," breathed Clockblocker. "No fucking way."

He had taken the words right out of Vista's mouth—not that she had the breath to speak them. Her lungs felt constricted, her throat tight. Her mouth was working, as though words were trying to be spoken, but none were coming. Dean? Wonderful, kind, honest Dean?

"Please," she whispered at last. "Tell me I'm wrong, Dean."

He didn't answer. The ride was silent after that, and Vista's only company was the circling, half-formed thoughts in her head.

They huddled together on the semicircle of sofas that surrounded the TV, like campers around a fire. They rarely all gathered here together; normally, this break room was reserved for whoever was off-shift or stationed at the base.

Vista remembered the few times they'd been here together as fond gatherings. The TV would be on, no one paying any attention to it. There would be food, and conversation, and laughter. Chris and Dennis might have played a video game.

This was nothing like that.

Dean stood in front of the blank television screen, his hands clasped behind his back. His armor was on, but his helmet was off. His eyes were red, but his jaw was set.

"Well, Dean?" Aegis prompted.

Dean swallowed. Vista could count on one hand without all her fingers the number of times she'd seen him this afraid. "Several years ago," he began in a hoarse voice, "I was… well. You know the type. The spoiled rich kid, who thinks he can have everything in the world. It's not malicious—it's simply that he doesn't know better. His parents have money, power, influence, and no time to really teach him about things like temperance and entitlement.

"I was that kid. And, like plenty of other kids my age, I had my heroes. People I looked up to, people I wanted to be like. Mine had powers. Legend, Alexandria, Eidolon, Chevalier, Myrddin… You know. The works. They were"—he grimaced—"so cool. I didn't know about triggers, or trauma, or the unwritten rules. I just wanted to be like those strong, noble heroes who beat up bad guys, who everyone respected. I wanted to be the center of everyone's attention. And—and I still do, I think."

Vista wanted to deny it, to tell Dean he was selling himself short. He had chosen one of the most heroic names she knew of—Gallant—and he'd always lived up to it. He was generous, he was thoughtful, he understood. He wasn't self-centered. Was he?

"Like any spoiled rich kid, I went to my family." Dean's tone was wry now. "I must have been twelve, the first time I brought up the subject. My parents told me about triggers, but I wasn't having it. I wanted to be a superhero." He smiled thinly. "I knew powers came from hard moments—you know how the PRT likes to spread around the rumor that they come when you overcome something—so I started taking risks. And, yeah—I see now that I wasn't trying anything that would have come close to a real trigger. But I didn't know that.

"I made riskier plays on the soccer team. I took walks on my own, after dark. I let myself get injured more often, asked out girls I wasn't as sure about, and generally did my best to risk failure. And it's an odd thing, but the more you risk, the more goes right. They say you should live every day like it's your last, and I don't know if I went that far, but…" he swallowed and looked down. "I asked Vicky out for the first time back then."

Beside Vista, Amy shifted slightly. Vista wondered if anyone had seen her react, too. The instinctive jealousy had risen up in her at the mention of Vicky's name—followed, as it always did now, by the immediate rush of self-loathing. For what had to be the millionth time, Vista found her eyes slipping closed in something like prayer. I'm sorry, Vicky. I miss you.

"We didn't start going steady until after—well. But I don't think I'd ever have gotten to know her if I wasn't taking all those risks. It definitely wasn't all bad. But it wasn't all good, either, and eventually something was bound to go wrong. I got hurt, badly. Broke a couple bones in a stupid play during a soccer game.

"My parents couldn't stop me from trying to trigger. So my dad did what he could do. He researched. He'd never spent that much time on me since as far back as I can remember. Maybe knowing that I was really putting myself in danger kickstarted his paternal instincts, I don't know. Either way, he started making inquiries, online and in person. And I guess someone heard about him asking around."

He bit his lip. "I had to promise not to tell anyone the rest of this," he said. "I was told that there could be… really serious consequences, if I did. But you all deserve to know. You deserved to know years ago, and I'm just ashamed it took the cat getting out of the bag for me to come forward.

"They're called Cauldron, and you don't go to them. They come to you. I don't know how big they are, or how much influence or money they have. All I know is that one day my dad gets a call, and someone's telling him—not asking, telling—that they know he's been asking about powers, and that they have an offer for him. He meets with one of their agents a couple times, and then at the third meeting he brings me in."

He swallowed. "There were two of them," he said, and his voice was low. "One of them was a woman in her forties. Black, wore a lab coat, had a French accent. She did all the talking. The other was white, wore a suit and a fedora. Didn't say a word, barely even looked at us. I was thirteen, and she made me feel like a kid barely out of diapers, scared of the dark.

"The woman in the lab coat introduced herself as 'Doctor', and said that they could give people powers. They asked me a bunch of questions about the kinds of powers I wanted. They have—they can tailor their formula, for the right price. They can't give specific powers, but they can apparently give you pretty good odds of having a particular classification, or set of classifications. I really liked blasters and thinkers, so that's what I said I wanted. They gave my dad a price, and he paid it. Cash. It was…." He blanched. "It was a lot of money. More than a million dollars. I feel like I should be able to remember better, but that woman in the fedora was looking at me right then.

"Then they gave me a vial, like the ones in those canisters." He shuddered. "Most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. I was knocked out, and when I woke up, I had powers. And the rest is history." He smiled thinly. "My parents are happily divorced, I barely even talk to my mom anymore, and for all I know I'm going to be killed in my sleep tonight for telling you this. All because I was a stupid kid who wanted a thinker power, and got the power to see how broken my parents' marriage was."

He fidgeted and looked down. "That's—that's all I've got," he mumbled.

There was a moment's silence. Then Amy spoke in a low voice. "Did you ever tell Vicky about this?"

Dean swallowed, not looking at her. "No."

"Didn't think so." Amy stood up. For a moment she seemed to struggle with herself, fists clenching and unclenching. Then she turned and walked out of the circle and out of the room, headed for the bathroom.

"Amy—" Dean started.

"No," said Vista, standing up. "Not you." Without another word, and without once looking at him, she turned her back and walked after Amy.

She was leaning over one of the sinks. Her hands were resting on either side of it, and she was looking down into the basin. Her hair shrouded her face. Nenya was glimmering on her hand like a flickering candle.

Vista watched her from the doorway for a moment after it had shut behind her. Then she turned to the mirror.

Her eyes were wet. When had that happened?

"He's not a bad person," said Amy. Her voice was perfectly steady.

"No," agreed Missy. Hers wasn't.

Amy stood up properly and combed her fingers through her bangs, pulling the hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ears. Her eyes were sad, and her lips were turned down in a frown, but there were no tears.

Then she reached out and put a hand on Missy's shoulder. Their eyes met through the mirror.

"He lied to us," Missy said. She whispered it; if she spoke any louder, she was afraid she would cry.

Amy smiled slightly. It didn't reach her eyes. "It seems like everyone Vicky loved was lying to her," she said. "He wasn't doing it to hurt you."

"I love him," Missy whispered. "It fucking hurts, Amy. How could he—"

Amy reached out and took her in her arms. "I know," she whispered, and now her voice was shaking. "I know."

Missy cried, and Amy held her.

"Sometimes," Amy said lowly, "someone you love hurts you. They don't do it because they mean you harm. They do it because they aren't thinking about you when they do it. And, somehow, that's even worse."

"He's supposed to understand," mumbled Missy through her tears. "Isn't that his fucking power? I always thought he understood. But he didn't understand at all."

"Even the best people can't be perfect all the time," Amy murmured, stroking her hair.

"I thought he would be."

Amy chuckled. It came out like a strangled sob. "I know."

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