A/N: Chap 8 review responses are in my forums as normal. Also, today you're getting a two-fer on chapters. My chapter lengths got a little messed up between chaps 9 and 10. This chapter is short even by my standards. So I'll post both today and just accept the inevitably missed reviews as punishment for the messed up chapter lengths.

Chapter Nine: Elite Politics

Only by a combination of luck, the Force, and a speed of less than half a mile an hour did Taylor manage to back her brand new, tan-colored economy-sized sedan out of the partially collapsed garage in the annex of the abandoned church.

Given the fact that she'd never even had a driving lesson, and only did as well as she did based on a few minutes of discussion with her father's friend Kurt as a freshman, she felt she did pretty good with her driving.

After a few moments to orient herself in the unfamiliar area, Taylor drove through the maze of abandoned, rusted cars and collapsed buildings that surrounded the condemned area, until she finally reached the old FEMA barriers marking out the North Admiral exclusion zone.

She would never have found the store if not for the map function on her phone. With the Simurgh in orbit, GPS was so expensive only the military, PRT and Tinkers could afford it. However, the phone did have an excellent map feature that let Taylor mark out where she was once she found an intersection with intact street signs. Once she marked her location, the app gave her directions to the address she wanted.

She probably drove a lot slower than she should have, but without the PRT or police chasing her, she felt far more aware of the fact that she was a fifteen-year-old without a license driving a car for only the third time in her life.

Somehow, she made it to the spot her map gave her and sat in the car for the longest time trying to find the courage to walk out in public as if she weren't one of the top ten most wanted parahuman fugitives in the country.

Instead, she thought about costumes.

After her mother died, Taylor and her dad went through all of her mom's old things for anything Taylor wanted. During that emotionally draining day, she found some strange pictures of her mother dressed in an astonishingly revealing bikini with painted green skin. She'd obviously been wearing a stuffed bra as part of the costume. Her father was dressed in an old Star Trek Klingon costume and held the end of a leash around her mother's neck.

Her father was very quickly to take the picture out of her hands, but from that evidence Taylor knew that cosplay had been popular for years before capes emerged on the scene. What capes did was inspire a whole new genre of dress up, as witnessed by the store she faced.

Masquerade wasn't a Halloween costume store. It was a store dedicated to parahuman cosplayers. While it wasn't always safe to dress up in original costumes since doing so might get a person mistaken for a real cape, dressing like an existing cape was a generally safe recreational fun.

Except for the Slaughterhouse Nine, of course. That had happened only once, and the town of Ellston, Iowa, ceased to exist shortly after the real Siberian took exception to the local town's beauty queen going about in nothing but white and striped body paint and a thong. While pictures of the mostly nude, painted woman looked remarkably like the real Siberian, the real Siberian herself was an unstoppable cannibal known to be able to tank artillery shells and Alexandria. She and her murderous colleagues in the Slaughterhouse Nine arrived in Ellston within the day. The Siberian ate the beauty queen while the rest the Slaughterhouse Nine murdered the town with a brutality not seen in years.

But other than the band of over-powered murdering homeless people, generally most other capes didn't take issue with being imitated. There was a rumor that Legend, one of the Triumvirate himself, actually entered a costume contest for Legend cosplayers for a charity event.

He came in third place.

Which meant there was always that one place where you could get costumes. In Brockton Bay and most of the northeast coast, that was Cape Central. In Seattle, it was Masquerade.

Located in a strip mall with a Chinese Buffet, a Dollar Store, Khans Groceries, Salvation Army, and The Green Weed Smoke Shop, the place was exactly what Taylor would have expected from a niche store.

Taylor slipped on her stolen sunglasses to hide her eyes, grabbed her satchel with some of her money from the Russians, and climbed out of the car. She paused half-way to the store, sighed at herself, then walked back to grab the car keys she'd left in the ignition.

Walking into the place, Taylor could just discern the silhouettes of the previous store's name over the cheap tarp sign that didn't quite cover the front. The inside bore no surprises—a large, open warehouse with a floor covered in rows of costumes. They even had costumes for the most popular heroes broken off by sections. Narwhal was especially popular, since those dressing as Narwhal could be conservative, with a body stocking, or extremely naughty, with strategically placed adhesive blue scales over bare skin.

She found herself looking at the business card again. On the back side, in nearly Calligraphy-perfect cursive, was a short message. Present in back. She wandered through the various aisles as she thought about what it meant. Did Entourage mean that she had to be present in the back of the store or was she supposed to present the card to someone?

She glanced up unconsciously and went still when she saw a black dome in the high ceiling overhead. Glancing to her right, she saw another, then another. A quick look around counted eight domes.

"Fuck me," she muttered. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses until she could feel the mind behind the cameras, which was itself concentrating on her. Not PRT, but definitely mercenary in nature.

He keeps track of costumes and sells identities to the highest bidder.

She looked down at the card and sighed. "Right."

It took only a moment to find a door in the back of the warehouse-style store. She started toward it with the card in her hand. Before she reached it, the door opened and a cape stepped out. He wasn't wearing a normal costume, but instead a nicely tailored suit and tie that covered his height and bulk with class. He wore a simple black mask that hid the shape of his cheeks, nose and eyes, but did nothing else to hide the fact that he was a tall, shaven-headed black man whose suit did little to hide his muscles.

"Can I help you?"

His voice was so deep it made her bones thrum.

Wordlessly, she held out the card.

The large man didn't even blink. "This way, please."

He opened the door and led her into the back. What she saw inside were banks and banks of video monitors recording from every camera on the premises. And in the far end of the room, a large automatic pistol in hand, sat an older black man in a suit not too dissimilar from the cape's. His head was also clean shaven, but he wore a pepper-gray goatee that gave his face a sharp look to it. He didn't wear a mask and did not feel like a cape in the Force.

The large cape walked calmly to the desk and placed the card on it. The older man didn't even look. Instead, he kept his eyes and the barrel of his pistol pointed at Taylor. In the Force, she felt caution from the man bordering on fear, tinted with a touch of anger.

"The gun wouldn't do you any good," she said. "If I was here to cause trouble, I mean."

"Why are you here?" Unlike the cape's booming deep voice, this man sounded far more human, his voice pitched like that of someone used to speaking for a living.

"Entourage gave me the card. I need a costume."

"Shit," the cape muttered.

"So, that little upstart thinks she can just send a lackey into my place of business and tell me what to do?"

This was not at all how Taylor thought it was going to go. After everything Entourage did, she just assumed that Masquerade was connected to her somehow. It was obvious, though, that this man was not pleased by her presence. The problem, of course, was that Taylor didn't care. Her shoulder still hurt, though she could tell that the sleep she did get the previous night helped it heal a great deal. But the fact remained she still hurt, and she still needed a costume.

And that fucker was still pointing a gun at her.

"How is my buying a costume telling you what to do? And please put gun down. I'm not here for a fight."

He brandished the weapon higher. "Don't you try and tell me what…"

Taylor telekinetically pulled the gun into her hand. The huge cape burst forward with remarkable speed and Taylor had no doubt from the Force that if he got a hand on her, it would hurt. Fortunately, she sensed his intent before he even started moving. A simple thought and burst of will lifted him up against the ceiling, preventing him from finding purchase or using the striker power she sensed in him.

"Nice trick," the older man said, suddenly calm.

"This a test?"

"Test? Sure, let's go with that. You passed. Put Obsidian down and give me my gun back."

"Mr. Oldham, I'm telepathic. I'm not going to give you back a gun just so you can shoot me with it. I came in here to get a costume. I have money, I don't mind paying a fair price. But now I'm curious why Entourage would send me here if you didn't have a working relationship with her."

"You're the mind reader, Winslow, you figure it out." Of course he knew who she was.

Bravado. Anger. Fear. Fear for his son. "Do you really want me digging into your mind that far, Mr. Oldham? It would hurt. And if I didn't find what I needed, I'd have to dig in your son's mind as well."

The man's nostril's flared. His eyes darted to where Obsidian flailed against the low ceiling of the back office. "You hurt him…"

"If I have to hurt him, neither of you will live," Taylor said simply. It was a bluff, but given the sheer body count she'd left over the last few days, she felt it was a good bluff.

Evidently Oldham thought so too. "Fine. Elite isn't just one organization. There are cells. Entourage was supposed to be going to Alaska. Seattle was Nonpareil's assignment. She poached your ass, and my boss is not going to be happy about that."

"What does that have to do with my buying a costume?"

"That's a recruitment card, bitch…"

Taylor held up a hand, and Ohlman gasped before clutching at his throat.

"Mr. Ohlman, I've had a bad couple of weeks. I'd appreciate it if you not call me things like that. Until I figure out a cape name, you can call me Miss Hebert. We can at least pretend to have manners, right?"

She released her grip on his throat just as his eyes were starting to bulge out. He fell forward across his desk, gasping for air. "Oh you…"

He stopped when Taylor held up her hand again.

"In the past two weeks, I was tortured until I triggered, the Protectorate got my Dad killed, I was sentenced to the Birdcage, hunted by capes, kidnapped by Russians, shot and cut, and ended up having to kill a hundred people. I've had a shitty week."

She leaned forward and removed her sunglasses so he could see her black eyes clearly.

"But then Entourage came. She helped me get away from the Protectorate. She got me a place to sleep and food. Even a car. I'm fifteen, it's been an adventure driving it. When she gave me that card, I thought I'd meet someone else that could help. All I want is a costume, I didn't want to fight or threaten. I'm not asking for charity. I have money. I just want a costume. Will you help me? Please?"

Sharp, questing dark eyes stared back at her. She watched as his gaze darted over his face, looking over her features. "You really are just a fucking kid, aren't?"

"I was a sophomore in high school, Mr. Oldham. Until those girls stuffed me into a locker filled with rotting blood, shit and insects, all I really wanted was to pass my tests and take driver's ed. I never wanted any of this. But I'm here. I can either cry about it, or move on. And moving on means a costume. Please."

"Put my son down, and we'll talk."

Taylor let Obsidian down gently. Once on his feet, the huge cape started to surge forward, only to stop at a motion from his dad. "Now hand me back my gun."

Taylor had already sensed enough of the weapon's internal mechanisms to figure out how to release the clip. She then pulled the slide back to release the bullet in the barrel. She leaned forward and placed the safed weapon back on Oldham's desk.

"You asked if you being here was a test?" Oldham held up the card. "It's a test for me, to see if I'm willing to leave Nonpareil's cell and jump ship to Entourage. This card entitles you to services from anyone under Entourage for free."

"Like I said, Mr. Ohlman, I have cash. How much would a good costume cost me?"

"Depends on what you're looking for."

"I guess…" Taylor hadn't even thought about it before then. "Two costumes. My primary job will be a healer, so something comfortable and more medically themed. Then a second costume for when I need to hurt instead of heal. Maybe a few masks just for casual use. I'd like it all to carry a common theme, though."

"Eight thousand," Oldham said in a flat tone.

"I'm willing to pay a fair price, but that's penalizing me for Entourage. Let's say four."

"I am penalizing you for being with Entourage. So I can tell Nonpareil that I made you pay through the nose."

"And four would be twice what you'd normally charge, so I would be."

"And how would you…" Oldham chuckled darkly. "Right. Five. Final offer."

"Agreed." Taylor didn't hesitate—she did not want this man as an enemy, especially if he was part of Elite as well.

The older of the two looked up at the much taller Obsidian. "Take her to Miss Kojima in back. Full work up."

"Sure thing, Da…Mr. Ohlman."

Taylor stood. "Thank you, Mr. Ohlman. If you ever need parahuman healing, I'll make sure to only charge you twice my normal rate."

Rather than be upset, Ohlman actually chuckled. "I bet you will. Go with Obsidian, the shop's in back."

Taylor nodded and then fell in behind the much larger Obsidian. She keenly felt Oldham's eyes on her back, but didn't turn around. After passing through a few halls, she stepped into what looked very much like a sweatshop. Young Japanese women worked across stations of sewing machines. Windows set high in the wall behind them gave a bit of natural light to go with the artificial lighting.

Large whiteboards held numbers, with Japanese script on one side, and English on the others. "Daily quota, Monthly quota, weekly bonuses."

She couldn't help but feel a little relief. The women were at least getting paid.

From their midst came a tiny, ancient Japanese woman with a deeply lined face marked with warts. Her black hair looked permed, but so thin Taylor could see her scalp.

"Who is this, Obsidian?" The woman's English sounded heavily accented but precisely spoken.

"Customer, Mrs. Kojima," Obsidian said. "Full service. Wants at least two costumes."

"Okay. Come, girlie. You need to strip so we can take measurements."

Taylor glanced at Obsidian, who shrugged. "Did it to me too."

"You'd better not look," Taylor said.

Obsidian's grin turned vicious. "At what?"

"You know, the ceiling in here is a lot higher."

Like his dad, for some reason Obsidian thought the very real threat was funny.

Mrs. Kojima grabbed Taylor's hand and pulled her into the middle floor. She snapped a pair of names, and suddenly Taylor found herself surrounded by three women, two of whom were only a few years older than she was. They stripped her down to her underwear and started measuring everything in a flurry of activity that occurred too fast for her to be embarrassed. The exchange with Chameleon was a lot worse in that regard.

They finished measuring in just minutes and Taylor was able to get dressed again. To her astonishment, Mrs. Kojima walked toward one of the many mannequins that lined the floor and touched it. A second later, the mannequin changed shape until Taylor was looking at her own body, even down to the shape of her lips, nose and eyes.

The cape did the same thing to a second mannequin, then clapped her hands. In the course of twenty minutes, Taylor watched a master at work. She found herself answering questions about her powers, and her color preferences, and whether she preferred dusk or dawn. All the while, fabrics of varying types went on and off the mannequins.

It wasn't until late in the process that she began to see the patterns emerge.

One mannequin held dark red slacks and a matching vest that could be worn over any shirt Taylor cared for, with an off-white overcoat lined in gold. The mask was also off white with gold trim and was attached to a hood which would cover her hair and the upper half of her face.

The second mannequin looked much different. It was also comprised of the same dark crimson color, but bulged with pockets that held armor plating in key areas. The top was the same color as the slacks, but with a armored tactical vest over it that was black. It too came with a black overcoat in gold trim. The cut of the overcoat was identical, and though it was a different color Taylor could see the commonalities.

White and black. Healing and fighting.

"You try them on now."

Of course, there was no changing room. With a sigh, Taylor tried both costumes on. She was surprised to find that the fabric of both costumes was much thicker and sturdier than she first thought.

"What's the fabric made of?"

"Tinker polymers," Mrs. Kojima said. "Same as Protectorate uses. Very strong, can stop knives and bullets. Doesn't tear, fireproof. Mostly. Move around. Stretch. How does it feel?"

And that explained the price, Taylor realized. Each costume felt good. Both were looser than she thought they would be and she said so.

"Of course. You young, will grow. Costumes have room for you to grow into."

"They're perfect."

Kojima nodded. "Of course."

Both costumes were packaged in dry-cleaning bags and labeled just like a dry-cleaner would. Attached were labels for each—which held the dry cleaning prices that Mrs. Kojima's shop charged. Each held a few simple black domino masks for every-day use.

Obsidian led her back to Mr. Ohlman's office.

"Got what you need?"

Taylor pulled the money from her back and placed it on the man's desk. "I did, thank you. I get that this put you in a tight spot. I don't want to be your enemy. I have enough of those already."

"That may not be my call," Ohlman said as he took the cash. "But in the meantime, good luck."

With that, Taylor walked out with her new costumes in hand.

A/N: As stated, Chap 10 is posted as well.