As soon as I heard Dad's bedroom door shut I snapped my notebook closed. I'd had my nose in it through sundown and past, reviewing everything I knew about Brockton Bay's cape scene. There was only so much one could learn from the news, cape info sites and PHO, but with rumors and personal observations supplementing I'd compiled what I thought was a perfectly adequate account of the major powers, the minor players, the powers themselves, and the significant events between them all. Rereading it had felt like cramming for a test, except the proctors might be other capes and the questions could be anything from steel-piercing lasers to bloody-knuckled fists. The dissonance stirred a thrill in my stomach.
I dug my costume back out of the closet and stuffed the components into one of my old school backpacks. After triple-checking my door was locked I greased the window's mechanism with my oil and slid it just a few inches open, whisper-quiet. Pack held close to my chest, I braced myself. This was one of the most challenging aspects of my power and I had a long way to go before I got used to it. A deep breath centered me and I poured forth and spilled out of the window.
The streetlights didn't quite reach the face of our house, so I didn't have to worry about my shimmer catching someone's eye and giving me away. The most anyone watching would see was a strip from my sill to the porch where the dark might have looked darker, where night turned condensate and ran like hot syrup. Two swells in the stream dripped down below where the porch railing blocked the view, and then the last of the stuff followed, the house ordinary as ever.
I fumbled my regular clothes around with only a little more grace than one would expect of a living puddle, trying to arrange each item into position. Sight, smell and taste were stripped from me when I was fully transformed, leaving me to navigate by feel alone. I could approximate hearing through the sensations of sound waves rippling through my malleable form, but translating them into legible input or even speech was a work in progress.
Once I was satisfied I drew myself close and oozed into the outfit. Congealing between the right layers took significant concentration but I managed to retake my base form fully clothed, if face-down. I stood, my pack met my back, my shoes hit the sidewalk and I was on my way.
Over the last week I'd spent a lot of time on and off deliberating over what territory I should patrol first, which gang's members I would cut my teeth on. The Archer's Bridge Runners or any other minor group would be relatively easy targets, but they'd be poor indicators of what to expect from the dominant gangs. Fenrir's Chosen owned the Docks and oversaw plenty of operations worth crashing. They ran drugs and protection rackets more as a matter of course but they were infamous for their illegal fighting rings, from dogs to humans to parahumans. Purity's Empire controlled portions of the city further south: downtown, the new industrial areas, bits and pieces of the shopping district. They weren't quite the organizational powerhouse they'd been under Kaiser but they made up for it by being more destructive, and they certainly weren't hurting for raw power. Retaining most of what they held in downtown in the face of an aggressive PRT was no small feat.
In the end my decision had come down to basic logistics: the Docks were closer, and it would be much, much easier to sneak around there than anywhere else.
An alley close to the edge of Chosen territory proper offered ample seclusion. I crouched behind a dumpster, unzipped my pack, laid my costume out on the least dirty spot, and drained out of my clothes. It started with the boots - sturdy, reliable, perforated where leather met sole, with just the right amount of grip. Flame-resistant grey coveralls in a women's cut made up the bulk, pant legs loose and rolled a good ways up my calves, sleeves cut off altogether. They were the kind welders wore, easy to get ahold of when you knew where to go. From beneath its collar all the way up to the bridge of my nose a black biker's facemask obscured my features, stretched like a second skin. I had to put the goggles on by hand, and with the prescription lenses I'd popped out of an old pair of glasses and set into them, I could see again.
The most important component of my costume came last. A twitch of will summoned oil to cover every inch of exposed skin, from my forehead to my arms to my shins. I ran my fingers through my curls, soaking them enough to darken them past black and grant the same chromatic shimmer as my skin where the light hit them. My arms were like gradients of void, oil thinnest at the shoulders and thick enough to imitate living shadows at the hands. The tips of my fingers were outright liquid, and once I stopped holding back they'd drip and drench like faucets.
I hadn't a mirror handy but I already knew what my costume looked like complete. The base pieces were all rather mundane but my power elevated the look. In the dark it melded with my mask and boots, silhouetted me, and in the light I was a glistening medley of melted color, burnt orange and red in places, unearthly blue and green in others. I didn't have curves to fill out the coveralls the way I should have but the cut of it, the slim upper body, cinched waist and flared hips, turned my dial up to a feminine-leaning androgyny. It tickled me giddy.
My backpack stuffed with civilian clothes and ensconced behind the dumpster, I set out, skimming pavement like ice.
This was one of the tricks I was most proud of. Wet leaked from the perforations I'd made in my boots and soaked the soles slick, and I had spent months practicing until I could use them like skates. I needed to let up on my power to slow or turn and cut it off to stop, but my boots had the perfect amount of grip to manage on most surfaces.
I glided down the lengths of the Docks' streets, keeping to the shadows. Not a challenge, as even with the city starting to invest in its business again, more hours didn't yet mean repaired infrastructure and there were still swaths of the area going without power. Though I had to zig-zag between streets to avoid crossing paths with the occasional drunk or druggie, I covered a good amount of ground. There was the occasional obvious dealer on a corner here and there but going after them wouldn't net anything but the drugs and cash on them, and at that point I'd be more mugger than heroine. I was looking for more.
Busting an operation would have a real, tangible impact on the Chosen, whether drug packing, dog fighting, or pit fighting, and charges on any members I captured would actually stick. On a level above that, if I found a cape fight to interrupt? If I managed to win? All the better.
Problem was, I didn't know where to look.
I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting. The Chosen were picky about full membership, I knew that, but they'd been ramping up in power and popularity ever since Fenrir had made his big debut and weren't suffering for prospects. On top of that, they had almost as many capes as the Empire now, closing in with the likely new hire. In retrospect assuming that'd mean I'd just eventually bump intosomething was pretty naive, but it wasn't like I had any real leads.
I was rethinking my canvassing strategy when I heard it. Metal screaming and shrieking, drawn out like a car crash in slow motion. Not far. It echoed off the buildings in a way that almost obfuscated the direction it'd come from, but my head was pointed firmly northeast. I thought I could feel it in my oil, too, where the strongest ripples started. Maybe it was just me wanting to confirm I'd gotten better at doing that, but there wasn't time to think. I veered towards the sound.
Further noise cracked the flimsy peace, sharp, throaty jolts loud enough to make me flinch the first couple times. The auditory breadcrumbs led me to what I was pretty sure was a warehouse; there weren't many factories this deep in the Docks. Windows lined its side in a row a story and a half or so off the ground. One was broken, shattered outward. The loud sounds had tapered off but closer up I could hear more like them, chorusing feral dissonance, a challenge to concentrate against but easy to put a name to.
Barking.
This was a dog fighting ring.
Trails of blood lead away from the door, still red, still wet. They seemed too thin to be from any truly dire injuries but there was enough to explain why no one was posted outside. Each ended somewhere by the side of the street so I didn't have the option of chasing them down, but that was fine. It hadn't been a consideration. I could still feel that initial cacophony of grinding metal in my ears, on my skin. The adjacent building offered an access ladder up to its roof, the grate blocking the first set of rungs long gone. I climbed up.
Trash littered the rooftop. A cluster of 40 oz husks lay next to the top of the ladder and broken beer bottles spread in treacherous, glinting stains about the rest. A crumpled cigarette pack here, a torn chip bag there. I toed around the flotsam and made my way to the low rise of the edge.
There he was.
From my elevated angle I could see most of him through the windows, a ways down the warehouse's length. He was a tower of bulky muscle and coarse body hair crammed into a tank top and jeans, loose and relaxed the way other brick walls weren't. His head was turned away from me but I could see the border where the spines of his angular metal mask spewed greasy blond strands down to his shoulder blades. One arm hung limp, thumb hooked in the belt loop of his jeans. The other disappeared at the shoulder, from which blades and spikes and hooks conglomerated into a length as thick as a tree trunk. The mass extended off to one side, where I couldn't see, but whatever was there his attention wasn't on it.
Fenrir. Leader of the Chosen. Kaiser's killer.
One of the most dangerous men in Brockton Bay, and here I was, a two-bit nobody with zero experience and an underwhelming power.
Great.
The barking showed no sign of stopping but it'd simmered down some, lost just enough of its lashing, panicked edge for me to make out a conversation.
"-got your attention, didn't it?" His voice was a deep rumble, a stable contrast to the barking.
"Let. Her. Go." Another voice, gruff, bitter, just this side of a growl.
"Keep her small and she won't get hurt."
No response, but that didn't seem to bother him. Over the next minute or so his metal extension shifted, slowly angling down.
He huffed with a trace of amusement. "Wasn't so hard."
"Fuck you."
"Doesn't have to be so hard in the first place. Offer's still on the table."
"It's a shit offer."
"It's the best you'll get. You can only keep this up so long, and I'm not just talking 'bout my patience. There's only so many empty hideouts that the PRT aren't watching. How many times have you had to pack your dogs and jump ship just this year?"
"Some of those were because of you."
He shrugged. The metal appendage shifted oddly. "A group like this expands. You got caught in that. Would've happened eventually." He leaned in the slightest bit. "I can let you have any of those places back if you join."
So that was it - the other person was a cape. I couldn't see one of the biggest names in the city coming in person to push recruitment like this if they weren't.
The mystery cape scoffed. "Right."
"All of 'em, if you need it, and vans to move your dogs around too. Protection. Food. Power. More chew toys than they'll know what to do with. All you'd have to do is show up for fights when you can. Go a few rounds in the Pit time to time."
A pause. "And the rings? Like this?"
He grunted. "I won't tell you what to do with your dogs. Not your place to tell me what to do with mine."
They coughed and spat. "Then fuck off."
He shook his head. Lengths of metal retracted into his changed arm and in a moment it was withdrawn from out of view. It was only twice the size of his other arm now, more defined in shape. Spikes and spines poked out, points tilted up towards the shoulder in an imitation of bristling fur. In place of a hand, thick hooks protruded from the end, forming a vicious claw.
I didn't like where this was going. I had been frozen for as long as I'd listened, glued to the edge of the roof, but now I seethed with the urge to move, to do something.
I was on my feet before I realized it, backing up and sweeping trash out of my way as I went. I crouched when I reached the other edge, legs tensing, soles becoming wet. My heart hammered against my ribcage, which was ready to liquefy at any moment along with the rest of me. My pulse or something like it reached my ears. I hoped to everything that months of stunting around in empty parking garages would pay off.
I pushed off, then pushed again, and again. Each push net me more momentum, and by the time I reached the end of the roof I was a blur, rocketing over the gap between it and the warehouse. My pride swelled when I managed to hit the window boots-first, shattering it, but it dropped into my stomach when the impact threw me off my balance. I tilted backwards before hitting the ground, tumbling across concrete, wholly disoriented. My body crashed into something wood and splintered it but came to a stop at the next wood something.
My hands met the black tarp under me when I pushed myself up. I drew in the bits of me that'd splashed onto it, then rose the rest of the way.
Fenrir stood end of the place, stance shifted. To one side was a lineup of caged dogs, snarling and wild. To the other was a pile of raw, reddish, fleshy mass, some shredded, some not. I was surprised to see what looked like a regular terrier among them. Past all that, leaning against the far wall, was a girl. She had scruffy auburn hair, a jacket with fur trim, and a bleeding gash in her leg.
It sounds ridiculous, but it took me a moment to register they were all, dog included, looking at me, sopping wet and standing in what was left of the dog fighting pit.
What was I supposed to say?
"Hey."
Probably not that.
Every ounce of my being quivered, waiting for Fenrir to attack, but he managed to pull the one thing I wasn't anticipating.
He threw his head back, and he laughed.
"D for presence, zilch for the landing, and fuck if I even know what you're supposed to be, but-" The last of his blades and hooks retracted into his skin and he used a slow clap as punctuation. "A," clap, "for," clap, "effort."
Clap.
I hesitated, bewildered as to what was going on, then tilted my head.
Understanding my question he said, "Anyone who makes a real entrance gets a real fight, kid." His arms spread wide, open. The mask hid his face but I could taste the grin in his next few words.
"Show me what you got."