A Waken 16.C
Melanie scrutinized the street closely. It was instinct. A reflex.
Any cape working alone needed to be careful.
She hadn't been alone in a long time, but it was still a good habit to be in.
"With me, Fire," she ordered.
"Behind you," Emily replied.
Stepping out onto the street, Melanie crossed at a smooth and steady pace. Atlantic City. A cliche, but not the worst place to hide out.
Capes had made gambling a fast way to lose money. Thinkers either took the house for all it was worth, or the house spent so much trying to keep them out it defeated the purpose. The casino market constricted hard and Atlantic city constricted with it.
The city's fate wasn't too different from Brockton Bay. Whole sections lay sparsely populated and run-down. Made for cheap rent.
Figures the Number Man would be a penny pincher.
The street was devoid of activity, though there were a few parked cars. Mostly of the run-down variety. Melanie didn't like that. On the one hand, anything particularly new or expensive would stand out. That would make it obvious. Barely running beaters on the other hand could be nothing, or they could be a lot of something.
No vans or large trucks at least.
The building was as unassuming as anything. Old breaks, beaten up windows. A little graffiti on the corner. There was a fairly nice car around back, but she knew where that one came from. It was well obscured and the only vehicle that ever came or went from the complex.
There was, after all, only the one resident-slash-owner.
As they approached the door, Melanie raised her hand. Doors were eas—
The door clicked and creaked back.
Melanie narrowed her gaze behind her mask. With a wave of her hand, she motioned for Spitfire to take the lead. Emily obeyed, moving cautiously to the threshold. They cleared that without obstruction, and the two flights of stairs after that. On the first floor, the door at the far end was open.
Emily looked back, her posture wary and guarded. "Are we missing something?"
"No."
Melanie had wondered where the leads slowly bringing them here had come from.
Now she knew.
"He wants to be found."
She started forward, still on guard. Capes were unpredictable by nature, especially thinkers. Case and point, why would a man who'd evaded all knowledge of his whereabouts suddenly want to be found?
Reaching into her pocket, Melanie tapped the speed dial on her cell. "Look around," she ordered. "Make sure we're alone."
"'Kay," Emily replied. She started checking doors on the floor, peeking into the rooms.
That was fine, even if the message wasn't meant for her. It was always good to take another look.
Stepping up to the doorway, Melanie turned and looked inside.
While the building was about as run-down on the inside as the outside, the apartment beyond the door was an exception. New hardwood floors, carpet, furniture, and decoration made it clean and organized. It was modern, but with a touch of classical in the corners. Nothing looked particularly expensive, but it was nice.
"You're late," the man inside said. He tossed a stack of papers into a bin and followed them with a match. "I'm almost done."
He was tall and thin, not unlike Newtype's father. He even looked about the same age. White with a head of blonde hair. A button-down shirt and thin-rimmed glasses.
He turned and a chill ran down Melanie's was old instinct, like her habit of checking every street before she walked into it.
"You're the Number Man," Melanie said.
"I am," he answered plainly. "And you are Melanie Fitts. Faultline. Accounts 55760, 55992, 55993, 55994, and 56126. You surprise me. Most in your situation skim a little. You never have."
Melanie narrowed her gaze. It was always a mind game with thinkers. "I'm not in the habit of stealing from my team."
"No you're not. Your 'team.' I thought you might say friends."
"I'm a professional. I don't have friends."
"I see. Well, I hope your docket is available. I have a job for you Ms. Fitts and one last step to follow through on."
Step? Wait—That thinker who guarded Relena Peacecraft. She saw her power as 'steps' in a path. "You know Count."
The man smiled narrowly at the name. "Some might call us friends."
From his tone, she suspected he didn't agree with the description.
Melanie gave the room another look but there were no obvious weapons. Obvious being the optimal word. To the right, Emily saw a tile floor through an open doorway and a countertop. Kitchen. He probably had some practical weapons in there. Emphasis on practical.
Damn thinkers. They were bad enough when she knew their power. When she didn't? The ability to bank for supervillains across the world and outwit both Dragon and StarGazer. That was some serious thinker power.
This one seemed rather bland for a thinker though.
Emily came up behind her, saying, "It's all clear."
"On the inside," Melanie clarified. Her phone was still connected.
"I only need a moment longer." Number Man turned away from the burning can. There were a series of tablets on one of the tables. He neatly arranged each item into a briefcase—the expensive and hard to break into variety—along with some files, a toiletries kit, and a Swiss army knife he produced from under the table.
Emily leaned in, glancing around the room. "No chairs?"
"Sitting makes one vulnerable." The plainly-dressed thinker closed his case and spun the combination lock. "It's also quite bad for the back."
"I see…" Emily glanced at Melanie warily, pleading eyes coming through despite the reflective lenses of her mask.
An alarm began beeping, and Number Man tapped the watch at his wrist.
"Right on time." He turned, glancing over her shoulder at the window overlooking—
Melanie rushed forward and bent one of the blinds with her finger.
She cursed. Without another word, Melanie spun on her heel and moved toward the hall. She pointed and Emily spun around.
"How long has that van been there?"
The back doors were open and the vehicle sat empty in the alley below.
"The past ten minutes," Number Man answered as he followed her, "Your contract, Ms. Fitts, is to get me to Newtype."
Melanie glanced at him. "Count told you that?"
"Fortuna dropped by the other day if that's what you mean. We chatted."
"And why would you want to go to Newtype?"
"I'm not a villain, Ms. Fitts. I'm hardly out to see the world burn up. Humanity has a lot of unnecessary qualities, but I am fond of some things. I'd also like to see how Game of Thrones ends before the apocalypse."
Melanie scoffed. Damn thinkers.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, Melanie called, "Gregor."
"Armed men," he answered. "I'm sorry. They weren't there when Newter checked—"
"More than ten minutes ago," Melanie finished. She leaned over the banister, checking the stairs below. "Who are they?"
"Men with guns, I assume," Number Man answered. "Fortuna implied that I would either cooperate, or she would give me no other option."
Emily whistled. "Some friend."
"She can be unreasonable when it suits her."
Melanie placed her hand on the banister and started down the steps. "Any idea where she went?"
"She's not the type to share."
Twice damned thinkers. "Gregor."
"They're entering through the back," Newter answered. "They've got body armor. Looks heavy duty. Military stuff."
"Surplus," Grue grumbled. "Empire was fond of that."
"I don't think so." Newter started moving on his end. He should be on the roof. "They've got a drone flying overhead too. I don't think it's seen me yet."
Guns, military-style gear, and a drone.
That wasn't the PRT's MO. Law enforcement seemed unlikely. Melanie doubted the local cops had the budget for any cool toys.
"How did they know you were here?" Melanie inquired.
Below, she heard something slam open and the pounding of footsteps began echoing upwards. She waved for the nearest door. Deftly, she muted her phone and slipped it back into her pocket.
Emily quietly pushed the door open and Melanie pushed Number Man inside. She closed the door gently behind her and pressed a hand to the wall on either side.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. "What do they want?"
"I imagine Fortuna has her hand in this," the man answered in a calm voice. "She doesn't play games. When she wants something to happen, she makes it happen."
"You don't sound very bitter." Emily turned as the sound of feet stomping up the stairs began echoing through the floor.
"What point would there be?" Number Man asked. "If I were to guess, she said something about money."
"Yeah," Emily sighed. "That would do it."
Melanie tuned them out, listening as the feet came up the stairs at the end of the hall and started toward them. She could let them pass. They were moving fast. They knew where their target was, and she'd assume they saw her and Spitfire enter the building. These men were going to try and rush Number Man's room.
She counted as feet stormed past the door.
One.
She could let them pass.
Two.
Except someone was operating that Drone and while Newter could stick to walls and awnings to stay out of sight, they'd have to go out back or across the street. Safe bet the A-Team would see that and turn around.
Four.
Yeah. She didn't have to think much to make up her mind.
"Fire," she whispered.
Emily snapped to and Melanie forced her power out through her fingertips. Bonds severed. Boards creaked. Paper peeled.
The lines broke.
Faultline charged through the wall as it crumbled like a pane of glass. She shoulder-checked one man and caught his gun in one hand. Her power pulsed again, severing the weapon at the receiver.
Military-style rifles. SWAT-like body armor.
"Striker!" the man shouted.
Melanie spun, swinging the barrel in her hand down onto the head of the last assailant in the line and kicked the first in the back of his knee. The other three ahead of him spun and started aiming. The man she'd attacked swung his fist with a speed that almost caught Melanie off guard.
Luckily he wasn't the only one who knew how to fight hand-to-hand.
She caught the blow with her forearm and shot her fist into his throat. He tucked his chin down, taking the shot in the jaw with a grunt. Melanie grimaced behind her mask. That took more than simple training. It took experience.
Another fist swung her way. The flash of a blade swung out, and the tiny tip of a Swiss army knife pierced the man's wrist. He grunted, and Number Man leaned back as two quick shots flew between him and Melanie.
Military stances and fire control.
Melanie stepped back and grabbed the soldier's wrist as his hand went for a sidearm. Number Man moved slightly, avoiding two more bullets that flew into the room behind him. Emily stood stock still, and Melanie regretted that she hadn't prepared the girl for this.
Gripping the wrist in her hand, she wished she could break her damn Manton limit.
Number Man threw a pencil from his pocket, burying the tip in the collar of one of the other soldiers. Melanie pulled down on the wrist she held and as her target's balance broke, she spun around. The last man in the line had recovered and she grabbed his gun before it could be aimed. Pulling, she sent the holder behind her and ahead of her first target. A quick surge of her power sent pieces of the rifle clattering to the floor.
She elbowed the man behind her in the kidney while Number Man punched him in the throat and kicked the sprawling man in the side.
Pushing back, she shoved the man behind her forward and threw him. He went sprawling over the floor, crashing on top of his already fallen comrade.
"Free fire," a voice shouted.
Melanie ducked.
Guns thundered and bullets clattered around her. She pulsed her power into the banister and threw herself down the stairs, listening at the constant clanging of automatic fire around her.
Automatic weapons.
"Move!"
Emily pushed Number Man forward. She spun, spitting fire from the nozzle of her mask into the hall. Smoke filled the space rapidly. She started to advance, but Melanie reached up and grabbed her ankle. She pulled the girl down before another wave of gunfire filled the hall.
The shooters weren't surprised or stunned anymore. One shouted and the others answered like a roll call. The order for suppressing fire was answered by controlled bursts. The call to retreat to a fire escape came with immediate footfalls over the ceiling above.
One set of footsteps moved in the opposite direction of the rest.
Melanie spun, facing the man as he crashed over the banister. Fire licked at one sleeve, but he ignored it and jabbed a knife at her thigh.
Melanie swung her leg out to avoid the blade, then tumbled back as he surged forward, grabbing her other leg and pulling. Her hand gripped the banister as she fell and fire sprayed along the wall to her side. The grip on her leg loosened. She fell back two steps, almost tumbling over as her foot slid over the rim of the steps.
Number Man touched three fingers to her back and pushed, righting her.
"Thank you," she growled.
"No need," he replied.
Grabbing hold of the banister, Melanie shattered it with her power. Wrapping her fingers around the biggest piece she could, she swung the makeshift club at her attacker's head and cracked it into the burning wall. The man cried as the flames licked off the wall onto him and with a quick pull she threw him over the side of the stairs to the hall below.
"They're soldiers," Melanie hissed as she crashed.
"Wait—"
She pulled Emily behind her and forced Number Man forward down the stairs. Spitfire shot another stream of flame as they retreated and then asked, "Like, real soldiers?"
"Of some sort," Number Man answered. "Not active service. And they're not inexperienced."
"Blue Cosmos is popular in the marines," Melanie snarled. She strolled over the last step and turned down the hall. The man squirmed, patting out the fire spreading down his arm. Melanie gave him a solid kick as she passed over him. "It's Phantom Pain."
"Most likely," Number Man agreed.
She'd expected it for weeks. Newtype told her this was how it would go down. Somehow, it still hit her like a truck.
These men weren't capes. They weren't private security. They weren't gangbangers or wannabe thugs. These were men with experience and training putting on body armor and employing their skills as a private army.
They weren't ready.
Grabbing her phone, Melanie turned the volume up. "We're getting out right now."
"We've got company out here," Brian warned.
"Another van," Gregor explained. "The drone spotted Newter."
It took Melanie a moment to hear the gunshots. Her ears were ringing a bit. The plugs built into her mask weren't made for automatic weapons.
"How many?" she asked.
"'Bout a few?" Newter quipped.
"Five," Gregor answered. "Newter. Get to the van. They're all wearing too much armor."
"Grue," Melanie called, "cover the street and make us a path."
"On it," he answered.
Melanie led the way down the stairs, aware of the loud movements above. Emily spat fire behind them as they went, covering the second-floor hallway before following down the steps. She stepped aside, letting Number Man stroll out. A gentle hand nudged Emily through the door.
Placing her hands on the frame, Melanie pulsed her power into the wall.
And she kept pulsing.
The bricks came tumbling down one after the other as everything holding them together shattered. The door frame bowed and she stepped through.
Out on the street, gunfire echoed in the air. Brian held his hands out to either side, pouring his power into the air and shrouding the street.
"I got the van," Newter called.
"Shit," Emily cursed.
"Just go." Melanie let the front face of the building come tumbling down behind her.
While Grue filled the street with smoke on either side, Gregor spat out waves of hardening cement from his palms. A good thing. Bullets were flying through Grue's smoke despite the cover.
Melanie raised her head. "Grue, raise some darkness above us. That drone can still see us." Though, she didn't see it. "Let's get out of here before law enforcement—"
A distant crack echoed in the distance and Melanie watched Grue lurch forward. The boy spun as he fell, throwing his hand behind him and blasting a wave of black fog into the air.
"Brian!" Emily shouted.
Melanie grabbed the girl's shoulder. "Sniper!" Number Man was already moving—oddly casually—and Melanie pushed Emily forward while she pulled Grue up by his uninjured shoulder. "Keep going! Don't stop moving. Gregor, get him in cover!"
She pointed at Number Man and Gregor nodded. With one hand he continued building a wall to cover them and with the other, he grabbed the thinker roughly and started directing him down the narrow path unobstructed by Grue's smoke.
Melanie pulled Brian behind the pair. With a glance, she determined the bullet went in one end and out the other. Through and through was better.
"Sorry," he grumbled.
"You'll be fine." Melanie pushed him along but he mostly went on his own. Brian knew how to take a hit. "Keep going."
Pressing her foot into the ground, Melanie pulsed her power with each step. The cracks were small at first, but as she went they grew. She might not be a shaker, but that stupid mnemonic was a shallow way to view powers. The only difference between her and a shaker was the time needed to complete the job.
The street buckled and the cracks grew. In another wave, the road collapsed into the ground and fell out, covering their tracks and throwing a wall of dust and debris into the air. The building finally gave, sliding off its foundation and filling in the pit, taking the front half of the second and third floors with it.
Melanie helped Grue over the curb and into the back of the van as Newter backed up. She threw the door shut and walked around the side. The orange boy looked at her from the side-view mirror.
"Move over, Newter." He shifted as she pulled the door open and slipped in. "Someone call Newtype."
Pressing on the gas, the van lurched forward and accelerated. The thing rattled like it was barely functional, but it ran and that's all that mattered. Gripping the wheel after it started, Melanie kept the vehicle straight down the alley and through the fence segregating the other half.
In the back, Number Man secured his case in his lap. "You realize the odds of a motor vehicle accident—"
Interrupting, Newter pulled a seatbelt across his chest and warned, "She doesn't care, dude."
Melanie spun the wheel suddenly, whipping the rear of the van around and throwing Emily into Grue.
"Seatbelts," Melanie reminded as she straightened the wheel. The vehicle's slide stopped and a horn cried behind them. The side view mirror showed a police cruiser. "Tell Newtype it's an emergency."
The sirens came on only a moment later and the cruiser started in pursuit.
"They're working with police," Gregor noted.
"Forecast warned us that might happen," Melanie replied.
A few gunshots rang and at least one pinged off the side of the van. Emily got herself back up and pushed Grue into a seat. She checked his shoulder and Melanie shouted for her to brace before making another hard turn.
The vehicle lurched, and Melanie drove head-on past the men rushing to enter a van. One turned and fired a rifle into the windshield. The glass cracked and webbed, but held. Racing past the vehicle, Melanie made another hard turn at the next corner even as the wheels continued to screech from the last.
Newter pulled up his phone.
"Hello, Newter," a familiar voice answered. Another round of gunfire rattled around them. The sirens were still following and that van wouldn't take long to follow. "I see."
"Do you?" Newter asked. He leaned over, looking at the side mirror.
The other van was already moving.
"We have the Number Man," Melanie revealed.
"Understood," Veda replied. "You are being followed by a police cruiser. Car C-23. This will become messy."
"We didn't start it!" Newter retorted.
"Grue's shot," Emily called.
"Through and through," Melanie clarified. She made another hard turn. "We're heading toward Absecon. Can Newtype get here with that teleport—"
"There is no need. I have your location on traffic cameras. I am deploying twenty meters ahead. Please swerve right."
"Who?" Gregor asked.
Melanie swerved right. Lightning coursed over the street ahead. A tall figure emerged from the lightning, black and gray in color and surrounded by a halo of red-orange light. Melanie passed the familiar face and read the name on the shoulder.
THRONE [I]
The Gundam shot forward, driving down the street and cratering a foot into the cruiser's front end. The vehicle stopped, the back flying up as the airbags visibly deployed inside. The suit swung its arm out, projecting a red blade from its forearm. It swung down, driving the edge of the beam into the undercarriage of the van as it swerved to avoid the cruiser.
The vehicle hit the asphalt with a crash and started to tumble. The Gundam swung around on its axis, catching the vehicle and holding it upright.
Melanie pressed her foot to the brake and her back to the seat. The van ground to a stop and lurched back, leaving everyone free to lean out a window and stare.
The suit turned, facing the van.
It was thinner than the suits Melanie had seen Newtype use before, narrower at the waist and willowy, with long, thin arms and legs. She'd say it looked more like something someone made to mimic Newtype's suits, rather than one the girl built herself. It also looked a tad bit more malevolent. Like a weapon rather than an icon.
The face was the same though, and Melanie recognized the light even if it were a different color.
"I will offer you the next fifteen seconds to surrender your weapons and exit the vehicle," Veda declared. "Ten."
"Is she playing hardball?" Newter asked.
If she was, she learned it from Newtype.
"Thirteen," the AI counted. A canister flew out of the window and clanked against the machine's chest. "Fifteen then."
The canister burst into smoke and Melanie shook her head. "Fools..."
A fair assessment? Maybe not. That would be a standard choice in any situation that didn't involve an obvious piece of tinker-tech. They proceeded from deploying smoke right to bursting out the back of the van.
The Gundam turned. A weapon swung from over its shoulder and fired. A wave of red-orange energy shot out in a cone, throwing the men to the ground. One lost hold of his rifle and started reaching for a sidearm at his hip. The weapon fired again.
"As the local police appear unreliable," Veda began, "I have referred this incident to the state police. They will be here shortly." From the phone in Newter's hand, the voice continued speaking. "Please proceed. If you can reach the location previously arranged, Doormaker and Clairvoyant can assure you safe passage back to Brockton Bay."
"Doormaker and Clairvoyant," Number Man replied. "Next you'll say Legend is visiting."
"Unlikely," Gregor stated.
"I do not think the Triumvirate are eager to see me," Veda agreed. "Though if they decide to visit, I am eager to test some theories."
"What about them?" Melanie asked. "There were more back at the apartment building."
"Throne Ein will wait for them to be apprehended, and I will quickly determine if they stay apprehended."
She suspected it went higher than a pair of cops backing up a band of shock troopers. Probably a safe bet. Blue Cosmos had been popular on the force back when she was on it. One of the reasons she was eager to leave after her trigger event. If Phantom Pain was recruiting out of the military and the national guard, then police and former SWAT were probably there too.
"Alright." Melanie started the car more casually. "We'll head to the rendezvous."
"I will inform Claire."
Overhead, two shadows passed. Melanie looked up as a pair of suits streaking red-orange flew overhead.
There were more of them? "Where are those two going?"
"I am monitoring the communications of a man on a rooftop three blocks to the east," Veda explained. "He has been very helpful."
"The team's down."
Galan cursed under his breath. "Pack up. We're going to clear out before that tinker has any time to figure anything out."
Park nodded and closed his laptop quickly. All around, feet and hands began moving.
Atlantic City had plenty of free real estate. This old casino had seemed like a very charming place to set up, and not just because it was still in decent repair. The rooms were stripped down and devoid of furniture, but the walls still held a certain luster and the spacious arrangement of the flooring into multiple stages connected by short flights of stairs had an alluring mystique.
There was a certain romance to it Galan liked.
Something to do with gambling, he thought. Soldiers were always gambling when you thought about it. A casino wasn't too different from a battlefield in that respect. It just came with a lot less blood and bullets. And, very much like a battlefield, the decent didn't make it out with their wallets intact.
"Leave that," Simpson snapped. "We don't need the cables."
"What about this?"
"Rip out the hard drive and the RAM cards."
Machines were unplugged. Cases were packed. They'd have to ditch the drone and the corresponding equipment used to control it. That could be tracked too easily. Some of the heavier equipment would be just as costly, but there wasn't time to recover everything.
That's the gamble. Sometimes you went in and came out on top, sometimes you didn't. With speed, they could at least break even.
"I want to be gone in fifteen minutes," Galan ordered. "We'll have to let this broker go for now."
'Broker.'
Galan might not be a cape, but you didn't need to be a cape to hear the name 'Number Man.' The banker to villains the world over didn't just service capes. Villains were only his most infamous venture. He banked for plenty of companies, criminals, and black ops projects. There was no one better to obscure and secure absurd sums of money.
Getting their hands on him would have helped. Without him, villains wouldn't have someone to hide their cash and no heroes would have anyone to help them find any of Phantom Pain's trails. They'd taken too much care to get caught now. The cape had outlived his usefulness.
"This isn't sitting right with me." The tall thin man at Galan's side scowled. He always scowled though. "We showed up at the same time as a group of capes?"
"Faultline's capes no less," Galan deliberated. "We'll discuss it later, but I suspect we've been set up."
"I warned the commander that we needed to better secure our communication lines."
"You did."
"Captain." Long leaned in. "We should consider that Newtype has become involved."
Likely.
Faultline and Newtype had been colluding for a while. It was obvious to anyone familiar with covert ops. A 'hero' and a 'villain' working together was no shock. It happened all the time, far more frequently than people realized.
Personally, Galan didn't care that much. He was familiar with such arrangements from a time before capes entered the scene. It's not like the military or intelligence organizations of the world never teamed up with a bad guy to get something done.
But, he had a job to do.
"All the more reason to pack up," Galan noted. "Quickly. If Newtype is involved, she'll find her way here."
Long nodded but continued frowning. "Assassin." The man uttered the word with open loathing he usually reserved for capes. "You've encou—"
"Hung up did he?" Galan asked.
"Yes." Long went over to the conference phone—one of many—and tapped at it. "Damn mercenary."
"Damn red-haired psycho." Galan forced a grin. "Maybe he knows something we don't."
"He encountered Newtype before," Long reminded him.
True. Assassins were a rotten lot, but they got around and the good ones were dangerous even by professional standards. Maybe he wanted to avoid Newtype at all costs. Even after they left, no doubt the girl could review footage or cell data.
They'd cover their tracks and be gone in less than a half-hour—the men around him were already packing what they needed to take—but she'd follow those crumbs. If Ali al-Saachez wanted to avoid her at all costs, leaving early gave him a better chance of getting awa—
Galan paused. It's not that he didn't know. It was still all over the news. Everyone knew.
Newtype created an AI. It had been working for her since she started. Collecting intelligence. A computer plugged into machines that had been running circles around everyone Newtype crossed paths with since the year started.
"Forget the equipment," Galan snapped. "We're going, now."
"But—"
"We're leaving. Hop to it. Call Marret and tell him to ditch that roof now before he's spotted. He can leave his equipment behind."
Simpson nodded and reached for a radio. "Reaper, Black Cap orders you to extract; permission to scorch if necessary."
Galan started turning to the door, reaching for his own phone. This would be a rotten place to get caught in. He didn't care too much about capes one way or the other, but he had a living to make and Azrael had a vision he wished to see come to fruition. He might be a weird friend, but a man who didn't stand by his friends wasn't worth much.
"Reaper?"
Galan stopped.
Behind him, Long turned and Simpson repeated himself.
"Reaper? Respond."
Slowly, Galan turned his gaze toward the nearest window. He thought he knew what he'd find, but the green light wasn't there. Instead, it was an off-red or orange color. Little flakes of light fluttering down from above.
Stepping toward the edge, he cursed the demon of muscle memory. His hand reached for the pistol at his side for all the good it would do. He'd reviewed a wide range of capes and Newtype was easily one of the worst for regular Joes with guns and ammo to come across.
If he had his way, they'd take her out on her way to school from a mile out with a heavy rifle.
Naturally, the suit was just hanging there in the sky. Mocking the mere mortals for deigning to look up.
He didn't recognize it.
Newtype advertised her tech fairly well. Models and interviews talked about them by name and design purpose. Exia. Kyrios. Queen. That new one she'd started using was simply called 'Double O.'
The one outside was none of them.
It was red and gray, with exaggerated limbs and bulky should—No, not shoulders. Some kind of pack that unfolded from the back. The light poured from the vents along the opened panels, flooding the sky to the point of blacking it out in glimmering light.
The machine hovered close enough for him to see a name on the shoulder.
Throne [III].
"Clever girl," Galan admitted.
Her tech knocked out communications and played with electronics, but was always small enough in scale it didn't cause huge disruptions from a distance. Not anymore. From the size of the equipment on the Throne's back and the curtain of particles filling the air, Galan guessed it was designed to do one thing; flood an area in that light and prevent anyone from talking without Newtype's permission.
The head turned, looking at him.
"Time to—"
"Surrender," a voice said. "Fifteen."
The wall behind him exploded and another suit swung into the room.
That made three.
Three more suits on top of the three she already possessed.
Six Gundams.
Galan turned, firing his pistol as soon as it came up from his side. The third machine shielded itself with a broad triangular sword, a pair of red eyes peering from just behind the edge.
"Fangs."
Galan knew the name. "Take cover!"
Throughout the room, weapons were drawn and Long managed to fire off a series of rounds from his sidearm. Galan jumped for cover behind a stack of containers they'd brought up with them.
The dart-like drones shot out from containers on the machine's side. The name 'Throne [II]' marked them in white letters.
Galan pulled one of the containers over himself, shielding his flank as a pair of M4's opened fire. The Fangs answered immediately, shooting beams of red-orange light around the room. Pistols followed up, but one by one the guns went silent. A Fang darted to his unguarded flank and Galan rolled the container over to block the beam.
"So much for getting away," Galan mumbled.
"I suggest you drop your weapons," the feminine voice announced. It wasn't Newtype. "I do not wish to harm you any more than necessary."
Galan pulled a container from the bottom of the stack, burying himself in containers that tumbled down over him. The Fangs fired another volley and only two weapons continued returning fire.
"Grenade!"
"Please don't."
For the moment, Galan had to agree. A grenade wasn't going to stop that demon thing.
Pulling one of the containers from the bottom of the stack, Galan opened the top end and started pushing buttons. The grenade exploded, but it sounded distant. Outside. The machine probably knocked it away.
"Please cease," the machine asked. Its eyes burned despite the somber tone. "I would like this fighting to stop before anyone is seriously injured."
Long was moving weakly, pulling himself across the floor toward the door.
"I'm always following orders," Galan lamented. With a resigned sigh, he pressed his thumb to the small panel before him and started the timer. "The decent are the first to die."
Something his first sergeant told him, right before some scum drug lords in Columbia unleashed a cape on them. Kind of a shocker he didn't hate them when he thought about it. He had every reason to but… Hate had no place on a battlefield.
"Get out if you want to live!" Galan pushed himself free of the containers and took aim.
The machine grabbed his hand and crushed it. Gritting his teeth to avoid screaming, his eyes scanned the room. Simpson and most of the rest of his men were down. He could probably guess Marret was as well, disabled on the way here.
The machine leaned in toward Galan. The face was inhuman in an uncanny way. It lacked the nobility of Newtype's design, despite its obvious similarity to them.
It was the machine behind her machines.
StarGazer or Veda. Whatever it called itself. These were its creations, forged in facsimile to the works of her own maker. Seemed obvious in a way. Funny. All the time he spent preparing, none of his plans accounted for fucking Skynet to exist.
Capes were such cheaters.
The head leaned in, still holding his hand tight. It peered over his shoulder at the pile of containers. The large sword swung down, driving into the ground and burying it's tip into the floor. With a groan, the weapon turned up and flipped the container in a perfect arc that sent it sailing out the window.
Galan sighed.
In retrospect, giving any time to attempt escape was pointless.
The glass shattered as fire and air blew up from below. The building rocked and the ceiling bowed. The machine held him tight, swinging around so that it shielded his body from the glass and dust.
"How considerate," Galan groaned while his ears rang. He slipped his free hand into his pocket and wrapped a finger around the pin.
"That was unnecessary," the machine replied.
"Just doing what has to be done."
It went silent for a moment. Galan raised his brow, unsure. Did it not understand?
Hm. Probably. Why would it? It was just a machine.
"You mentioned a 'red-haired psycho' a moment before I entered." The machine leaned in, still holding his hand tight. "I would like to know more."
"My niece," Galan bluffed.
"She is an assassin?" The machine's head shifted slightly. "Search complete. The man imprisoned at this moment is not Ali al-Saachez. Tell me where he—Wait."
Galan lifted the pin from his pocket and exploded.
"Door please."
At first, nothing happened. Veda rose from her seat in the Hebert family living room and repeated her request.
"Door. Please. It is safe now."
The portal opened a moment later and she stepped through.
The smell struck her immediately. She lacked the words to describe it, despite encountering many scents since adopting her avatar. The heat was intense against her skin. The room was intact, but the fire burned fiercely a floor below. The structure was sturdy and a quick burst of thrust from Throne Zwei would put it out.
If she were correct, the blast would have incinerated everything in the room had it gone off.
That was its sole purpose.
It couldn't possibly be a weapon intended to destroy Throne Zwei. The bomb was one of Pyrotechnical's designs. A purely incendiary device. It seems Dinah's predictions would prove true. While Phantom Pain sought to enact violence against capes, they were not above using weapons created by capes.
Around her, the men she'd disabled groaned weakly. Knocking the device away had spared them cremation, but the hand grenade—foolish—had sent shrapnel, blood, and bone through the room. Braxton Long was dead with Captain Galan Mossa. Both were former special forces.
The injuries to the rest of the men in the room were minor, save Brandon Simpson. He was a detective. Released from his position in 2008 for discharging his weapon at a cape? The story Veda found in the second necessary to locate it was tragic but…
This?
Crouching by Simpson's left side, she lowered herself to her knees and reached for the man's hand.
He groaned at her touch, but she remained firm, holding his hand in hers. It felt cold. Strange.
His injuries were extensive. Shrapnel and bits of bone embedded in the torso, and slight burns along his right side. Continuing blood loss, but no major arteries were damaged. He would live, but not for long without aid. Veda contacted the nearest hospital and requested a medivac helicopter. She doubted he could be moved by Zwei or Drei.
Veda observed from the inside as she began to frown. It was only the one face, but given that it responded to stimuli while all the others she wore didn't… It was strange.
To her left, Throne Zwei turned and flew out to extinguish the fires. Outside and two blocks north, Throne Drei descended and secured the stunned form of First Sergeant Maria Marret. It would then proceed to check on the men trapped by Faultline. Throne Ein would ensure a similar explosive was not present in the van disabled earlier.
Two men were already dead because she'd not taken adequate care.
She thought back, remembering her first act as a hero many months ago. She'd overwhelmed Uber and Leet's defenses and disrupted their plan to rob a mall with an army of 'zom-bots.' At the time, she hadn't meant to aid in their apprehension.
Taylor was inside, and she wanted Taylor to be safe because Taylor was all she had.
She did not understand.
Not entirely.
On one level, the purpose of such a choice was obvious. In destroying the room and everyone inside, Mossa would eliminate evidence and reduce witnesses. The men who'd attempted to apprehend or kill the Number Man probably knew little of Phantom Pain or Blue Cosmos' broader goals and operations. They were the grunts. The command center likely contained more sensitive information and personnel.
Destroying it to secure the integrity of the organization was a straightforward tactic.
But like this… To kill themselves for a cause. Was that fanaticism?
She didn't know, and her face frowned. A breeze blew over the floor, and her hair lifted.
Simpson squirmed, and Veda squeezed his hand.
It felt like far too little.
The leader—a former Army captain named Galan Mossa according to public record—said something before the blast. The decent were the first to die? Veda wasn't eager to comprehend what that meant.
"I do not believe I will like war..."
