After fuming for a solid hour, I decide to join the Travelers on a raid once. Just once. If everything goes well, I'll figure out what to do from there. I'm not sure what Tattletale is planning, how long she's been planning it, or what her endgame is, but honestly?

I don't care.

It's probably a bad idea to let a Thinker play mind games. On the other hand, it's probably a worse idea to try to out-think them. There are a lot of stories about how a person had a Thinker on the ropes, went in for the kill (sometimes not metaphorically) and ended up playing themselves. So I'll be Tattletale's little pawn and see how things play out. If worst comes to worst I can always just eviscerate her.

Huh. Inner murder voice and I are in sync. Pretty sure that's not a good thing.

I pick a date and address about a day before I'm scheduled to meet with John Doe. That should leave enough time for me to get some sleep and ensure I'm presentable. In the meantime I wander around town, fill out the paperwork needed to complete my withdrawal from school (Dad was right, at the mention of Channel 6 they practically broke their pens in their eagerness to sign), and kill time at the hospital fixing broken bones, occasionally visiting the ICU to make flowers for the patients Isidis can't use corpses to cure. The gang war isn't even close to over but at this point the first wave of foot soldiers are all shot up and out of ammo so both sides are waiting to recover and resupply.

Still. Eleven days. These are supposed to peter out quickly.

The raid was scheduled for late afternoon, right when the sun is setting. I arrive at the rally point maybe thirty minutes early in full regalia. I've only got one chance to make a first impression after all, and I'd like to make it a good one.

The Travelers are planning to rendezvous in a rundown building with broken windows and graffiti from half a dozen gangs caked onto the walls. The door opens easily enough, and I am immediately thankful for my bone boots when I get a look at the floor. Used needles, shards of glass, and garbage everywhere. Lovely.

I make my way to the roof, filling the locks in with bone and twisting them into impromptu keys where the doors aren't simply left open. Once I get to the top I make a park bench of bone and sit down to wait. I really need to start bringing a book to these things. That, or get a phone and put some music on it.


"Hey."

I snap out of my doze and leap to my feet, drawing the bench back into my armor and prepping half a dozen needles. A man in a red suit and top hat with a white shirt and a Melpomene and Thalia half-mask raises his hands defensively.

"Woah woah woah, no need for that," he says, the slight rasp in his voice emphasized by his sudden caution. "Just wanted to wake you up."

I take in my surroundings. Another man in a white half-visor and thick red armor over a white bodysuit with plenty of pockets is holding a few ball bearings, aiming them in my direction. Meanwhile, a woman in white armor with red suns crawling up one side has her hands together, her nervousness betrayed by her stance and the crease in the brow of her cowl. A shadow falls over me and I twist my head up to see the source. An eight-foot scaley gorilla, extra eyes on its shoulders and forehead, glowing a soft and oddly relaxing orange.

Needle to the brain of the gorilla, a blade across the throat of the man in front of me, hope I can take whatever the ball bearing thing is, close the distance and-

I snap a toe bone. Play nice. We're all on the same side here.

"Sorry," I manage, drawing the needles back in. "Just a little on edge." Damn it, of all the time for the murder to slip out...

"No problem," the man in the red suit says, his tone stating that it clearly is but he's not going to press it. The gorilla steps back, the ball bearings go back into a pocket, and the woman drops her hands to her sides. "Anyway, I'm Trickster, the leader of our merry group." He points to ball-bearing man and I realize how large he is relative to his leader. "That's Ballistic." He moves his hand to point to the woman. "This is Sundancer."

She offers a small wave. "Hello," she says quietly. I return the wave.

"And last but not least we have Genesis." I turn to the gorilla and nod politely before taking a step to the side so I can face them all.

"A pleasure to meet you all." Ballistic, Trickster and Genesis nod back, and Sundancer's exposed lips twist into what I think is a smile. There's a moment of silence before Trickster rolls his shoulders.

"Anyway, now that the formalities are out of the way, want to go beat up some gangsters?" His voice brightens to something almost happy and the tensions drops to a more bearable level.

I nod.


We walk to the ABB storehouse, and along the way I ask about their transportation. I mean, the shapeshifter could acquire a Mover rating pretty easily but I'm not sure how the rest of them keep up. Trickster tells me about the van their 'mysterious sponsor' hooked them up with.

"Free vehicles and costumes," he says, tugging at the lapels of his suit. "One of the many benefits of being on this team." I listen to the recruitment pitch with as much enthusiasm as I did the rest of them. Admittedly, the Travelers offer a lot more freedom than the Wards (I can choose not to engage in anything) but something seems... off. Ballistic hasn't said more than three sentences since we've met, and while Sundancer seems nice she also doesn't seem happy. She acts casual but there's a tension in her joints that make my own ache in sympathy. I don't get much off Genesis but her (apparently?) chatter sounds forced. I can't quite get a bead on Trickster either. I don't get the feeling that he's hiding anything in particular, and his jokes feel natural, but it's almost like he subconsciously doesn't believe most what he's saying.

Once the formalities are out of the way we decide to split up into two teams. Trickster and I will move into the building itself while Sundancer, Genesis and Ballistic take out the people who get past us and try to flee.

"Why don't Genesis and I go in?" I ask. Why leave a perfectly good Brute outside where she won't able to interact with the enemy?

"Ballistic needs someone who can tank damage, and switching a massive gorilla around is going to be slow and unwieldy compared to swapping you from place to place. Trust me," he says, casting his gaze sideways to make eye contact with me, "This isn't our first rodeo."

"We're here." Sentence number four from Ballistic. I look down the street at our target. It's two blocks away, with a nondescript concrete facade, boarded-up windows, and a pair of guards armed with stubby little guns hanging across their chests. They look up, presumably spot the five flamboyantly dressed capes, and begin to bring up their weapons when there are a pair of cracks and they both spin around, slam into the building, and fall over. I turn to the side to see Ballistic roll his wrists and then reach into a plastic tube, pulling out a pair of small projectiles I vaguely recall from gym class. Then it clicks.

"Shuttlecocks?" I ask incredulously. Cape tools can be strange at times, but Badminton equipment?

"Literally the least lethal thing I've found," he states, a note of something sad entering his voice. "Now go on in before their buddies call on the radio and don't get an answer."

I nod and start walking down the street. One of the fallen ABB turns into Trickster, and as he rolls to his feet I mentally reassess him. That's some smooth teleportation. He points to the man next to him, then to me and tilts his head. I shake mine and walk the rest of the way.

Trickster puts a hand on the door and looks at me. "Can I switch you around with random gangsters in there?"

"You may," I say, bending my knees slightly and preparing to dash through the door.

"If I do, it's because there's someone with a big gun by you that needs a clubbing, alright?" he clarifies, all business. "Okay. On my mark." I nod, heart racing. This is actually happening.

"Three." I'm about to engage other people. People with guns. Of my own free will.

"Two." I'm starting something here. By hitting back I'll be validating what Oni Lee and Bakuda did. I'll be making myself a target.

"One." I ripple my ribs, a click-click-click-click of pain and focus. Fuck them. They chose to target random people. They chose to pursue me after I killed Lung. If they didn't want their people cut to pieces, they shouldn't have tried to pluck the rose!

"Mark!" Trickster yells, throwing open the door. I move through it like a calcium Amazon.

It's a tall room, with a staircase in the back that leads up to a closed door. Cheap folding tables run parallel, one end to the other, covered with loose white powder and plastic bags. Too-thin women in only underwear and dust masks surround them, their dull eyes focused on hands moving to and fro, separating drugs into neat little piles, packaging the product, or placing it into cardboard boxes. I can see track marks on some of their arms as well as poorly-healed horizontal scars.

The nervousness is gone. Hot, sharp rage remains.

The woman nearest to my left is replaced with a confused-looking gangster in red and green scrambling for the pistol down the front of his sweatpants. I step up to him, towering, and slam a punch endowed with all the speed my shell can give it into the side of his face. I feel something crack and he goes sprawling into a table. Said table flips, spilling powder, bags, and boxes everywhere. The too-thin women step back, their eyes finally shifting away from their hands to me.

I don't have time to try and figure out what they think of me though, as another gangster pops into place, this time close and to the right. I twist and stretch, bringing a freshly-grown baton down just to the left of his head with a crack. Howl. Crack again when I step close and slam a hand against his temple.

This. This is why capes decide how things are run. Power. And shit like this still happens.

A gunshot rings out and I whip my head towards the source. A scared teenager, eyes wide, not two paces away from me. Another gift, courtesy of Trickster. I'm loving his support. Step, fist straight to the nose, listen for the crunch, then a sphere of bone around his hands. He can be awake to see his friends brought to ruin.

A boom sounds out and my back flares in pain. I spin to catch sight of an old man across the room by the exit, furiously trying to work the slide on a shotgun. Then it gets replaced with a broom. Then he gets replaced with a woman and he's within striking distance. I see something cold and cruel shatter in his eyes as he realizes that he's not in a position of power anymore. Then I feel a small bone shatter in his hand as I stab a needle into it, then his shoulder blade breaks as I push it deeper. I let the needle snap off as he falls back with his arm pinned across his body and scan the room for more gangsters.

Nothing.

Trickster stands over another four, a stun gun held idly in his hand, looking at me with an inscrutable gaze. Damn. I mentally adjust his threat rating up again. He turns his gaze to the side and I follow it.

Maybe three dozen women stare at the two of us. I look down at myself and see blood on the surface of my hands. I look back up and there's more than a little fear in their eyes.

I look to Trickster, who's hitting buttons on a sleek black phone. "You can help them?"

"Calling the police right now," he says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he walks over to one of the unconscious thugs at my feet and pulls out some zip ties.

I nod. "I'm going up to the second floor, okay?"

He nods, twisting the first guy's arms behind his back and working them through the loops. I walk towards the staircase. The women remain still, following me with their eyes. I snap a toe bone with every step. Calm. Stay calm.

The corrugated metal steps clang oddly under my feet, the sound too high and sharp for their thickness. The climb is over in an instant, and when I go to unlock the door I'm not sure what to expect. More packaged product, maybe. Stacks of cash, lying in neat blocks or scattered haphazardly.

What I get is a rather well-organized office with a small, bespectacled man sitting next to a smashed computer and a pile of smoldering papers. He spins around in the desk chair and looks me in the eye.

"I surrender myself to the due process of law," he says, calmly and evenly. Like he has no connections to the atrocity down there. Like he expects to get off scot free because he was just a bystander. I reach out towards him, ready to take a pound of flesh and teach him the consequences of simply standing by when evil is done, and see how much he likes it as he writhes on the ground while people laugh and laugh and laugh and-

I snap a few ribs and wrap his hands in bone, forming makeshift cuffs. No. He surrendered. The law will take care of things. I lead him down the stairs and the women shy away from him as he walks through the room. Trickster has already finished securing the last of the gangsters and is waiting next to the door for me.

"Who's this?" he asks, jerking his chin towards my prisoner.

"No idea," I answer, motioning to the floor next to the unconscious muscle. "But he was in the office, wrecking their stuff." The man sits down cross legged, his expression still blank.

Trickster shrugs. "Not our job." Ballistic and Genesis come in behind him, the shapechanger carrying another four red and green clad 'bangers, evenly split between men and women. Trickster goes to tie them, and when one of them tries to ignore him Genesis gently taps his arms. He offers his hands up quickly after that.

Once the muscle is secured we stand there in silence, listening to the sirens get closer.


The debrief from the PRT is surprisingly painless. The one from the police is less so.

Once the PRT thinks that all parahuman violence was non-crippling they depart, leaving me with brochures about the dangers of bladed, blunt and piercing weapons respectively, as well as a subtle warning about being too violent. I take the chastisement with a nod, resisting the urge to ask about how many drug houses they've shut down.

The police, meanwhile, have us hang around until every wound, every drop of blood, every shell casing, and every fragment of shuttlecock is accounted for. It takes almost an hour for them to decide that we were justified in our entry and that we didn't break any laws too egregiously.

"You're free to go," the lead detective says, shaking hands with Trickster and walking back towards a waiting cruiser.

"What about the women?" I ask. The detective stops, drops his shoulders, and turns around. His eyes seem to have sunken deeper than they were before, and the flecks of grey in his hair seem more pronounced.

"Chances are they'll be charged with aiding and abetting." Before I can respond he holds up a hand. "Extenuating circumstances will lead to a reduced sentence and therapy. They won't be going to a real prison," he says, eyes gaining a little light. "We'll get them help." The women have been wrapped in blankets and are reciting quiet, dull responses to some EMT's, who send them to either an ambulance or a cruiser once they've finished their interviews.

I try to feel good about this. I really do. But when I get back home and lay down to rest, I can't stop thinking about how the detective didn't say anything about the chances of their recovery.