Montage 2.5
I love my sister, but her cold feet made me regret turning my power back on. Even though I was immune to detrimental environmental effects, I could still feel – with even greater precision – extremes of temperature, and the lumps of ice stuck to my ribs were definitely uncomfortable.
After Hannah left, neither of us wanted to leave the television. There was probably some sort of snide remark I could have made about kids and their TV, but I wasn't really in the mood; the news was reporting the latest on the Leviathan battle, and I felt justified in being a couch potato.
It wasn't like Icouldmove even if I wanted to. Riley tried her best to stay awake, but she'd fallen asleep on my shoulder. If I moved, she'd start to cling even tighter, so I only had the one arm to operate the remote with. The Leviathan fight had just ended – Scion resolution, Endbringer-sized casualties, more to come.
Then silence. The full casualty list would be tallied later. Right now, Hannah could have been killed in action, and we wouldn't know.
The doorbell came almost as a relief. Riley sat up straight as if electrified, letting me go at last; I rubbed my arm, trying to get some feeling back into it. We both exchanged a look, then bolted for the door.
"It's about time you got-" I froze. "Armsmaster."
His armor had been damaged; I recognized his spare breastplate, which was slightly less streamlined. His armguards were covered in scratches and dusty in places, like he'd been thrown through a wall. "Joshua; Riley. You're needed at the hospital."
I kept my voice conversational, trying to suppress the omnipresent feeling of dread. "Is she . . . alive?"
"No critical injuries."
A lot of people say that Armsmaster has no personality, that he acts like a poorly programmed android. Those people don't see him during off hours. Armsmaster is a stone cold model of efficiency; Colin has a quiet sense of humor, mostly catering to stealth puns and ironic reversals. If you worked with him long enough, you'd get a better understanding of the man.
Right now, he was in full robot mode.
Only one thing to do. "Riley – full kit."
She nodded, numb terror replaced with determination. "I'll get it."
As I grabbed Sovereign's armor, I couldn't help but wonder when I started to think of it as a uniform.
...
It was a quiet night at the Emergency Room. Very few people went out of their way to fight Endbringers, and even fewer would go to a battle as far away as Anchorage.
The fact that even fewer of those Capes would return with survivable injuries, I ignored.
Hospitals were a special kind of hell for those with enhanced senses. Even with the low crime rate that occurred at the same time as an Endbringer battle, the place stank of death, sickness and antiseptics.
I hated the hospital; I spent way too much time here.
Miss Militia's room was on the third floor, guarded by two stern PRT troopers; they nodded to us as we went past. Her eyes focused on me and Riley with bleary intensity the moment we stepped in, though judging by the steady drip of morphine she wasn't entirely there with us.
She also had a very bulky cast on one arm.
"Just my collarbone," she croaked, then cleared her throat. "And a rib. Nothing to worry about; they'll let me come home tomorrow."
"I'll be the judge of that," Riley - no,Pandorasaid frostily, stepping forward with her ubiquitous bag of tools. Miss Militia paled slightly; we hadn't been joking about the reanimation thing. "How did this happen?"
"Tail end of a water echo," she grumbled, leaning back in her bed. "Tossed me into some guy's house. I'd feel bad, but the city will probably get evacuated anyways."
"I didn't actually hear if we won." Behind me, Pandora was unpacking nameless legions of instruments, each more fearsome than the last.
"You don't win Endbringer battles," Armsmaster muttered, standing up. "Scion came and drove him off, but the city might still be condemned. I'm going to check if Battery is out of surgery."
"Wait," Miss Militia said, eyes flickering to Pandora. "Are you sure you can't stay just a little-"
The door closed behind the Protectorate hero with a sense of finality. Miss Militia sagged.
"No escape," my sister said melodramatically, holding up what looked like a mutated auriscope; suffice to say, it was a little too large to fit in an ear.
As if on cue, the door opened again.
"Hey, Militia!" A man in armor stepped in, his silver and gold armor glinting wildly from the bright hospital lights. "Came to see how you were - am I interrupting something?"
"No, no, please come in," she said, relieved. Riley pouted, lowering her instruments.
"You must be the new rugrats I've heard so much-" he faltered as he met my eyes, "-about."
Miss Militia said something in response, but I wasn't paying attention. The hero's reaction was . . . interesting. His face had run the gamut between confusion, surprise, and apprehension before he finally pulled himself together.
Well, I say finally, but it was really pretty quick.
"I'm not a rugrat," Pandora protested loudly. "Ihatethat show!"
"Of course, of course," he said with a tolerant air, eyes flickering to Riley – then he stopped, turning a delicate shade of green. "I'm, uh, not feeling that well. This cafeteria food, they said it was to die for and I'm finally getting the joke. It's good to see you're alright, Militia."
He exited before Miss Militia could even respond.
I frowned after the fleeing hero. "Who was that?"
"That was Chevalier," Militia said, looking equally confused. "He's not normally like that. Chevalier was in the Wards with me, way back at the start of the program. It's weird – I don't know how he got down here, but he's normally stationed in Philadelphia."
My instincts were practically screaming at me now. "Pandora, you have things covered here?"
She blinked at me, then nodded. "Well, yeah, this is kind of my thing."
"I'm going to go find this dreaded cafeteria," I told her, smiling tightly. "Anything you want?"
"Ooh! See if they have any cocoa puffs, and one of those tiny cartons of chocolate milk!"
"You know those are terrible for you, and mostly sugar," Militia said in her best mom voice.
"Of course I do," my sister responded, turning her nose up. "I'm adoctor,I know allaboutthat stuff. Besides,whois in the hospital with broken bones? Not me!"
"If you thinkcocoa puffsare the same asfighting Leviathan-"
"Be back in a few." I exited hastily before they could pull me into the brewing argument.
Chevalier hadn't gotten far enough to leave range of my senses, but it was a close thing. The elevator was already descending, so I took the stairs. When he got out, the hero looked around to make sure he wasn't followed, but the overly bright nature of his armor made him easy for me to track around corners.
The basement was mostly deserted. At this time of night, I expected most maintenance workers to be cleaning the more populated areas, making it a good spot for a clandestine meeting. Clearly, someone else had the same idea.
This whole situation stunk.
Who are you working for, Chevalier?
The hero glanced around one more time, then opened a nondescript door and stepped inside. The brief wash of light revealed -
Ah; Miss Alexandria, it's beenfartoo long.
The door closed, cutting off my brief view. I strained my ears, trying to hear through the disrupting hum of machinery. It must be a laundry room; I recognized the sound of water in a spin cycle.
"Did it work?"
"Some-somewhat. I think I made him suspicious."
"Explain. What did you see?"
"From the boy?"
"Yes."
"It was – different. I didn't see it, it was more like a feeling, you know?"
"No, I don't. Describe this feeling."
"It's, it's kind of like going to the Chrysler Building and leaning against the wall. You look up, and you can only see a little, but you can feel itloomingover you.All I could see was that it was big – bigger than any agent I've ever seen."
"Interesting - and disturbing."
"And the girl – oh god, thegirl.Did you know how she trig-?"
The washing machine began to drain very loudly, dissolving the rest of the sentence into meaningless noise. Scowling, I tried to concentrate through it, but I lost a good thirty seconds of conversation. Once I learned how to fly, my next priority was definitely going to be training my senses.
"-agic, I know, but we can't let that stop us."
"Do – do you think it will help? With the model?"
"Maybe. The countermeasure-"
What the hell were they washing, abag of quarters?!
"-erous, but we have no choice."
"What about - her?"
"I wouldn't worry."
"She's got a lot of influence over him, and you know her past. Are you sure it's safe to-?"
"Unlike Sovereign, she can be viewed with precognition, and we have leverage. The risk of contamination is . . . minimal. If you've done all you can here, you should say your goodbyes and head back to Philadelphia."
"Right. Right, I'll do that."
"And – Chevalier? Take some time off."
The door started to open. I was up the stairs in a flash, as fast as I could move without creating a concussive blast. The sudden breeze was hopefully dismissed as an air conditioning quirk, or a pressure change from an open door.
It wasn't totally unexpected that Cauldron was still keeping an eye on me. Precognition was one of their main strengths; without it, they had to resort to more inexact methods. I'd suspected Chevalier was one of theirs, but I hadn't been certain of the depth of his involvement.
Then again, he might not even know she was part of Cauldron. It was very possible that he was simply ordered by a superior to provide an assessment for Protectorate Thinkers. Supporting that theory was the conspicuous lack of Door use; if he had been a full Cauldron member, he'd have 'ported somewhere more secure, like another dimension.
Whatever; they could watch me as much as they wanted. Pandora's Box, as I'd started to call our tiny barn lab, was more or less surveillance proof. If we were really unlucky, Clairvoyant was watching us like a hawk, but there wasn't much I could do about that.
Yet.
The cafeteria lacked cocoa puffs. Still in full costume, I ran to the nearest store and endured several odd looks from awestruck civilians and a very surprised cashier.
When I got back, I caught my sister mid-monologue.
"-can fix this in one surgery!" She protested. "If you don't, it'll be weeks before the cast comes off!"
"I've already received the best care the Protectorate can provide," Miss Militia said levelly, though the image was somewhat ruined by the way she was hiding her injured arm.
"And you'll needfurthertreatments to get back into fighting form," Pandora countered. "Dragon's Ossification Boosters are expensive, and they'llstilltake a long time compared to my treatment. It's like youwantto stay-" she paused, suddenly thoughtful. "Say, are you being paid while you're hurt?"
"Half pay, but yes. With the gangs staying quiet, they shouldn't mind me being off duty for a couple weeks." There was a certain sparkle in her eyes that wasn't there before.
". . . Do we get to go on vacation? As a doctor, I can say that fresh air and mild exercise are good for injuries."
"If it's not too strenuous. I'm going to have to stay overnight, buttomorrow. . ."
The two of them shared conspiratorial smiles.
I let the bowls hit the table with a loudclack. They jumped.
"Heroes calling in sick," I said, shaking my head disapprovingly. "How utterly banal."
"Are you saying no?" Pandora challenged, meeting my eyes fearlessly. It was hard to believe she was younger than I was sometimes.
"Nah," I grinned. "What kind of hero would I be if I let my injured mother go alone? I just want to bring Taylor."
"You'll have to ask her parents, but it's doable," Militia said. She glanced down at my groceries, then frowned. ". . . I must say, that's more cereal than I was expecting."
My sister blinked, looking down at the box and half-gallon carton of milk. "I don't think we're going to be able to eat all that, Sovereign."
"They didn't have any in the cafeteria." I considered it solemnly. ". . . Maybe Armsmaster will have some?"
...
Not-Sveta stared down at the bowl of cereal, tendrils twitching.
"Think about it as a test for your fine control," I told her cheerily.
One tendril reached down, then crushed the spoon into a warped pretzel. Another picked up the bowl, then flung it at her face.
Not-Sveta slumped, soggy cocoa puffs falling to the floor. Yamada, I was not.
Milk dripped quietly for a moment. One of Riley's lab cats – not Mr. Tawny, who was currently doped out of hismind– mewled in the background. She'd been going through them fast lately; presumably she was doing some sort of high-intensity neurological study.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, silently praying for an end to awkwardness everywhere. "And on that note, have you had a chance to look over that list of powers we gave you yet?"
She nodded, perking up a little, and tapped a number on the (slightly soggy) sheet. I pulled the relevant vial free from the case. "You, you said there's no way to predict the result, right? I could get any power, but it'll heal me?"
"Correct, to a point." I hoisted the vials onto the table where she could see the labels. "We know that they will replace your powers, but we don't know what with. What we do know is that your current powers will cease to maintain your form, which means Riley can perform surgical intervention in the eventuality that you aren't reverted to a fully human appearance."
Rather than explode with joy (like any reasonable person would do) Not-Sveta bit her lip, thinking silently for a minute. "We – haven't really talked about it, but . . . what do you want?"
"Several things; you'll have to be more specific."
"For the powers. From me." She thrashed, turning around roughly so she could face me squarely. "Why are you doing this?"
"Would you accept the answer 'because I'm a hero'?"
"No," she growled, "and stop screwing around. I want a serious answer – what are your goals? Why are you helping me?"
If she wanted the whole spiel, this was going to be tricky. I pulled a chair away from the table and sat. She waited patiently as I thought, eyes meeting mine unblinkingly. Riley continued to record data on the computer behind us, the regular tapping of the keyboard and the soft rustling of bored cats the only sound in the entire lab.
"Riley and I are different from most capes," I told her eventually. I didn't care if she knew our names; I suspected the point would be moot soon enough. "We're alike in that we both triggered very young, from the murders of our families. I was luckier than she was; my powers let me escape, let me tear my tormentors to shreds. I found a guardian. Hers – her powers made her a bigger target, something to be used and discarded. Eventually, she got away, and Riley found my guardian too."
I stood, filled with inexplicable energy, and started to pace. "However, I'm different, even from my sister. We aren't sure what happened with my ability, but it isn't anormalpower. It doesn't follow the standard template for parahumans, this has been observed by the PRT, but not even Miss Militia knows that during the tests I lied by omission."
"Lied about what?" There was no judgement on her face, only curiosity and a measure of dread.
"My powers include strength, durability, speed, intelligence, superior senses, and enhanced cognition. They also make me immune to most Master and Stranger type abilities, and have a blanking effect on my personal future." I hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. "What they don't know is that at the moment of my trigger, I had a vision. All parahumans do, though most forget it. My vision was . . . more comprehensive. I couldn't forget it; my power doesn't let me forget anything."
I had a captivated audience; even Riley hadn't heard me talk about this openly. I could almost feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of my head, her fingers paused above the keyboard.
"What did you see?" Not-Sveta asked, tentacles still.
"Monsters," I told her, kneeling down in front of the glass. "Heroes and villains fighting together; the end of the world. That's what my goal is; that's what I'm trying to stop. You want to know why we're helping you? I'm helping you not only because it's the right thing to do, but because I wantyouto helpus."
"You could give these powers to anyone," Not-Sveta said after a pause. "Why me? Why not a trained soldier, or a renowned physicist, or some popular idol to drum up support? I don't have any skills, or any connections. All I have is-" she waved a tentacle feebly.
"We might recruit someone like that later," I said, straightening up again. "Right now, we're just setting up. According to my timeline, we have as much as a decade before the really bad stuff happens. Our bargain is this – we give you a vial, and we restore you to human form. In return, you help me save billions – no,trillionsof lives."
"But – I'm just – what if I'm notstrongenough?" Tendrils thrashed in agitation, sending the bowl flying against a wall. "What if you give me the power, and I screw it up? I don't even know who I am! What if-"
I could feel my power, the subtle influence in the back of my mind, pulsing like a golden star. Without it, there would be doubt, questions; with it, there was no lie in my voice, no deception in my demeanor.
You will be better than you were.
No time for hesitation.
I pressed the button on the outside of the cell. The glass slid upwards soundlessly. Tentacles lunged, then stopped right before they reached my face. Judging by the struggle on Sveta's face, the strain was immense; still, the tendrils quivered in midair, frozen by a supreme effort of will.
Potential.
"Whoever you are, you're strong," I told her quietly, meeting her disbelieving eyes as I held up her chosen vial. The word 'Quantum' had been written on the innocuous white label. "Above all else, believe that. Now, I ask you – do we have a deal?"