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by Kahlil Johnson

Don’t own crap

3. Heh

Are you going to kill me?

His fists clenched and unclenched, squeezing and crushing an invisible throat.

Are you going to kill me?

Shadows bled across the apartment floor like ink, swelling and fading between shades of gray and the darkest of blacks, moonlight blinking in and out of reality.

Are you going to kill me?

The painted rose on his back and sheath pulsed with light in tune with his heartbeat, and that familiar heat flowed throughout his body, surging and coiling, demanding to be released back into the world.

Are you going to kill me?

His scar itched, and he felt the heat pour into his eye, dying popped and melted blood vessels an angry red. The heat then spread to the brand itself, and it glowed brighter than the iron that put it there.

He remembered ambushing the SDC's old CFO in a hotel down in Mantle. A charity event, something for the kids so the magnates of Atlas could pat themselves on their backs. When the gala was over, Yuma and himself broke into the second second rate hotel he was staying in to kill him.

It was before the SDC had contracted the Atlesian military for their machines as their primary security measures.

That changed rather quickly after the news coverage of the slaughter hit Atlas.

There was only supposed to be security and the man himself. Armed with small arms only, pistols and short rifles. Only the things you'd need to scare off some uppity protesters or rock tossers.

The mans wife stalled them for a moment.

But only for a moment.

When the shots finally stopped, they all lay dead on the floor.

All except the daughter, who hid inside the bathroom shower.

She would have made it out alive for the tabloids if not for Yuma hearing her whimpers after he double-tapped her father.

He made his way inside, and told her to come out.

A scrawny girl, hardly over nine, dress wrinkled and face dripping with snot and tears looked him in the face and asked him.

"Are you going to kill me?"

Wilt answered.

Even then, as broken as he was, he felt a twinge of something as Wilt pushed into the ball of her eye.

Then he saw the boy at the safehouse.

"Are you going to kill me?"

She came back in his nightmares, body rotted, face screwed into a rictus grin, blood flowing from an empty eye socket as she drowned him in the rivers of Argus.

Are you going to kill me?

It always ended the same way. He fought and thrashed under the water, screams swallowed by the salty tide.

The anger and fury at his impotence always swelled near the end, and he'd resolve that if he was going to drown, he'd take her with him.

But when he gripped her hair and pulled her under, it was his face he saw, twisted in a sneer before the water took him.

Then he'd wake up, screaming and coughing and choking.

Parian had caught him coming out of them several times.

She was afraid of him.

He didn't blame her, not truly, but every flinch and every measured glance felt like he was being stabbed on that cliff all over again.

The people of Brockton Bay and beyond were just as conflicted.

Many could understand his attacks, but few encouraged them. The cold, unfeeling calculus of the killings and bombings alienated many potential supporters. He was labeled insane, a terrorist, a monster, no better, if not worse than the Empire he was fighting. While he had his supporters, especially after his conduct with the child came out, they were loudly drowned out by the rightful criticism that intentions mean nothing, actions do, and that his actions were something that monsters like Gavel would have been doing.

He convinced himself he was trying to do better, but was he?

Or was he just falling back on his old routine, deluding himself once again that he was in the right, that it was okay because the Empire were in the wrong?

Here, he didn't have a safety net. He had no organized supporters, no White Fang, no safe houses, men under is command or secret cells to gleam intel through. He had no continents or cities to travel too, or partners of any kind.

The Empire wasn't the SDC or Atlas either, and he couldn't fight it like it was. It didn't have the global overreach and widespread evil and criminality of the SDC, nor the advanced tech and might of Atlas.

It was a gang. A well funded, and trained gang, but a gang nonetheless.

It had no political influence beyond local police and judges, no income besides small racketed shops and stores and illicit deals.

The only reason the PRT hadn't started a full city wide manhunt for him was because of the Empire's hasty mobilization and Lung's men going to ground.

If he made himself a true enemy of them, there was nowhere he could hide, and holding back against the entire might of the PRT would be suicidal.

He could kill them all. It would be so easy, easy as breathing in a world without aura, fights decided in seconds instead of minutes.

But if he did that he'd be no better than the wild animal Atlas had painted him as.

His heart twisted, and for a moment he felt Gambol Shroud rip it in twain again.

No better than the wild animal he was

All at once, like a rubberband snapping back, color graced the world again, and the moonlight danced across his face.

Two hours later, a man identifying himself as "Taurus" called the PRT tipline and informed them that he'd interrupted an Empire backed drug deal, and had four unconcious males ready for pickup.

The caller hung up before the operator could reply.

Last edited: May 9, 2022

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May 10, 2022

#120

He hopped from his balcony and focused his aura into his legs, and landed hard on an abandoned storefront below him, turning a body shattering fall into a dull throb of pain in his ankles. The next safehouse was in his neighborhood.

He'd have to make sure they didn't come back. The Empire's unpowered members were deserting en masse, and besides Hookwolf, the lieutenants of the Empire were having serious men and material problems, and morale among even the most devout was starting to falter amidst the bodies.

Then his one-eighty last week scared them even further. Now he wasn't just a killer, but an unpredictable one, liable to kill you and arrest your buddy within the same breath, and it was impossible for the mook to tell which mood he was going to be in, further spreading fear.

The people and the PRT were just as confused, wondering how he went from an almost remorseless killer to a standard, if violent, vigilante à la Shadow Stalker, and many wildly speculated what got him killing at all in the first place.

He was nineteen when he killed his first man.

He was leading a small contingent of White Fang as bodyguards for Ghira and Sienna, as they were leading a supply convoy through Mistral. Ghira and Sienna were arguing the entire trip.

By then, that was all they ever did.

Sienna insisted that they go through Mistral's cities and villages. It would be slower, and they'd be hounded and slowed by the Mistrali police, but it would be safer. Ghira insisted that they cut through the unpaved roads and forests. The village they were delivering supplies to had been ravaged by Grimm, and every day they weren't there, more people would die.

He'd sided with Ghira out of principle of him being the man who took him in, and that he was Blake's father, but he knew deep down Sienna was right.

And she proved it when they were stopped.

Every shot felt like a punch to his chest, wondering when the next bullet would strike another Faunus, another friend, another brother.

When Ghira's aura shattered, he nearly screamed aloud. He would have gone out and put them all down with or without Sienna's approval.

When the last man charged the man who was nearly a second father to him, he reacted.

There was no rational thought or considered action, nor malice.

Just pure instinct and panic.

At first there was nothing. He just turned to chase the runners, teeth bared, ready to rend them limb from limb and-

The hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ghira spun him around and simply raised his voice. He'd never done well with loud noise, but shouting brought back the worst of memories, and Ghira knew that if he wanted to get his attention, that was how.

He remembered Ghira railing into him about how it wasn't necessary, and turned him towards the body.

That was when the bile bubbled up in his throat. He remembered Sienna pulling Ghira away into another argument, but he couldn't focus on it.

He was deaf and numb to the world, and all he could see was that the man was dead.

He was in two separate halves, and the edges were darkened and half smudged away, as if someone had taken an eraser to them.

The slaps on his back nearly forced the bile out.

He couldn't get it out of his head, and during his training session with Blake, she could tell.

He finally caved and told her, ready to be shunned.

Instead she hugged him, eyes filled with awe and tears, and told him that it was okay. She didn't like it, but he'd done his best to keep them alive, and that he'd saved her father, that he was a hero.

He didn't know it was a different emotion in her eyes then until later.

Sienna scouted him out after, and told him he'd done good work, and asked who taught him to use his sword.

He still relished the momentary flicker of surprise on her face when he told her he was self-taught.

He was her main sparring partner from then on.

Everything went mostly back to normal then, and for a while, he could put that man's corpse out of his mind.

Then two months later, Ghira stepped down.

He and Blake took turns in several screaming matches with her father. They called him every name, swear and adjective under the sun, begged and pleaded with him to take back the mantle.

Ghira weathered it all with a sad smile, and said his decision was final.

Sienna approached him not long after that as well. She introduced him to Yuma and Trifa, her primary covert operators, and gave him command of them both, and that he'd report to her only.

He'd protested at first, saying that he was a leader, a soldier, not an assassin. But she reminded him that assassins could do just as much good as soldiers, and in much more varied and important ways. But at the end of the day, it wasn't a request.

He swallowed his pride and did as he was told.

That was when the "Accidents" started.

And at first, they were. Poorly aimed shots, bystanders near explosions, false surrenders, and it all made him sick.

But the adoration in Blake's eyes, and Sienna's hand on his shoulder and Good job, Adam I'm proud of how far you've come made it all worth it.

On his twentieth birthday, she said she had gift for him.

A custom made mask and a promotion.

Major Taurus had stared at her, mouth agape at the fact that he'd just been given complete field command of the Vale division.

She didn't see the monster she'd made until it stabbed her in the back.

Blake had confessed to him not long after, and the world was right.

At the time, he thought their relationship was perfect, but looking back now, he could see the cracks from the start.

She was getting older every day, smarter and wiser, and started asking questions. She wasn't stupid. She'd noticed him becoming colder, quieter, more prone to anger. When he'd come back to camp with blood underneath his fingernails, or when he stopped dreading Sienna's missions and started volunteering for them.

But he'd always quiet her with a stolen kiss, or sweep her off her feet and dance with her, and she'd smile like all was forgotten.

But it wasn't forgotten, and he'd never realized until it was too late.

Then he got bolder and bolder, and she started seeing the newspapers.

He remembered her bawling once she got word of his attack on the CFO.

She said nobody, no Human or Faunus deserved what he did to them and his family, and called him a monster.

That was the first time he lost his temper with her.

He tore off his mask and pinned her to the wall, angrily cupping her chin with one hand and grabbing her by the face with the other. He'd pressed his fingers in her cheek hard enough to bruise and made her look.

It was a rule with them, that she never ask about his eye. She'd never seen it. He always covered it, whether it be with a mask, eyepatch or one of her ribbons.

Even seven years later, it still hadn't fully scared shut. Parts still blistered and burst from the irritation of covering it, and he'd chafed it on a bandage quite badly that day.

He looked her in the eye, and saw the blood flow down from a half torn scab in the reflection, and told her he hadn't killed a human, he'd killed a monster.

He wrenched his arms away and stormed out.

He never apologized, and she never brought it up again. It was the start of the end, and he just hadn't seen it yet.

His heart throbbed again, and he shook himself out of his reverie.

He had a job to do.

As he made to jump forward, he heard a cry of pain in the distance, almost unnoticeable amidst the darkness.

He jumped down and m-

He froze. A living shadow stood above him, smoke and ichor wisping about, mist and vapor flowing in the shape of a woman-

He blinked.

It was gone.

He shook his head and marched forward towards an alley.

His lip curled in disgust. Three shaven headed men were kicking and beating down a dark skinned man curled into a ball.

His eyes were bloodshot and wide, whimpers and gasps flowing out of a ruined and bloodied mouth.

"Nothing better to do except beat the homeless? How high and mighty."

The fear in their eyes as they spun around and saw him filled him with delight, even now.

He blurred forward, Blush striking the man in the center's sternum. He sailed ten feet in the air, slamming into the back of the alley with a crunch. He almost dismissively kicked the other in the chest, foot lazily extended mid-air as he folded down in pain like a bowling pin.

The last turned to run, but Wilt ejected outwards from Blush and smashed into the back of his head.

He'd live.

Probably.

He helped the homeless man up and sent him on his way. He made to walk out, but oddly enough, he heard a clatter behind him.

The man he kicked was standing, swaying on his feet, and he quickly flicked his eyes to the pocket knife on the ground that wasn't there before.

He took a shaky step forward, then collapsed, an oddly shaped crossbow bolt poking out his back.

A tranq.

A shadow glided from a nearby rooftop and materialized into shape, a black bodysuit and cloak shadowing a pale woman's face plastered in a scowl.

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Heh. You missed one."

His hand drifted to Wilt and he resheathed it, fingers rolling and drumming over it's hilt.

He nodded his head, ready to spring at any time.

"Shadow Stalker."

Last edited: May 15, 2022

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May 11, 2022

#133

He was taut as a wire, fingers white-knuckled across his blade, while one of the deadliest capes in the city stared on.

He mostly skimmed info about the Wards, confident that the PRT wouldn't send them against him. But the one exception was Shadow Stalker.

She didn't fit in with the rest, in power, appearance, or attitude. She was for all intents and purposes an unknown, and he hated unknowns.

She'd started off as an independent, clashing with muggers and thieves, before her increasingly violent attacks brought down the PRT's hammer.

The official story was that after being approached by Armsmaster and Assault, she willingly agreed to join the Wards program after nearly killing a man when she interrupted a drug deal.

He knew by now that official story did not mean true story, just the one people in charge wanted to spread.

So he did his own digging, and what he found made him eminently cautious of meeting her. She'd started off simple and small, a few broken bones here, a broadhead there, maybe some small permanent damage, a missing finger or two.

But bodies found with no visible damage besides internal wounds in the heart or brain? People pinned to alleyways by their hands and feet?

The Brockton Bay Wards had a serial killer in their midst, and he naively hoped they didn't know it.

She was one of the few that could kill him. She could phase through people and walls, and take objects with her.

Who's to say she couldn't leave something behind as well?

He didn't know for sure, but those bodies had all been in areas she had frequented before being picked up.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "What brought you out to my side of town?"

He knew it was her patrol route, but he wanted her guard down and to provoke a response. He didn't have a read on her yet, and he needed one quick to decide.

She scoffed and stepped forward, casually kicking the tranquilized man in the ribs before none too gently ripping out the tranq and pocketing it.

"Your side of town? This is my route. Seen you coming and going a few times, figured I'd finally get some face time in, hunter to hunter."

He chose his next words carefully, feigning ignorance and adding a slight mocking lilt to his words.

"Forgive me for being skeptical a ward would want to have a friendly chat with a known murderer."

"You ain't no psycho killer, you're pretty much the only other person in this pisshole trying to clean things up around here, and my idiot teammates are too stupid to see it."

A touch of indignation would do. He carefully lifted one hand and gestured to the blood and teeth on the floor.

"And you spent so long watching me instead of helping because why exactly?"

"You looked like you had it handled."

She had the audacity to shrug while she said it.

He carefully twisted his hips, slightly tilting Blush upward with his offhand. If she took another step forward, he could decapitate her with a Moonslice and pulp her heart with a bullet before she could even see him move.

Three sentences and he had her pegged.

He was reminded of Mercury Black in all the worst ways.

Posture loose, back lowered and hunched, but legs tight, ready to pounce. An affected air of casualness, hiding a calculating, wary persona beneath.

He couldn't see her face behind the mask, but he could imagine it well enough.

The smallest of smirks, with narrowed eyes and an upturned nose.

A sociopath. High functioning would be his guess, considering she obviously had some sort of social life she had to maintain out of costume.

She eyed him, and then she sighed. "Relax, I ain't here to bring you in. Piggy'd have my guts for garters if she knew I was talking to you. I coulda called the whole PRT on you already if I really wanted to. Bosses have me sidelined in reserve because of you and the ABB. Not allowed to deviate from my route. When I saw you, I knew you were after something, and I wanted in. Been going crazy without any action. That's all."

He was tempted to kill her right here and now. Scatter the petals across the city. Perhaps dump them in the ocean. No one would know, and the city would be rid of one more killer. She would simply vanish. The PRT would suspect, but they couldn't know.

On the other hand, she was just as willing to get her hands dirty as he was. He couldn't do this alone forever, or he'd end up just like her when the heroes came knocking. Having a partner, or even just a single cape willing to collaborate from time to time would make his job easier.

And she was a Ward.

She was what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Old enough to know better, young enough to not give a damn. She was tall for her age, but she couldn't be past her second year in high school.

Perhaps he could at least stamp out some of her more sadistic tendencies, mold her into something sharper, better.

He snorted. He supposed they could learn together.

It would be stupid to think he could "fix" her.

But maybe he could stop another Major Taurus from entering the world.

She was close enough already.

He relaxed himself, and crossed his arms over his chest. Start slow, reel her in with some action, but keep it small, leaving her wanting more and more, slowly scaling up, offering judgment-free and rule-free outings as an incentive for her to continue seeking him out, and make himself out to be a kindred spirit willing to feed her addiction. From what he knew dealing with Mercury(And himself, he noted dismally) she would be antsy and easy to provoke when going long periods without acting out, whether verbally or physically. She'd most likely have issues with authority, so he would have to style himself as a more benevolent teacher/partner, as an equal, rather than a superior.

He felt somewhat sick even considering the idea of manipulating her like he did Blake, but at least this time he would be pulling someone away from the edge instead of trying to throw them past it.

He leaned against the alley's wall and hiked a thumb behind him. "Empire safehouse just got put up four blocks down. Small scale, just grunts. You still want in?"

"Fuck yeah I do. Just gotta hit something. Fuckin pussies I deal with keep moaning about boys and girls and their nails and it makes me wanna kick their asses."

She stalled for a moment, then laughed a little. "I still won't have to deal with that from you right?"

He faked a laugh along with her and shook his head. "You won't, trust me. Let's get mobile. Wanna make this quick."

She nodded, and he hopped back to the rooftops and took off. She caught up a moment later, jumping and flowing through the air like gravity didn't exist.

The shadow's wisping and trailing behind her filled him with a sense of nostalgia.

She wouldn't become another Blake, another failure. He had to do better this time. Steer her right.

He stopped at the building next to it, a two-story home filled with rotted wood. He wrinkled his nose, smelling the mold hiding in the walls and under the roof.

She floated her way next to him, standing straight up, crossbow in hand.

"Equipment status?"

"Used my last tranq in the alley. All I got left are broadheads."

"You fine in CQC?"

Her shoulders shook with mirth. "Better than fine, trust me."

Time to play it up.

"I can hear them through the walls, but I can't tell how many there are. Your power is more useful than mine for situations like this. You up for scouting it out?"

She stilled slightly, and her voice had a touch of confusion mingled with satisfaction in it. "Kinda surprised you ain't ordering me to. I thought it mighta chafed you to work with somebody so much younger than you."

"You've been doing this longer than me." A lie, but a flattering one. "I wouldn't insult you by trying to pretend I'm your boss. God knows the PRT must do that enough. We both know what we're doing."

She swaggered forward and leaped off the roof, fading to shadow halfway.

He still had it.

Even if he wished he didn't.

The "Cool Friend" approach with hint of parental care would see this through. Her home life was undoubtedly unstable, and his gut told him she'd never had a proper father figure. He would bet all the money in the world trying to "Dad" her would get him stabbed, but an older man showing her the parahuman ropes, being patient, being understanding, giving her praise, and letting her do as she pleased would subconsciously make her see him that way.

She came back impressively quickly. "Two guys upstairs, three in the basement, four in the living room. Guys upstairs are asleep, and the men in the basement are higher than fuckin Skidmark. Got some sorta card game set up in the living room."

He tilted his head back slightly, feigning raised brows. She couldn't see through the mask, but she recognized the gesture. "Good work. I'll take the second story. Pick your poison however you like." With that, he ran past her and let the momentum carry him across to the house.

He repeated his trick from the warehouse and melted the roof away.

In this neighborhood, erosion could easily explain it away. He did pocket the roses though.

He cleared out the upstairs bedrooms in record time, a tap to the shoulder and a fist to the face dispatching both men inside them.

He walked halfway down the staircase and waited. While he'd picked up plenty of slang, games, and pop culture in his time here, he'd freely admit he was completely lost as to the game they were playing.

Before he could make his move, a ghost soared through the floor, fist extended upward, and she materialized halfway up, carrying all her momentum into a devastating uppercut into a skinheads jaw. He cleared three feet in the air before he landed.

Then it was pandemonium.

They barely had time to shout before he was on them, dislocating arms and cracking ribs. Three went down hard in less than eight seconds.

The fourth, however, had dived through the window and was booking it away from the home at impressive speed.

Before he could aim, Shadow Stalker beat him to it.

He saw her mistake before she even pulled the trigger, but it was too late.

A bolt sailed free, aimed too low, and it sunk below the Nazi's thigh.

Near the femur.

He stumbled and fell, and then the Nazi made his mistake.

He reached down and pulled it out, presumably thinking he could try and get back to running.

Arterial blood flying nigh on ten feet away disabused him of that plan.

"OHshitshitshitshit-" Shadow Stalker took off running, but he contented himself with walking. The man was already dead, his body just had to catch up.

He sighed. He was trying to avoid killing again.

By the time he walked over, the man was dead, and Shadow Stalker was panicking, muttering to herself about how she killed him and that the PRT was gonna crucify her.

He interrupted her.

"You didn't."

Before she could ask what he meant, Wilt flicked out and carved a line across his body.

The man's skin started to turn black and red, and his muscles twitched as if being tugged and cut.

As the man beneath them wilted away, he made sure to look her in the eye.

"He never existed."

She was staring at him now, and for a moment, he wondered what was going through her head.

"You're used to firing from elevated positions and close range, yes?"

She flinched, like she was lost in thought, then nodded.

"You aimed low. Past thirty feet, those bolts are going to start dropping fast. Aim high, and ignore the thigh and hip. Aim for the foot or kneecap, the arteries there are harder to hit and disable the leg much more effectively. You understand?"

She nodded her head resolutely. "Thanks. I'm already on probation. Didn't need that on my record."

"You can call this in for credit. I'd tell you I was never here, but I think we can trust ourselves to keep each-others secrets."

He turned around and started to walk away.

"If you need more action, this is where you'll find me."

Last edited: May 11, 2022

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May 12, 2022

#165

March was almost over, and with it her spring break. She'd been slaving over a project during her free time, but between the deliveries and her odd jobs, she hadn't had the time to finish. As soon as she sat down to work on the dress, her mind turned up a blank. She'd sat so long today she almost forgotten about Taurus, and quickly rushed to get his things.

Now she was making her way to his apartment, making sure to stick to the open roads. She didn't feel like scaring off any merchants today.

She didn't know what to make of him. Didn't even know his name until he announced it to the PRT. She felt a little bad she'd never even asked him in the first place.

He always looked like he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his back. He seemed to be in a state of permanent restlessness, always up and about, never stopping, sleeping only for the minimum amount of time.

Or, she reminded herself, It was because he couldn't really sleep at all.

She'd stop by in the mornings, refiling his fortunately well used "bath", and what few times she'd seen him asleep looked horrible.

She'd had nightmares before, everyone had, but these were night terrors. He'd surge up, coughing and choking, or flail about, fists striking air as a panicked scream tore out of his throat and turned it raw. Sometimes he never woke at all, and simply shook and shivered, names too quiet to decipher muttered from shaky lips.

She often wondered what kind of things that he'd seen(Or worse, happened to him) that could scare him so much.

Sometimes when he woke up, he looked as though he didn't know where he was, and when he saw her, he looked ready to lunge.

Sometimes he did.

But he'd always stop halfway through, freezing mid-stride, hands outstreched, either to hug or to strangle.

She couldn't tell which.

He'd apologize, almost demurely, then walk to the bathroom and sit out of sight until she was gone.

Sometimes he'd try and talk with her, but he was always stilted, and often paused after almost every word, like he was so unused to table talk he just didn't know what to say, how to relate. He'd give up quickly, and either clam up or keep to simple questions.

How was your day? What do you have for me this time? How's school? (She was in college, but she doubted he knew that. He probably thought she was in high school).

Sometimes she'd look back and laugh a little as just how out of sorts he'd sounded, but at the same time, she'd never felt so much pity for one person in her life.

Above all else, beyond the tension, the anger, the curtness, he seemed so unbearably lonely.

She caught him just staring off into space several times. Either at the wall, or the moon.

He always seemed so fascinated with the moon. She couldn't tell why.

He'd sit completely still, body tense and loose at the same time, and just stare.

She couldn't imagine what could be going through his head sometimes.

It was never happy, that she knew for sure.

It was so hard to square all that she'd seen of him with the carnage the news showed off.

Bodies half melted, buildings knocked down, blood and shell casings scattered about.

The flowers and petals constantly flowing about the city and ocean, carried by the wind and tide, became the new normal.

She couldn't bring herself to pity the Empire. They'd do the exact same type of things to her any day of the week if they knew who she was under the mask.

But every day people died, she'd wonder when he'd get bored of the Empire and move on to something else.

Someone else

She didn't know what kind of vendetta he'd had, but her ultimate fear was that he'd move onto the ABB, or the PRT, or even her.

And then the killing stopped.

Wholesale.

He seemed different after that.

He got even quieter, but some of his tension seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. He looked more stable. Started cleaning up more, asking for more and more different things than just food, drink, and soap.

Just yesterday she helped him set up an impromptu door with a shower pole and curtain.

He seemed to actually be settling in.

He started trying to talk with her more, and she'd actually had a polite conversation or two with him.

They were both awkward with it, but it was something.

It was nice.

The sun had set by the time she made her way up the stairs to his apartment, and she took a moment to scan the room.

It still didn't look livable, but at least now it looked lived in.

Two poles and a string as a laundry line, a wet jacket slowly dripping water.

Ugly mats littered the floor, acting as a makeshift carpet.

A pillow and blanket hidden by a corner, surrounded by pictures carved into the walls.

There were massive forests, what looked like a giant platform or city suspended in mid-air, thick jungles, wide deserts, unfamiliar faces and people, and some sort of insignia, a snarling beast marked by three deep gouges.

The one that caught her eye the most was the waterfall. It looked like he'd painted it there, instead of carving it in like the rest.

It was cut in half by a sheer cliff, lines of snow laden trees on each of it's sides, with an impossibly green and flourishing middle.

At the top, the water was clear and blue, but below the cliff, it shifted to a bloody red.

At the very bottom, the water turned to falling petals, reds and blacks packed together in the shape of what almost looked like someone falling.

They looked familiar.

She turned towards the gap in the wall, and saw him.

He was sitting by the edge, back turned, legs gently swaying mid-air with the breeze. His elbows were rested on his knees, and he was cupping his chin with his hands, head tilted upwards, marveling at the moon.

His mask was off, a foot or two away from his side.

A finger lightly tapped a beat across his face, his hair and gloves flashing in the dark. She could just barely make out some kind of marking or scar above his nose, but it was too dark to tell.

It was almost picturesque.

She stepped forward, and his finger stilling was the only indication he knew she was there.

"Sorry I was late, lost track of time trying to work on a project." She laid her bag down and looked down to make sure everything was there. "I brought more food, those brushes you asked for, a-"

"A project?"

She stilled for a moment, wondering if she could tell him, but figured she had much more damning info about him than he could ever learn about her.

"Yeah, I'm working on a dress for my fashion design class, but I'm used to custom orders, and I can't quite come up with the little details."

"Ah."

A simple ah of acknowledgement.

Silence reigned again.

For how long it lasted, she couldn't tell.

Eventually she turned to leave, but he interrupted her again. "Maybe.." he trailed off.

She turned back towards him, and he was fitting his mask back on his face. He seemed to gather himself again, then spoke.

"Maybe I could help you? I made all these clothes myself, including some spares I have tucked away."

His lips seemed to curl up, but she couldn't quite tell for sure in the dim. "Plus, I've seen some pretty crazy outfits and designs I've memorized over my life."

She'd never had many friends. She'd tried co-ed dorms, blind dates, but she never really connected with anyone.

He looked like he was trying, truly trying.

Maybe she could try too.

"Okay."

Last edited: Apr 6, 2023

359

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May 12, 2022

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MasterDuplicator

Big Fan of a Mad Cow

May 14, 2022

#175

By the time the car was halfway there, Brad had to bite his tongue to stop from screaming.

After his fight with the Ripper, He'd been in several screaming matches with Kaiser, insisting that he chase that fucker down again once he was recovered. He'd nearly died, had almost lost, and it had been a thrill unlike any yet. He was happy for the first time in so long, finally able to cut loose and be free, to be better, to learn. Some of the tricks he'd seen the Ripper pull had given him ideas, and the scattered and grainy video from street cams and mobile phones from his more recent attacks had been illuminating. He was ready to face him again.

Max said no.

He tried to pull rank, as the Empire's nominal second-in-command, but Kaiser pulled his. Kaiser forbade him and the rest of the Empire from seeking him out, insisting that the PRT would soon step in and deal with the problem, as a cape willing to kill and out-fight Hookwolf would be something they couldn't ignore.

Then the killing stopped, and the PRT simply set up two-man patrol teams in a few new neighborhoods and shrugged their shoulders.

And while the killing stopped, the raids hadn't.

Then he got called down to Medhall to discuss the current state of things.

Now here he was, sweltering inside some fuckin limo in a suit jacket that made his skin crawl.

Kaiser insisted on a dress code, and while he knew Max was old money and needed things to be all dolled up and pretty, he would bet cold hard cash it was also partially just to fuck with him.

Each trip for each member was spaced off by half an hour to avoid questions and suspicion, and he was the last one to arrive.

Real fuckin subtle Max.

At least the champagne was good.

The limo lurched to a stop, and he reluctantly put down the bottle and wiped his mouth, ignoring the driver's horrified stare at the empty champagne glass and the alcohol dripping from the bottle's lid and his sleeve.

He walked past the waiting room and through the offices and had a very hard time not smiling at the looks he was getting.

He made sure to dress up nicely for the meeting.

A stained and unbuttoned suit jacket over a wife-beater and ripped jeans on a 6'2 body with hair longer than most of the women's in the building, unwashed and clumped together with sweat and grease, and a belt that only half held up his pants, revealing the top of his boxers.

He made his way to the back of the building and flashed his wrist tattoo at the very disgusted elevator operator, who, with great hesitation, took him to Kaiser's office.

Everyone was already there and sitting down, looking very annoyed at the wait.

Twelve heads turned and froze in unison.

Kaiser's face spasmed violently for a moment, but he quickly settled back into his usual empty smile.

Justin looked like he swallowed a lemon, wheezing with muffled laughter.

Rune darted her eyes between him and Kaiser, and then fixed a stare on him like he was the second coming of Christ before James lightly slapped her shoulder, and attempted to control her face.

Poorly.

Mel and Lars just shook their heads.

"Ah, Bradley-"

His eye twitched.

"So good of you to finally join us, and in your Sunday best I see..."

For one brief, horrible moment, he was tempted to call him Maximilian, but he wasn't suicidal.

He instead contented himself with taking a window seat, making sure his hair would glisten in the sunlight.

Nessa and Jessica tried to set him on fire with their eyes, but he simply pretended they didn't exist.

And with that, it started.

Blah Blah Blah, losing men, losing money, Nip's here, Darkie's there, Blah Blah Blah.

He tuned it all out. It was nothing he didn't already know.

The manpower shortages hadn't hit him yet, but Alabaster and Victor had been bitching about it endlessly.

The dog fights and cage matches still were turning a profit, and he didn't spend much anyhow, but it was starting to drop off.

Everyone else had been reporting more serious problems.

Mass desertion, drug deals and drug labs going up in flames, and the cops and the merchants finally growing some brass balls and taking the fight to 'em.

Eventually, Max stopped talking about the bad news and started going over the good, and he felt his eyes start to drift shut.

He didn't give a flying fuck about Medhall, but plenty of the people here did.

Random numbers and sayings bounced across the room, and it all flew past his head. When Max started going over stocks, he saw Justin tap Rune on the arm and mime a gun to his head, and she giggled like the fuckin schoolgirl she was.

Sometimes he didn't know how to feel about her being here, but James insisted she learn the ropes.

She wasn't bad in a fight, but her voice really got on his fuckin nerves.

He was about to pass out when Max finally moved on to the reason he was here.

"As for Taurus, we now have a clear idea of how he's been hitting our enterprises. As I'm sure you are all aware, we let younger people join the Empire..."

He let the silence hang for a second before continuing. "Well, some of these younger people like to talk."

Groans and swears filled the room.

Alabaster spoke up, face buried in his hands. "What do we do about it? Make some new rules, kick some asses, maybe make up some kind of official code or cipher?"

Kaiser just shrugged. "Actually, I was going to encourage it."

Everyone stared.

"Let me explain. He's obviously not used to our fine city, and we don't exactly advertise what homes and businesses are affiliated with us, and he doesn't know how to search them out. So he steals and cracks phones and checks through texts and reminders for where we are and what we are doing. I say we let it continue, but control the flow of information. Give false orders, addresses that don't exist, locations of drug deals that will never happen, safehouses not occupied by the Empire but police or civilians, leave anonymous tips to the cops and PRT, and set traps with our most powerful members in these ambush points. We must make it impossible for him to trust his info and force them to attack us blind. That is when we will crush him."

Justin raised his hand.

"Not to say that isn't a good plan, but not all of us can be cut in half like Brad. How do you expect us to fight him?"

"Taurus is a skilled cape, but one inexperienced with the political aspects of cape-dom. When he realized that the PRT would knock him down like Shadow Stalker, he switched gears, but he's obviously not used to fighting non-lethally. We are."

Before he could open his mouth to disagree, a knock at the door interrupted him.

Kaiser's smile turned genuine. "Ah, Kayden! So glad you could make it."

What.

Justin did his best impression of a goldfish as Purity stepped inside.

Last edited: May 15, 2022

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May 14, 2022

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MasterDuplicator

Big Fan of a Mad Cow

May 15, 2022

#187

He crushed a phone in his hand, glass and plastic tumbling through his fist and hitting the pavement.

They must have thought him an idiot.

New patrols in small two-to-three man groups, random addresses and "I'll be there soon" sent to several contacts, and open discussion of new deals, gatherings, and initiations.

Like he hadn't dealt with this nonsense before.

Atlas's top information specialists had trouble baiting him.

And these fucking gangsters thought they could?

He was almost insulted that they hadn't yet realized what they were dealing with.

Now he just had to filter the intel from the set-ups.

If they were smart, it all would be false info, but he was willing to bet maybe a fifth was genuine.

All that was left was to pick the trap he wanted to spring and figure out the variables.

At best, there would be three to four capes, simple and easy. At worst, he could be facing the entire Empire.

If he had to face those odds, more would die. He wouldn't simply roll over and play nice, even if they thought he would.

The only thing that worried him was that Purity had simply disappeared. She'd either ditched town, or joined the Empire, but he figured if she came back, Kaiser would announce it with some sort of spectacle. It was something Jacques would have done, and he was Kaiser's best comparison point.

Any man who named himself "Emperor" had to have an ego.

Then again, one of the many traps that had been set could be her lying in wait to glass him along with half the block he was standing on.

He was confident he could take one, maybe two blasts from her at full tilt, but he sure as hell didn't want to test that theory out.

He'd always hated fighting airborne targets.

Then again, he usually had men with AT and AA to take care of that for him.

For a moment, he considered waiting for nightfall and bringing Shadow Stalker along, but it would be too much too fast.

She was a diamond in the rough, but one that needed polishing.

Quick to learn, but immensely held back by her stubbornness.

Anything that she thought was "Dumb" or a waste of her time was flat ignored, and as a result, while she was a fantastic operator and support unit, she was not capable of frontline combat.

At least not in PRT terms.

If she was able to fight lethally, few could match her.

Getting her to join the Guild was the best option.

What the PRT didn't understand was that she wasn't the kind of person who was capable of change. She simply is the way she is, and trying to integrate her with "Normal" people would simply be a recipe for disaster.

It would breed even more hostility and resentment for the PRT and authority than she already had, and would harm not just her well-being, but that of the Wards as well.

The simple fact she was on probation was such an indescribable blow to her ego that she would never be willing to stay in the PRT, and every attempt to get her closer to them would simply push her away further.

But not only would the Guild facilitate her need for violence and sadism, it would also allow her to either operate solo or in small teams of her choosing, the biggest hurdles to stabilizing her. She'd never be normal, but she would be out of the way of the people who were, and it would allow her to be as close to happy as she could get on her own terms while doing an objectively good thing.

His job was to prepare her for that, and what few runs he'd had with her so far had been illuminating.

For one, she spent an inordinate amount of time on her phone. especially while waiting.

He'd have to work on her situational awareness, as he'd snuck up on her every time since their first meeting.

Whenever she waited for him to show up, she texted an "Emma."

Whether she was a girlfriend, friend, or sister he didn't know, but they had Shadow Stalker's complete trust. Shadow Stalker had talked with her about their outings and at one point this 'Emma" had outright asked to join in. He was almost considering the idea. It had clearly been done before, and he could use every bit of leverage against Shadow Stalker he could get. Perhaps "Emma" could be a focal point for controlling her.

But that was neither here nor there.

Right now, he had a decision to make.

He used the other stolen phone's remarkably handy satellite imaging(Remnant never had that, this google maps was something special) to map out the addresses and their surroundings.

The supposed drug deal going on inside a house a five-minute run away was his pick for today. Not enough room inside, so the ambush would have to come from the outside, and the hiding spots there were few and far between.

Might as well make it quick.

He took off in a run, forgoing the rooftops and simply blitzing through the street, casually speeding past the busy cars and streetwalkers. The only thing people saw was a red and black smear briefly blinking past them.

He made it there in three minutes instead of five. Traffic was rather light at two on a Monday.

Single floor plus basement, on a rather nice side of town. It sure as hell wasn't host to a crystal meth deal.

Well, best be thorough.

The windows were curtained up, and the door was locked when he tried to open it.

He simply shoved his arm through the door, plowing through the wood and metal, and reached inside to unlock it.

It was dark and nondescript, the only thing of note being a few family photos.

Nothing here.

He turned back to walk back but stopped dead.

Quiet.

No traffic, no pedestrians, just an empty street.

They wouldn't.

He heard a single-engine rumble, maybe two blocks and closing.

"God damn it."

They did.

He didn't think the Empire would be in that much of a hurry to be rid of him, but he was wrong.

If he ran, they'd call in more and follow.

He was overdue for a meeting with the PRT anyway.

He walked outside, pulling Blush free from his belt, and sat down on the house's porch steps.

He planted Blush on the ground and rested his chin on top of it.

He turned to his right as the most tricked-out motorcycle he'd ever seen pulled up, and Armsmaster and Miss Militia stepped off, warily approaching.

He was tempted to make a joke, but he wasn't in the mood. Instead, he languidly stood, watching both freeze, a gun forming in Militia's hand.

His hand drifted to Wilt, but he didn't draw it.

They had one chance.

"Leave me be and walk away. I have no quarrel with the Protectorate."

Armsmaster's mouth parted as if in disbelief. "No quarrel? R-"

Miss Militia cut him off. "Regardless if we have a quarrel or not, it's our job to bring you in. You can't expect us to just let you walk away."

He huffed, and Wilt clicked an inch free. They both flinched, and he felt a smile creep across his face. "I can and I am. I'm too much for the both of you, and by the time your reinforcements get here, you'll be long dead and I'll be long gone. I'm still getting used to pulling my punches again, and I'd rather not kill the both of you. Back down."

"You're wanted for almost fifty homicides. There's zero chance any Protectorate member on the continent would ever let you go. If you turn yourself in, we might be able to keep you from the birdcage due to your actions being limited to the Empire-88, and the fact you stopped your killing streak in the first place."

"Hmm." He lightly tapped a beat on Wilt's hilt. "Counteroffer."

Armsmaster opened his mouth, but the sound of a gunshot drowned out his voice.

Wilt slammed right between Miss Militia's chest.

Before her shout of agony could even fully sound out, Adam was already in front of her, catching Wilt before it hit the ground and kicking her in the stomach.

She landed five feet away, but he didn't have time to check her condition before Armsmaster was on him.

He'd never fought someone using a Halberd before.

So far it was interesting.

He was obviously skilled, each swing, swipe, and cut well-aimed and had great speed.

But as he ducked under a swing that would have taken off his head and left a boot print in his opponent's armor as a reply, he figured out his weakness.

It was obvious he'd never fought someone who could swing a blade back.

His blocks and parries were textbook and slow, like he wasn't used to the movements.

Armsmaster recovered gracefully, he'd give him that. When he hit the ground, he rolled with the momentum and sprung back to his feet in record time. He pressed a hand to the dent in his armor as if in disbelief.

His head snapped back towards Adam as he sheathed his sword.

It was kind of fun to be back in a blade-to-blade fight again, even if he was stonewalling to keep it fair.

He-

A bullet smashed into the side of his throat, and he stumbled to the right.

Another crumpled off his side before he could unsheath Wilt.

Then something smashed into his cheek hard enough to make his ears ring.

A grappling hook lodged itself back into Armsmasters halberd.

Right.

Mechashift.

He turned what would have been an on-his-ass fall into a graceless spin, and when the third bullet came, a shadow intercepted it.

He glanced left, and saw Miss Militia on a fire escape, shakily taking aim with some model of sniper rifle. A growl rumbled from his throat before his temper reigned back in, and Armsmaster laughed. "So much for killing the both of us."

To talk in battle was sin, so he decided to let Wilt respond for him.

He let a bit more of his natural strength and speed in as he charged Armsmaster again, Blade whipping about fast enough that the only thing Miss Militia saw was it's afterimage.

Armsmaster barely kept up.

He stepped forward, slapping and shoving Armsmaster's desperate swings aside, each step forcing him to backpedal further down the street, jaw clenched in concentration. Bullets hit the ground around them, landing just short of where he was half a second ago, each shot further from Adam than the last as he moved faster and faster.

Armsmaster was doing his best, but every step backward was shakier than before, and it was only a matter of time.

He shifted Blush into it's rifle form with his free hand as a parried swing from Wilt carved a foot-deep trench in the sidewalk.

He waited for the right moment, and when it came, it was over.

A bullet dug into Armsmaster's plated foot, and he tripped, falling to the ground. He hastily swung his halberd, but Adam simply kicked the blade aside.

A doppelganger slid from his back and absorbed Miss Militia's desperate covering fire.

His foot was raised to knock the power-armored hero out when a 40MM grenade landed at his feet. The world turned upside down as his copy evaporated away, and a nearby parked car's alarm chirped as he tumbled across the ground.

When he got to his feet. Armsmaster was on his, Halberd shifting, shortening down, blades folding aside to leave his grappling hook extended as a spear.

Green energy danced across Militia's hands, shaping into what seemed to be an anti-material rifle

Enough.

He let Armsmaster come to him, feigning exhaustion, letting him get closer and closer to hitting him with each blow, bobbing and weaving through Miss Militia's covering fire that sent fist-sized chunks of concrete and grass flying through the air.

When he faked a stumble, and Armsmaster swung his spear up, trying to disarm him, he let it happen.

Gotcha.

As Wilt careened through the air. spinning in lazy circles, the blade lit up brighter than the sun.

Armsmaster and Miss Militia both paused from the change in vision as the world grayed out like an old silent film.

Adam roundhouse kicked Armsmaster to the ground and caught Wilt as soon as Miss Militia got her bearings and fired.

Two halves of a bullet bounced across the street as a red arc carved apart the fire escape. She fell to the ground, landing hard on her head as bits of disintegrating metal crushed her legs, pinning her down. She let out a low moan before going quiet.

Armsmaster made it to his knees before the barrel of a gun tickling his exposed chin stopped him.

He looked up, and Adam saw his feral grin in the reflection of his visor.

How he missed this.

"You did better than the Ace-Ops at least."

The last thing Armsmaster saw was Adam's forehead racing to meet him.

Last edited: May 15, 2022

356

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May 15, 2022

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MasterDuplicator

Big Fan of a Mad Cow

May 16, 2022

#233

Split this one into two parts. The next one will be up later tonight or tomorrow.

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She replayed the video, laughing out loud as Miss Militia folded up like a lawn chair and hit the ground.

Hitching up with Taurus was one of the best decisions she'd ever made, and the video the PRT showcased to the team proved it. While Vista was gasping in shock at the brutality and speed of the fight, she was more thankful than ever that her mask completely covered her face.

That way no-one could see her smile.

When she first saw that sword, she thought it was mostly for show like Armsmasters halberd. She didn't think he actually knew how to use it besides cutting up gangbangers, and she mentally kicked herself for doubting him.

He was everything she thought he was and more. Strong, smart, quick, but careful, methodical, always keeping in shape and in practice, making plans for his backup plans, and most of all, he saw the world as it was.

Violent, unrestrained, a world where the strong lorded over the weak, and put down those who stepped out of line.

The PRT was crippled, burdened by rules and regulations that always made sure the bad guys could escape and live to fight another day, an infinite cycle that would keep Brockton Bay in limbo forever.

Taurus made sure they stayed down, and that they hid down in their hidey-holes like they belonged. He didn't waste time moralizing, or weaken himself by playing fair. He came down on you hard and fast, and you'd either end up dead, or you'd never hurt anyone again.

People were afraid of him. Not of prison or the birdcage, but him.

She wanted that kind of power, and he was willing to share it.

Already she'd learned so much. She never thought much of training, always confident that her power could get her out of anything.

But Taurus showed her how much she'd been missing.

She remembered the first time he asked her to spar.

"Spar? You fuckin serious?"

There was no way she could ever hurt him in a straight-up fight, and even with her power, she didn't like her chances of killing him.

But he put his sword and sheath down, and some sort of energy shimmered across his body, small sparks flashing and fizzing in the air before vanishing. He tugged up his sleeve and pinched down hard enough that she felt a sympathetic twinge herself before he let go, leaving behind the start of a very nasty bruise.

He hadn't even flinched. Then he raised his arms in some sort of odd boxing stance and told her that now he was just as vulnerable as your average street thug.

She finally agreed then, and they both backed off ten paces.

She'd fought men twice her age before, even without her power, but she tried to play it safe since he was obviously more skilled than the average Merchant trying to shank you with a broken bottle.

Most Merchants weren't six-goddamned-four either, and she'd be lying if she said the height difference wasn't more than a little imposing in a fight. He had the reach on her easy.

She started it off with one simple half-step to the right, waiting for him to make the first move.

He rushed her as soon as her foot touched the ground, and she hit the floor with his hand on her neck. Her eyes had barely tracked him.

He got up and told her "Again."

So she tried again, and this time she charged him as fast as she could, fist raised.

He simply stepped to the side, caught her arm, and judo-flipped her to the ground.

"Again."

And on it went.

Every time she got close to landing a hit, he pulled some new move or trick out of his ass and had her pinned.

She'd tried grabs, pulls, kicks, tackles, anything and everything she could do to bring him down.

It was all countered with contemptuous ease.

By the end she was on the ground, panting in exhaustion. He simply rolled her over with the toe of his shoe and looked her over.

She'll never forget his advice.

"Power is worth nothing unless you have the skill to use it. If you need your power to fight, you do not deserve to have it."

She despised being so weak, so helpless, so utterly outmatched, but he proved he was different yet again.

He didn't mock her for being weak, but he didn't try and walk it back either, didn't give her a "friendly" hand to pull her back up.

He just nodded and said he could work with this. He didn't say "good fight" or "it was a good try", or any of that other condescending horseshit. He just let her get back up, gave her advice, tips, showed her how to copy his moves, and started it over with a simple word.

"Again."

He didn't give false platitudes, or pretend her fuck-ups and failures were anything but. When he gave praise, or a small smile and impressed nod, she had to earn it.

Those smiles and nods made her feel powerful, like she'd accomplished something. They felt better than any track meet or drug bust ever could.

And he trained her in more than just fighting.

When she gave him a vague description of her power when he asked about it, she didn't expect him to grill her almost incessantly about it's specifics.

How does it work? How long can you stay in your shadowed state? How much control of it do you have? Can you limit how much of yourself goes to shadow? Are there limits or restrictions to what you can and cannot take with you in your shadow state?

She answered them as best as she could, but he seemed more and more displeased with each answer.

Mainly because the answers mostly boiled down to "I don't know."

She had rushed herself through power testing, annoyed that she had to bother with it in the first place, since obviously she knew how her power worked. Under his barrage of questions, she wasn't so sure of herself now.

In reply, he described everything there was to know about his power. He absorbed energy, like Assault, but he could absorb all kinds, not just kinetic, and he could store it for long periods of time, depending on the amount taken in. Whenever he wanted to, he could send the energy back out, with it's original power amplified by four times, and it would stack. He could send it out in waves or arcs, form copies and mimics of his body, and focus it on his sword, allowing it to cut through almost anything.

Not only was the trust flattering, it proved a point. He knew everything there was to know about his power, and she didn't know her own.

She tried one of his examples, attempting to force her arm to shadow but without the rest of her body following suit. When it failed, she told him she couldn't.

He scoffed, and withdrew his sword. It flared for a moment, and a small red disc flew from it's edge as he swung it towards a chimney.

He said it took him six weeks while learning through his power to realize he could do that, that at the start he simply honed his blade's edge.

So over the next few days, she tried it again and again, and she felt something new every time she tried. It never worked, but she could stall it for longer and longer, and it motivated her to keep trying.

Normally he would watch her while she did it, and she noticed sometimes he seemed almost forlorn, a look of what could have been nostalgia on his face.

Occasionally his body would straighten up in what she called Drill Instructor mode when he lectured her, voice roughening, with his hands folded behind his back, pacing from side to side as he commented. She chuckled slightly.

In another life, without the horns, he could have been a great personal trainer.

She'd told Emma about it, and at first, she'd freaked out, but once she explained her time with him, she calmed down. If anything, she was excited.

She replayed the video again as she waited for him to show up.

He'd even given them the chance to walk away, but they hadn't taken it. It surprised her when she first saw it.

She wouldn't have given them an out.

She wished she could openly travel with him, but he was nearly on a birdcage order, and lethal force was authorized, though not encouraged.

Maybe she could...

No. Her family and the PRT would hunt her down just as hard as him. Maybe they'd even try and get him harder for "corrupting" a Ward.

She heard a quiet thud, and she tucked her phone back into her pocket as a grin stretched over her face.

She stood up and turned towards Taurus as he rose out of his crouch.

"What do we got today?"

He looked her over for a moment and replied. "More training today. Power and sparing."

Her shoulders slumped. She needed some stress relief from her teammate's endless bitching and debating about him.

"We aren't going out? I was really looking forward to it."

"We are, actually. Just not for any action. I'm going to teach you something important."

That piqued her interest, but she had a warning to give first.

"PRT's lookin into bringing reinforcements in from other cities thanks to you. Nothing's come up yet, since not many people wanna send their capes to the Brockton Bay meat grinder, but I thought you should know."

He just shook his head, a small bemused hum coming from his lips. "And how's Miss Militia doing?"

That video flashed in her mind again, and she took a moment to reign in her laughter. "Panacea fixed her body, her ribs and legs were basically powder, but her concussion's here to stay for the next few days. She's still puking her guts up in the infirmary."

He nodded, but before she could speak again he started unbuttoning his jacket.

Um.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting ready. You didn't think you were the only one who needs training and practice, did you?"

"What are you gonna be doing?"

He shrugged off his jacket, and tapped his sheath(It still surprised her it was also a gun).

"I'm going to be practicing my kata's. I could care less what you work on, so long as you work."

With that, he walked past her and unsheathed his sword, stepping into several stances and poses, blade whipping through the air.

She turned away, letting the sound of a blade whistling through the air center her, and she concentrated.

She felt her arm wisp away, particles and mist floating in the air like oil on water.

She felt an itch in her arm, and it slowly started spreading across her body.

It started as a small annoyance but got worse and worse every second she tried to hold it in, like holding your breath.

Then the pain started.

It was what always stopped her. She bit her tongue, willing herself to keep silent and shoving down the gasps of pain attempting to force themselves free.

It was no use. It grew worse and worse until she finally let it go, and relief surged through her body.

She shifted to shadow fully, then went back to normal.

She relaxed her clenched muscles and craned her neck to watch Taurus practice.

Her jaw nearly dropped.

She'd known he was fast. She'd known he was skilled. She'd known he could move and stretch in ways most athletes could never dream of.

But she didn't expect this.

He hacked and slashed, darting forward and back like a viper striking an invisible foe.

He alternated between slow swipes and swings to rapid slashes and kicks, going from languid, prancing poses to rapid action between blinks.

Between each breath and the next, he kept switching from moving slower than walking to faster than she could see, a vague red blur appearing from one end of the rooftop to the next, trails in the air from a whirling blade tracing his every step.

He whirled and spun, blocking and deflecting a blade that wasn't there, swatted away bullets that never came, and spun his sword in his hand like a fucking buzzsaw.

He was moving across the ground like he was skating on the air. Half the time he didn't even appear to take steps, he simply just appeared and disappeared between locations.

She could barely keep up.

His sheath had changed to it's firearm form now, and he was spinning it like a baton, alternating between strikes from his sword, using it as a shield, and blowing away phantoms with the soft clicks of a pulled trigger and empty gun.

Then it shifted back, and he started dual-wielding them, thrusting and chopping with wild abandon.

Then he sped up more.

She couldn't see his arms move, just the distortions displacing the air around him.

She knew he'd been holding back in his duel with Armsmaster, everyone did, but to this extent?

They could have both been dead on the floor in the time it took for their brains to even order their muscles to move.

He finally started slowing down, and he placed his sheath back on his belt.

He crouched down and worked through what seemed to be various defensive postures.

With his jacket off, she got a good look at his arms. Small scars littered them both, toned muscle rippling and stretching with each movement.

His hair was damp with sweat, thin strands of red flowing in the air with each movement of his head, with bits coiling and uncoiling around his horns. His shirt was pressed tight against his chest, revealing a toned stomach, like that of a swimmer's.

The tendons in his neck flexed as he stood up and sheathed his sword, and he swept his free hand through his hair, slicking back the loosened strands, turning to face her, mask smoothing away any potential expression.

If Emma had seen that, she'd be swooning.

She swallowed, tongue darting past her parted lips.

He frowned, and she realized she was staring like an idiot and loosened her posture.

"Not bad."

"Not good either, I'm a little rusty."

She couldn't smother her disbelieving cough as he glared at his sword distractedly.

She eyed the paint on the side of the sheath. He really had a thing for roses, huh?

He looked at her again, and she cursed the mask for completely hiding his expression. She could never tell what he was thinking.

She knew it covered something for more reasons than anonymity though. Something was up with his left eye.

She didn't know for sure, but he constantly favored his right side, whether he was swinging his sword or simply walking forward. Secondly, he was constantly adjusting and finicking with his mask, tilting it slightly or pressing it in. Sometimes he'd reach up and stop his hand halfway, like he was trying to rub something but realized he had a mask in his way. He mostly did that when distracted. What got her the most, was that whenever she talked to him from his left side, he turned his head fully towards her instead of inclining it to use his peripheral vision.

Her best guess was that it was damaged, or he had some sort of condition or cataracts.

He tilted his head at her and then reared back violently.

"Change my mind, we'll skip the contact sparring. There's a bar that has windows with a very good view at the edge of our neighborhood, I'll teach you about it there. Follow me."

He picked up his jacket and took off before she could reply.

Last edited: Jun 27, 2022

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May 16, 2022

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Big Fan of a Mad Cow

May 17, 2022

#332

Part two of Sophia's interlude.

As stated above, I'm going to attempt to trim down and streamline the interludes, limiting the amount I make. I only created them to get alternate looks into Adam's actions and develop his character from the points of view of the people he is close too and has an impact on. Sabah, for Adam's more remorseful, pensive, and quiet side. The angel on his shoulder, encouraging him to be a better person. Sophia, for Adam's manipulative and nostalgic side, the devil on his shoulder, enticing him back to the way he used to be, Brad for Adam's violent and sadistic side, his Id, and the BBPD via Cole Perry, to represent the consequences of his actions and the civilian perspective. So far I believe I've done a good job with that, but for those reasons above I won't be doing a PRT or PHO interlude. Not only are they overdone, but they wouldn't progress the story, and they often just end up being mindless filler and reaction shots of "OMG, look at what this OP character can do, isn't it coooooooooool?" when we just saw it happen ourselves. Canon is going to start in a few chapters, then things will kick off much harder, and Adam will take the majority screentime.

/

She took off behind him after a slightly stunned pause. Normally he wasn't so curt.

While she all but flew behind him, small jumps carrying her fifteen-plus feet in the air, gliding between roof to roof, he was still outspeeding her, running and jumping and rolling like a meth-ed out freerunner. He looked like he was in a hurry, but it was hardly past six, and most bars she knew about in Brockton Bay didn't close till nearly midnight.

The sketchier ones sometimes didn't close at all.

Eventually he stopped, and beckoned her over, half crouched half kneeling.

She floated down by his side, and she almost missed his slight flinch away from her.

Ah.

What, did her ogling him really make him that uncomfortable? She was surprised he could even tell she had been, but he couldn't have been like two or three years older than her tops anyway. No way somebody that young lookin was past his teens. Nothing for him to freak out over.

He turned away from her, and she followed suit, looking down towards the place below them. It was your average dive bar, people drunk off their asses stumbling in and out and getting into cars, shakily driving off into the night.

Wow.

Sometimes, she almost felt bad for the fuckin beat cops who had to try and clean all this shit up.

"What are we doing here anyway, people watching?"

She'd said it sarcastically, so when he nodded in assent she had to take a moment to gather herself.

"Why?"

"There's quite a bit you can learn about someone from it. I'll prove it with two examples."

He rested his head on a palm, head tilted to the side, and scanned the bar. People were chattering at small tables, dates going exceptionally and poorly between each one. For Brockton Bay, it was a rather nice place. Most people were at the bar though, and that was where the action was.

He nodded to himself, then looked back at her. "There's a woman inside cheating on her husband. Find her."

"Your kidding." In this whole bar, when she couldn't hear a word they were saying?

"I shit you not. I know you can, you're smart. If you weren't capable of doing it, or it wasn't important, we wouldn't be here, trust me."

She scanned the crowd, starting at the bar, but nobody there was married, that was for damn sure. They were all flushed faces and howling laughs, men and women flirting and getting up to walk out with each other.

Everyone at the tables were quieter, more passive, small smiles and bored frowns littered the people there, and at one table a guy had straight up called the waiter early and just up and walked out to the disbelief of the woman he was talking with.

No rings. She looked back at him, and he was already smiling. He spoke before her. "Not a ring in sight hmm?"

She shook her head, annoyed that he he already knew what she was about to say.

He extended a single finger towards a blonde woman, chattering with a younger man at a small table by the entrance of the bar.

"It was her. She's been married for years, possibly a decade, and she feels stifled and unhappy, so she asked out a younger man for companionship. She's horribly nervous but thrilled at the same time, and she's hoping he'll ask her to go to his place, since she's too shy to ask him even with the alcohol in her."

"Bullshit, no way you could know all that by a five second glance."

"I do. Look at her. Hey hey hey-"

He put a hand on her shoulder before she could walk away. "When I say look, I mean look. Observe, watch every move and pay close attention. You'll see it. I know you can."

She couldn't remember the last time someone had believed in her. Her team was always second guessing her, insulting her. She knew what they said about her behind her back, even if she never called them on it. The PRT didn't trust her either, always asking questions and confiscating her crossbows after patrols. She had to go out on her own with cheap shitty ones she'd had Emma buy online for her, and it chafed to no end.

But he seemed to genuinely believe in her, that he saw something in her worth building up.

She couldn't deny it felt nice. She looked back at the blonde, and she was laughing at some inane joke her paramour had told her.

And it all clicked. When she laughed, the lines in her face showed more, and there were plenty of them. Her right hand, which didn't have a ring, did have a pale white mark on her ring finger. Her face had a slight rosy tint from the alcohol and the slight blush forming on her cheeks. The man had to be twelve years younger than her at the very least, and the smile on his face was more than kind, it was inviting, almost predatory. There was a small shake in her left hand, but every time it came up she'd take a swig of her wine and it would fade. They were both away from prying eyes, hidden away from the door and the bar, like she knew she shouldn't be seen, like she felt guilty.

"I see it now."

The hand on her shoulder patted her once, then withdrew, and for a moment she had the urge to grab it and put it back.

She killed that thought as quickly as it came up.

"Good. For the second, one man in here is Eighty-Eight. If you point him out to me quick enough, We'll wait for him to come out, and you'll get your action today after all."

He knew just what to say.

She looked back inside. The blonde was getting to her feet, wobbling slightly, and both her and her paramour walked out arm-in-arm.

She eyed the bar, and spotted her target, a man in a dull grey shirt. "Him."

"Why?"

"He's drinking alone, and hasn't said a word to anyone. He's glared at a few other patrons, especially the darker skinned ones, and he's constantly tugging his sleeve down to cover his wrist when he drinks, like he's covering a tattoo, and his hairs just started growing in in, like his head used to be shaved."

"Well done. Body language is more reliable than spoken language and you better remember that for the future. It reveals emotions, weaknesses, plans, and movements. It is the second most important thing to know besides how to fight. Every man has a tell. No exceptions."

Her phone vibrated, and she almost swore aloud. She couldn't so much see as feel Taurus's raised eyebrow, and she mentally laughed at the image. He looked like a disappointed teacher who saw one of his students texting during class.

When she fished her phone from her pocket, she did swear.

"Goddamn PRT."

He nodded in agreement, and she snorted. "I gotta go, they're calling all of us back. Dunno why yet. Sorry."

He shrugged. "Go on ahead. I'll be here when you need me."

She turned to walk away, but couldn't resist one final comment.

"You favor your right side. That's your tell."

His shocked flinch and proud smile made all the PRT bullshit she was about to go through worth it.

She left too quickly to see his shoulders slump, and that false pride turn into self-loathing.

Last edited: May 17, 2022

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Big Fan of a Mad Cow

May 18, 2022

#353

Leaving this small, quiet chapter as a tide-over, as I'm going to be busy for the next few days. I'll probably find time to reply to things sometimes, but I for sure won't have enough time to work on new chapters till probably saturday or sunday, monday at the latest.

/

/

Wilt softly scraped away the worn and chipped paint, carving a small groove in the wall behind it. It was delicate work, small cuts and slashes turning to laugh lines and eyes, to strands of hair and pieces of clothing.

It was a good thing he'd made a whetstone, he had a feeling he'd need it soon.

At first it had started as a way to pass the time, when the nightmares kept him awake and there was nothing else to do other than sit and rot while praying for sleep to take him. He'd idly carved a Beowolf into the floor, but as time passed, he quickly went from lazily scratching it in with his finger to delicately carving it out with Wilt.

He finally passed out after he finished, and from then on, when he couldn't sleep, he would draw until exhaustion took him.

He looked to the almost completely covered floor, where the only places that didn't have drawings were simply smothered by rugs, and let out a small chuckle.

Sleep still eluded him, but at least he'd been getting enough to not compromise his operational effectiveness.

But after so many drawings, and so much time, they'd gone from ways to simply kill time to long, drawn out, sprawling art pieces.

He'd been in this new world almost a month.

His clothes, his sword, and his mind were the only things left of Remnant, the only proof it'd ever even existed.

He didn't want to forget a single second.

So he went to work. He made Grimm, Atlas, The Forever Fall, Mantle and other important places.

He wanted to make sure he couldn't forget Remnant, but he also wanted to make sure he'd never forget what brought him here in the first place.

He turned his head, and Sienna's face stared back, her silent judgement echoing in his head.

He'd ruined decades of her work, her life, her legacy in the span of a few weeks, had sent the Faunus's reputation and rights back decades in less than two years.

In Remnant, everything he touched turned to ash, and every time he woke up here, he'd relive it all again.

It was only fair.

At first it was just controlled chaos, but in the past few days he had started carving them in a sort of order.

A kind of mural, chronicling his life.

He'd done the waterfall first, painting it his third week here.

Then there was Lagertod. It looked fairly innocuous, a small town with what seemed to be watchtowers on it's outskirts, perhaps to guard against bandits or Grimm.

Nobody but him would know they were there to keep things in.

They each were on opposite sides of the apartment, and half finished and half started illustrations plugged the gap.

But the one he was working on now was different. It was sequestered away from all the others, in it's own special area, by his bed.

He brushed away the last few paint chips and got to work in earnest.

It was his biggest mistake, his largest, most taunting regret, even if he wished it wasn't.

He'd never truly cared about his people.

When the White Fang first took him in, he made a vow that once he was powerful enough, had enough influence, and could scrape up enough men, he'd return to Lagertod, he'd free the Faunus there, and burn it down.

But he never returned.

He could have, but between Cinder, Blake, and his missions with Sienna, it had slipped his mind.

Even now, it was most likely still running, churning out new Adam Taurus's every day.

When he finished sculpting the eyes, he reached for the paint brush sitting in a can at his feet.

He dabbed small flecks of yellow and black, leaving parts of the wall untouched for the whites of the eyes.

When he finished, he grabbed another brush, and dipped it in black.

The hair was the hardest part. He had to get it just right.

It chaffed him that even now she affected him this way.

For a quick moment, he had the urge to tear the wall apart into something unrecognizable.

His hand went up to paint her hair instead, filling in the lines with long, wide strokes.

It shook, and he cursed to himself when he accidentally spattered paint on part of the floor.

He'd loved her with all his heart.

He'd loved her too much.

He didn't love her romantically, he'd loved her like she was his. An extension of himself, like Wilt or Blush.

He could have never even fathomed a world without her until she had made it a reality.

Like Wilt was was his first weapon, like his jacket was the first piece of clothing he'd made himself, she was his first girlfriend.

And like everything else he owned, it was his and no-one else's.

If he had just given her more breathing room, everything might have turned out differently.

But he'd seen how her faith had been falling to the wayside over the course of his tenure at the Vale division, and he'd gotten scared.

He did everything in his power to get her to stay. Threatened, bargained, seduced, pleaded, placated, but every move pushed her further away.

They had argued about the direction the White Fang was heading, but he never thought she would just abandon it like her parents.

The worst part was that if she had just asked him about leaving the White Fang, or Beacon, he might have heard her out. He wouldn't have let her go, but he would have listened.

He didn't know what he would have done or said, but maybe there would have been a chance for something.

But she hadn't said a word, even if she'd been thinking about it for days, possibly even weeks.

She just smiled and nodded like everything was normal. He hadn't noticed her getting quieter, or that her kisses and hugs grew more and more infrequent.

"Who is she?"

He stood up so fast the stool he was sitting on clattered to the floor, hand reaching for a sword that wasn't there.

Parian stood in the doorway, bags carefully tucked away by entrance.

She'd been there a while.

Her arms were crossed, and she was looking at him and the portrait with poorly hidden curiosity and sympathy. She could tell what it meant to him.

She glanced at his "bed" after a moment, like she was inviting him to sit down and talk about it.

"She's nobody."

He swallowed.

"Nobody."

It was a flat statement, almost emphatic.

Neither of them believed it.

Last edited: Jun 27, 2022

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May 20, 2022

#433

Shadow Stalker hit the ground with a gasp, panting for breath.

She turned, and a desperate roll helped her narrowly avoid his foot cracking a rib.

She barely managed to get to her feet and weaved past a jab, attempting to uppercut him while he overextended.

A quick spin on his heel, and his elbow knocked her to the floor once again.

He let her catch her breath, and fished a small water bottle out of a gym bag he'd stolen. "Here, drink, but keep it light. Otherwise you'll cramp."

She tilted her mask up, greedily gulping down the bottle until he snatched it out of her hands with a glower. "That just earned you another five minutes."

If anything, that just made her more excited.

Blake had always hated hand-to-hand training. Hell, even getting her to learn to swing a blade had been a challenge. She hated violence, and while he managed to get her to learn Gambol Shroud, he had simply given up trying to teach her to fight bare-fisted.

But Shadow Stalker loved it. It was her favorite thing to do with him besides actual outings and busts, Especially after a skinhead got a lucky hit in one time and nearly knocked her mask off.

He knew that she was a track girl, that she loved the adrenaline and fast pace of running, but he was surprised to see that extend to hand-to-hand training. She was an adrenaline junkie with a new source for her high.

She got to her feet and lunged forward with a textbook high kick, jumping and spinning mid-air for the added kinetic hell.

It was a perfect copy of a kick he'd knocked her down with plenty of times, he noted with a dim sense of pride.

He nearly felt bad for catching her mid-air bridal style. It would have almost looked tender if he hadn't pile-drived her to the ground shoulder-first a moment after.

She let out a rattling mix of a cough and howl of pain when she hit the floor, and he eased off.

"Never, ever, ever kick like that unless your target is off balance. Mid-air you're completely defenseless, and if anyone else had caught you like I did, your skull would be plastered all over this concrete."

She nodded, gasping for breath slightly, one hand soothing her shoulder. He might have to lighten it up, he didn't want to hurt her.

She must have been a mind reader, because he could hear her frown in her voice. "I ain't a pussy. I can take it. Just gimme a sec."

He wordlessly handed her the water bottle again, and this time he let her gulp it down until she crumpled it in her fist and tossed it over the side of the roof.

She tilted her mask back down and stood, legs shaking slightly.

A small smile crossed his face.

She had his stubbornness at least. That would serve her well in a fight just like it did him.

"Again."

He charged forward this time, fists at the ready.

He started simple with a right cross, but she leaned to the side, one hand latching onto his wrist and shoving the arm off balance, and her free hand balled up and slammed into his stomach three times before she backed off as his foot raced outwards.

She managed to cross her arms over her chest to stop it from knocking her over, but a stumble was enough for him to shoulder-check her to the floor.

"Good. On-"

"Anyone else, that would have worked, right?" She coughed again, and light laughter followed. She got herself up on her knees and looked at him almost pondering. "But your not just anyone else, are you?"

His smile turned to a full, beaming grin. "I'm not."

She stood once more(Blake would have folded by now, He was impressed) and fussed with her hood.

He grimaced at the ponytail peeking out from the side.

Well, might as well teach her this one early before someone else does.

"Again." She barely managed to get her arms up, but his height advantage let him bear down on her and slug her in the face. She spun with the blow, arms flailing.

Then he grabbed her hood and yanked.

She choked as it pressed down on her throat, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her head to the side.

Her cry of pain was silenced by his knee slamming into her chin.

She screamed, and her mask was partially crushed, small pieces of metal falling to the ground with the clatter of dropped silverware.

Blood was dripping down her throat.

Shit.

He misjudged his strength.

She didn't have aura. He had forgotten in the heat of the moment.

He'd done that maneuver to Blake and dozens of his trainees who thought that extra long hair and ponytails were fine battlefield apparel.

They changed that opinion rather quickly, though Blake was the exception.

Before he could get closer, she pulled her mask off and tossed it to the floor, spitting a thick wad of blood to the ground, sputtering as blood flowed free out of her mouth.

He froze as she looked him in the face, and she laughed when she saw his expression.

There were small cuts from the metal all across her chin and lower face, and her bottom lip had a perfect imprint of her teeth on it.

She had dark skin and brown eyes, and he could just barely catch an earring shining in the moonlight.

She looked at his outstreched hand, and her laughter died.

"Fuck, I didn't mean to hit you that hard, I-"

She spat another wad of blood, this time at him. "Don't apologize, it's not like you were trying to fuck me up."

She pondered that statement for a moment after, eyes rolling upwards for a moment before she reconsidered. "Well, you were, but not like that."

She eyed his mask for a moment, and she smiled. He could see the blood staining her teeth. "Well I showed you mine, you gonna show me yours?"

She laughed again at his flinch, but it quickly died when he saw a tooth pop half loose. "Ahh, motherfucker."

She grunted, and a small keen of pain sounded out before she got it under control. "Oh man, Armsmaster's gonna fuckin kill me. I wasn't supposed to be out today, and he's gonna ask questions."

"I'll clean you up."

Her head snapped back towards him.

"What?"

"I'll clean you up and patch what I can. You have spare masks, yes?"

She nodded.

"Alright, good." He walked towards her and picked up the shattered mask. The area that was supposed to cover her chin was completely gone, and small parts of the cheeks were dented inward.

"Where are we going?" She had a slight lisp from the blood in her mouth, and as she spat more of it out, that loose tooth came with it. A long suffering sigh erupted in the night, and he let her have it.

"My home."

She stilled, searching his face. "You'd trust me with that?"

"I saw your face. It's only fair."

"Normally I'd be pissed. But I'm the one who took it off, and I knew you were there."

Something flicked across her face for a moment, then disappeared. "I trust you. Just surprised you trust me."

"We both know how the world really works. We both know how ineffective the PRT is. We've both killed. Pack hunters exist for a reason. You aren't in the PRT by choice. I know you wouldn't sell me out."

He turned away before she could reply. "Follow me, let's do this quick before they call you back."

With that, he made his way to the apartment, with her hot on his heels.