A couple of lines in this chapter are from Sting 26.3.
If there was one thing Eidolon's experience had taught him, it was that the crises never stopped coming. No matter how many people you lost or what kind of damage was inflicted, the universe would never, ever cut you a break. Indeed, it sometimes seemed like the world was actively capitalizing on his weakness, pouncing on him when he was least prepared.
So when he'd learned that Jack Slash had woken from his hibernation in a pocket dimension and had returned, intent on causing chaos, at the head of an army of clones hundreds strong, like some malevolent figure out of a twisted parody of Arthurian legend, he hadn't been surprised. Not really. Earth Bet was the sort of place where, sometimes, shit like this just happened. The sooner someone put a stop to it, the fewer lives would be lost. Frequently, that someone was him, and time spent indulging in shock was time that could be better spent saving people.
And so he found himself hovering above a building in the latest city the Nine had targeted. The rooftop below was covered in a mass of ice, the result of an abortive attempt at forcing his way in with lasers. Clearly, the members of the Slaughterhouse… - 9? Did they retain the name, even if they'd obviously thrown out the numerical limitation? - had prepared countermeasures. Eidolon discarded the useless offensive power, focusing on the need to disable their defenses, and quietly prayed that his agent would give him something helpful.
The power that swelled within him was an unfamiliar one. Something transformative rather than destructive; he reached out with it and felt part of the roof slide away into nothingness as an aperture blossomed into existence. He could feel alternate versions of the building trying to force their way in to fill the gap as the power began its slow march towards full strength, but he held them back and focused on widening the portal.
It was a problem he'd found himself facing more and more, in recent years. Having to twist powers against their purpose, harnessing incidental side effects to create results that would have previously been the product of their own dedicated abilities.
He'd cast about for metaphors when trying to clarify the phenomenon for the Doctor and the one he'd hit upon, the explanation that felt most apt, was that his ability was a great and intricate machine that was gradually shutting down, disabling its most extravagant functions one after another to conserve power.
A mass of insects to his side coalesced into something resembling a human shape. Apparently Chevalier already had a team on-site, though Eidolon couldn't say he approved of his former colleague's choice of operatives. The figure buzzed, addressing him, "Eidolon."
"Weaver," he acknowledged her grudgingly.
"Go home, Eidolon. You aren't a help here."
"I'm to take orders from the one who murdered Alexandria?"
"Yes. Leave. You're more danger than help."
"I can end this."
"So can I. I will end this. Your choice as to how. Do I handle this situation myself, or do I have to kill you, then handle this myself?"
For an instant, he hung there, trying to parse what she'd said. There was probably a word for what he was feeling. Anger was out. Anger was what you felt when someone cut you off in traffic, not when your teammate's murderer blithely threatened to do the same to him if he didn't back off and leave the hostages in her tender care. Fury was tempting, but it didn't quite capture the sort of raw indignation coursing through him.
"You dare make that threat, after killing my teammate?"
"I do. If there's a trace of doubt in your mind that I could do it-"
"Your bugs couldn't touch me."
"Alexandria thought the same thing. Your power is dying. It's obvious enough that people are speculating on it online, in the media. How Eidolon isn't as strong as he was in the early days. Why aren't you inside already? Are you so sure that your power would stop me?"
The truth grated. Damn her for throwing that at him.
If he was so weak that he couldn't face down one arthropod controller, then… what use was he? Against Scion, who was so far beyond this murderous child that it was laughable?
"I'm here to help against the Nine, nothing more."
"You're one of the biggest dangers, Eidolon. Jack's supposed to be the catalyst for an event, a great catastrophe. Are you honestly telling me that there's no danger here? That you're absolutely certain that you don't have a weakness he could capitalize on?"
The idea was ridiculous, of course. He knew the true threat, even if he could hardly tell her. Too many had died to keep Cauldron's true purpose a secret for him to volunteer that information now. No matter how cathartic it would be.
"First I'm not strong enough to avenge my comrade, now I'm a credible threat to the entire world?"
"Don't tell me you aren't. That you aren't potentially powerful enough to end the world if it came down to it. If he somehow opened that floodgate-"
This was pointless. He didn't have to float here and listen to this barrage of accusations and threats from one murderer while there were others that needed to be stopped.
"It's not me," he interrupted, pushing as much of his frustration into the statement as possible.
"And what if it is? With all that Cauldron's done, you aren't seriously going to claim that you don't have the potential for evil inside of you? If Jack gets into your head, if he finds the right lever, that's it. You become a threat, and it falls to us to stop you. If you're going to be stubborn and refuse to acknowledge that eventuality, I will kill you here and now to keep that from happening. Don't make the mistake Alexandria did in thinking that I can't."
At that, Eidolon stopped.
He'd never had many friends. Before taking the formula, he'd been crippled, someone damaged both physically and mentally. People simply hadn't bothered to connect with him, and he'd lacked the confidence to reach out. Afterwards, the problem had been almost the opposite. The incredible strength and scope of his abilities formed a barrier that was, if anything, harder to surmount.
David was a man who knew himself. Some might have called that a strength, but he thought differently. He was intelligent but not brilliant, not on the level that Alexandria was. Had been. He could be eloquent, but lacked the poise, the kind of instinctual understanding and empathy, needed to transform eloquence into charisma. He had a temper, though, and anger could make a man peculiarly expressive.
"Alexandria was my comrade in arms for over a quarter of a century. I won't try to impress the depth of that bond onto someone who turned their cloak at the drop of hat, but it meant something to me. More than that, Rebecca was my friend."
The agent stirred in response to his rage. His grip on the precognition that had alerted him to this situation wavered and then faded altogether, something massively destructive blooming to replace it. His need for powers was usually impersonal and highly specific. Oxykinesis for a pyrokinetic, a non-lethal Shaker effect to counteract a Master inciting riots… Rarely did letting his emotions run free produce useful results; it was often that way for people who'd taken the formula. But, for once, he and his agent were of like mind. He wanted to hurt someone, and his power was happy to oblige.
Eidolon knew more about the mechanics behind parahumans than most. When granting abilities, the agents looked for reference points to start from; the dangers its host faced, emotions, and more abstract things still. Perhaps his changing circumstances, the quiet ostracization from the Protectorate and burgeoning despair he felt every time he contemplated the future could be useful in a roundabout way. Every time he reached into the well, it was as if he was triggering again, so if the base the powers were built from changed… perhaps he could access untapped potential.
It wasn't much of a slim silver lining when one of his only friends was dead and his shameful secrets were being dragged into the light, one after another.
"You took that from me, which places you in a very exclusive group of people comprised of you and the Siberian. And now you have the unbelievable gall to accuse me of being everything I've devoted my life to fighting against? I'll say it one more time: it's not me. Now stand aside."
"You can't know that," Weaver replied. "Every second you're engaging the Nine puts the world at risk. This isn't the time for pointless displays of pride."
Fury warred with decades of lies and justifications, a hundred good reasons Contessa and the Doctor had provided to stay quiet. He'd done his duty for so long, fought for Cauldron like the good little soldier David had once wanted to be. He'd made so many sacrifices over the years, all because he believed they were necessary. Killed, because it was necessary. They'd let the Hero's killer live, because it was necessary. Was it necessary that he stand here and listen to Alexandria's killer? Couldn't he do something other than his duty for once?
Fury won out.
"Except I do. Alexandria did, too. Did you never ask yourself what it was all for, the secrecy and the experimentation? What we were trying to achieve?"
"You know. You know who or what causes this." It was hard to read the body language of a mass of insects, but the swarm seemed agitated, buzzing furiously in… what? Shock, outrage? He pressed on.
"But you don't care, do you? You've never concerned yourself with anyone's justifications but your own. You think you're the only one who can make sacrifices? Who has the right to judge what is or isn't necessary? You're so contemptibly secure in your ignorant, small-minded, self-righteousness.
I want to kill you. Maybe that isn't a very heroic thing to say, but it's the truth. What I won't do, though, is actually do it. Lashing out selfishly in anger doesn't make me a hero. It makes me you." He paused, gathering his breath.
"There are hostages in this building. I'm going to save them. Go ahead, Skitter. Try and stop me, carry out your threat. Give me a reason. I will end your miserable existence so thoroughly that they'll bury what's left of you in a matchbox."
The swarm juddered in response. There was a brief pause in which he wondered whether he'd have to kill her, whether he could. The niggling seed of doubt burned inside him.
"Three Murder Rats, three Mannequins, at least one Breed, and a hybrid with the hostages. Hatchet Face, merged with something else. There's a coffin in the center of the room, contents unknown. Might be Breed, might be a Siberian, or even Jack himself."
He nodded in cautious thanks, not trusting himself to respond with enough courtesy to avoid shattering the impromptu truce, but the swarm was already dissipating. Just as well. He'd wasted too much time already, and the conversation had distracted him from the portal he'd attempted to create.
He considered the issue momentarily. The closed system protecting the building would be Mannequin's work, then. Whatever mechanism he'd rigged up to seal the breaches didn't work instantly. Consistent damage would be accounted for, but a burst of power might give him a window.
He struck out with his newest ability. Forty square feet of the roof vanished in a flash of emerald fire, revealing a spacious penthouse suite with a large group of people clustered around a coffin and a man seated by a computer. At least that much of Weaver's intel was good.
Eidolon released his hold on his flight and dropped through the gap to land in a three-point stance, cape swirling behind him. The beginnings of a defensive power blunted the impact. Overhead, ice rushed in to fill the opening.
The man at the far end of the room stood. He was enormous, towering over the huddled mass of hostages, muscles well-defined to the point of being grotesque. The word Tyrant was emblazoned on his bare chest.
Eidolon recognized the other half of the fusion. King, the former leader of the Nine.
Fucking power nullifiers. In his opinion, they were a disgrace to the Trump classification. That both Hatchet Face and King were the scum of the Earth was just salt in the wound.
The situation was bad. He'd counted on his newfound Blaster ability to eliminate the hybrid before he could get close enough for the nullification to take effect, but with King's ability in play, that wasn't an option. He reached for teleportation, intending to retreat and recalibrate.
His agent provided him with teleportation, but not the sort he'd wanted.
It was power he'd been keeping in reserve. A lack of precision, combined with a tendency to transport whatever he targeted into the stratosphere, made it useless for transporting heroes to and from Endbringer fights. A hard limit on mass transported kept him from using it on the monsters themselves.
He'd have to improvise.
It wasn't common knowledge, but King's power had a range limitation. Back when he'd led the Nine, their first stop when reaching a new city had been to take new hostages; they'd sneak into charity balls and galas run by upper crust socialites and politicians under the cover of Nyx's illusions. Those who survived, became hostages, to put pressure on political elements and make sure any response was hamstrung by bureaucracy in the vain hope that if they just waited the villains out, their business associates and family members would be returned to them. They never were. The range was long and King's bestial canniness prevented the restriction from becoming relevant.
He felt the ability growing within him, a constantly expanding pressure inside his chest that was barely outpacing the weakness Tyrant exuded. The villain advanced slowly, almost mocking him with every deliberate step.
It wasn't fast enough. At the rate his range was shrinking, he'd only be able to affect Tyrant when he was practically on top of him. For a single shameful instant, doubt tempted him to simply incinerate the monster. Eidolon knew his limits; engaging in hand to hand against a Brute without complementary abilities wasn't an option. But he didn't have time to change powers, especially without knowing how the enemy Trump would affect them.
Inspiration struck. There was a way to enter melee range, allowing him to use what was effectively a Striker power at present, without fighting Tyrant. All he had to do, was something completely ordinary. Something that people did worldwide on a daily basis.
A handshake.
He stood straight, unbuckling the clasps that secured his right gauntlet before removing it entirely. Then, skin exposed, he offered his hand to Tyrant.
For an instant, he had the unique experience of watching an amalgamation of two of North America's most notorious murderers boggle in complete bewilderment. Then the creature laughed, a guttural and vicious sound, before striding forward to seize his hand.
The instant he made contact, Tyrant vanished in a clap of thunder. Eidolon let out a sigh of relief he hadn't known he'd been holding in. The crushing malaise of the nullification aura disappeared with him.
Still got it.
He would fall to Earth hundreds of miles away. Without the protection of his damage-redirection power, the impact would kill him, even with a Brute rating. It'd been a significant gamble, banking on a combination of King's arrogance and Hatchet Face's desire to humiliate powerful parahumans, but it appeared to have paid off. If Tyrant somehow didn't possess the same range limitation, well, his own defenses were approaching full strength.
He slipped his glove back on.
The group of hostages huddled around the coffin at the far end of the room was beginning to disperse, some people still reeling in shock, with others beginning to make for the stairs.
"Stop."
They halted and turned to face him as he walked over.
"Other members of the Nine are still at large in the building. This is the safest place for you, at the moment."
He scanned their faces, ignoring a flurry of fearful questions that followed his statement. Something wasn't right; three of the hostages seemed too quiet and wary. They were hanging back near the rear of the crowd, close to the stairs. It could've been shock, but… their features seemed too similar. He fixed his gaze on each of them in turn. When they recoiled in fear, suspicion blossomed into surety. Of course they'd keep Breed with the hostages; they both camouflaged his presence and provided him with materials to spawn more of his creations. He struck out with the teleportation power again and the trio vanished.
"Breed clones," he said, by way of explanation.
Judging from the screams of shock, the hostages seemed less than reassured. Unfortunate, but he couldn't take the time to explain the situation in detail. Better to focus on the things he was good at.
Of the immediate threats, only the coffin remained. Ominous and still stubbornly closed.
The spatial sense that served as a targeting mechanism for his teleportation informed him that there was someone inside, but wasn't precise enough to discern any specific features. He thought back to Weaver's speculation.
It wouldn't contain Jack. The whole idea of hiding himself away was antithetical to his usual tactics. He wanted to see and be seen, to interact and make his mark on the world. An impetus provided by his agent or a natural desire? Either way, it was one David could empathize with.
He'd already dealt with the Breeds, and if it was one of the others or the Siberian… well, clone or not, he owed Manton for what the madman had done to Hero. Sometimes you just had to cut the proverbial Gordian knot. He used his teleportation power twice more in quick succession, banishing first the person inside and then the coffin to the stratosphere.
He left the hostages after that, descending into the bowels of the building. The relatively spacious penthouse gave way to and endless series of dimly lit corridors lined with a red, scabrous material. Between the groaning of the pressurized sealing system and the incessant scurrying of Breed's handiwork, the ambiance was unpleasant and distracting. The perfect environment for an ambush.
A shadowy figured blurred toward him, leaping downward from its perch on the ceiling with claws outstretched. His spatial awareness afforded him only a moment's warning, but that proved sufficient.
His new offensive ability was raw and untempered, calibrated for swatting cities like sandcastles rather than eliminating enemies without collateral damage. Eidolon could cope, though. He had years of experience using a hammer to do a chisel's work.
He flexed his power.
There a soft sizzling sound that put him in mind of extinguishing a cigarette. A handful of ash dropped from the air, sapped of all inertia. The remains smoldered with a viridian light briefly before flickering out.
From there, it was simple. Fearing another surprise attack, Eidolon discarded the teleportation in favor of a sensory power, and proceeded to clear the building floor by floor. A surprisingly agile Mannequin clone vexed him momentarily, but its blades were unable to penetrate his defenses. A burst of jade energy reduced it and a hallway full of Breed's spawn to ash.
His enhanced perception alerted him to Weaver's team making steady progress through the lower levels. They'd disposed of a Murder Rat and a Mannequin, though some of the Brockton Bay Wards had taken wounds in the process. With his senses augmented, he could feel her watching him even now, through a handful of insects hiding under the folds of his armor.
When he arrived on the next landing, Eidolon was greeted with the sight of a half-dozen bodies, hung from the ceiling by their feet. They twitched periodically, and with his power he detected the faint sound of chewing.
Being eaten alive from the inside.
Once upon a time, before the Siberian, before the Endbringers… he'd been able to heal. Of all the experiences spanning his decades as a hero, he'd enjoyed that the most. Legend's charm and Alexandria's attractiveness simply didn't compare to the capacity to let a paraplegic walk again. He'd experienced that kind of sheer, transcendental joy for himself, when the formula had transformed him from a broken wreck of a man into someone whose strength could be called godlike without exaggeration. Giving even a fraction of that gift to others had satisfied him on a level that all the hard-won, pyrrhic victories throughout his life hadn't. No death statistics to look at, no mistakes to agonize over, no quiet voice in the back of his mind wondering if some of those people would still be alive if he'd been just a little bit stronger…
Those powers were out of reach now, left high and dry as whatever reservoir fueled his ability was gradually drained. There was a theory that healing simply wasn't an intended function of any parahuman ability, just a happy accident. If that was the case, he'd exhausted all the powers that were even remotely suitable for restoring others. All that was left for him was the purpose Cauldron had created him for, the sword of Damocles that was Scion's existence. That, and the endless slog against the Endbringers.
When he saw Breed's victims, he reached for them anyway, as he always did. Hoping today would be the day. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't try.
Nothing. As expected. He cast his mind back to the Echidna fight, remembering the bubble he'd used to hamper her movements before everything had gone completely to hell. Preservation, stasis. If he couldn't heal them, he could keep them alive long enough to get them to someone who could.
Long moments passed as he waited for the power to grow and hoped that it prove sufficient.
When the infested individuals' movements slowed to a crawl as he successfully wove cocoons of decelerated time around each of them, Eidolon felt himself smile beneath the mask. It felt good to preserve life again. He spent too much excising the rot of the world.
Something that might have been the beginnings of precognition took root in the back of his mind as he wondered whether or not they'd make it, but he shoved it back. Reliable future-sight was too rare a commodity to waste speculating when he needed it to alert him to situations like this one. Either they would live or they wouldn't; he'd done what he could, even if he still wished he could do more.
A carpet of insects spilled from the stairwell, simultaneously eerie and well-coordinated. The tide of chitin covered the walls and floor until both were completely concealed.
Absently, Eidolon released the temporal manipulation power. Something ethereal, a versatile ability that could be turned towards mobility or defense, began to take its place.
Her primary body ascended a moment later, followed by her team. The Wards and Undersiders took up position behind her, spreading out. What was it about Weaver that allowed her to do that, take former enemies and discarded friends and turn them into allies willing to stand by her? Or were they just taking a stand against him, specifically?
The thought bothered him more than it should.
When she spoke, it was in a chorus that seem to come from the entire room at once.
"You know how the world ends."
"Yes." His power modulated his voice, making it echo. Weaver wasn't the only one who could leverage parlor tricks for intimidation.
"Would you care to share that information?"
"No."
The swarm convulsed in displeasure at the curt response, swirling and twisting. Was that a conscious display, he wondered, or the result of her agent's meddling? A useful tell either way. The others seemed to shift as well, and there was some subdued muttering and an exchange of glances.
"Why not?" This time the question came from Weaver's mouth, her tone frustrated.
"There's a reason that Cauldron operates the way it does," he replied. "Telling you here could end very badly, almost as much as the catalytic event you're trying to prevent. You'll just have to trust us."
For an instant, he could've sworn he heard someone laugh, but a moment later it was gone.
"It would be easier to make that leap of faith if you hadn't abused people's faith to cover up kidnapping and human experimentation in the past. As things stand now, I don't feel like I can trust you to make the best use of that information. This is something we all need to know."
"Then we're at an impasse; I've made my opinion of you clear. In the meantime, I intend to continue offering help against the Nine."
He turned to her followers. Four of the Wards were wounded; the forcefield wielder and the girl flanked by shadows weren't familiar, but the others he recalled from the disaster in Brockton Bay.
Clockblocker and Vista, his memory supplied.
"Clockblocker," he said, cutting off Weaver before she could reply. "I've done what I can for Breed's victims. You'll need healing to counteract Ravager's power, so I'll entrust them to you. They're in cocoons of slowed time, but once you get them to a healer, a use of your power should counteract the effect."
"You know," the youth replied, glancing at Weaver, "it occurs to me that I don't actually have to follow your orders anymore."
He concealed a frustrated sigh with difficulty.
"This isn't about me, or what I've been party to." Eidolon gestured at the hanging figures. "It's about them. Now, can I count on you?"
Clockblocker nodded, seemingly taken aback.
That dealt with, he invoked his most recent ability and discorporated, flitting up through the walls and out of the building as a smoke-like blur of green and blue. Frustrating, that he was able to exit the structure so easily when getting in had required improvisation, but his agent frequently didn't take into account goals beyond the immediately obvious. When presented with an obstacle, it might give him the power to destroy it, not recognizing that he only cared about getting to the other side. Half the difficulty of any given fight was manipulating his agent into granting him what he needed.
Once he'd reached the open air again, he reconstituted himself and replaced the defensive ability with more conventional flight. It was rare that he gained access to new powers as strong as these; he'd have to remember the mindsets required and husband them for when they'd be most useful.
His impromptu tirade to Weaver had revealed perhaps more than was advisable; he'd answer to the Doctor for that later. For now, looking down on the hostages filing out of the building below, witnessing tearful embraces between couples and fervent sobs of relief, he was… content. After so much secrecy and the distance he now felt between him and his former colleagues, it felt good to do something totally lacking in moral ambiguity, even if he couldn't allow himself to become complacent. There were still monsters to slay and people to save. This was what he lived for, after all.
Author's notes: Credit to notes (author of the Memorials series, which definitely deserves your attention if you've somehow found this without reading his works first) for providing some very helpful feedback. Speaking of feedback, this is the first story I've posted here, so more of it would be quite welcome. Thanks for reading.