Sonata 7
-o-
The best way to describe the place was with a single word. That word being "Dive" with a capital 'D' in all senses. Jangle's safehouse, or rather just Jangle's, was considered the first and last bastion of the Reapers. Not that the decor suggested that, but it was. The actual location was only known to senior Reapers, and it was a place to lay low in an emergency and regroup. Primarily, it was the site of interaction between the Composer and the supply chain that fed cans to Reapers across the city, as well as the place where she would typically catch up on news and messages before heading out.
Once again, not that it looked like it. Truth to it's outside appearance of a condemned house, the inside was a mix of a dump and a wreck. Where the wallpaper had peeled off fresh layers of paint had been applied, the same for the carpet resulting in a demented mesh of floral prints and shag with mind-bending swirls of raw color.
The furniture wasn't much better. The couch she sat on was of especially questionable origins having been patched so many times with so many different materials that it was itself more an experience than a place to rest. Everything else had been similarly appropriated from somewhere and questionably arranged in a way that might have sent an interior decorator to the nearest head doc. Even the shelves were just cobbled together pieces of wood tacked where ever there was space.
She smiled to herself a bit at that, as she flipped a page of the newspaper. Here, Taylor Hebert went in, Composer came out and vice versa. An unconventional place, for an unconventional change in self.
At this moment, the Composer was chuckling idly to herself as she reread the latest article on the Undersiders daring heist on Bay Central.
Apparently, the gang of thieves had managed to somehow infiltrate the bank via a backdoor and taken the customers and employees hostage, as well as Panacea, who had been there by sheer coincidence. Several Wards and Glory Girl had attempted to corner them, but due to Clockblocker and Vista being called out to disable a bomb on the other side of the city, they'd managed to make a clean get away. Luckily, no one was hurt and they'd even sent a message to the Dallons, apologizing for endangering Amy.
The Composer nodded proudly as she reread the part about the bomb call. Ever since the fateful meeting last week, the Reapers had been very proactive. Thanks to Chicago's intel, they quickly figured out what Bakuda was up to. Luckily, the combined usage of Garage Wolves and Ambiefoxes had allowed for the bombs to be discovered and relocated to safe areas for the PRT to disarm. Plus, more than a few E88, ABB and Merchant goons had been jumped, meaning that the authorities had their hands full with cleanup duty.
Still though, for the time being, things were shaping up to be a quiet night. No villain attacks, no hero raids, no nothing. Yup, tonight was definitely a quiet-!
SLAM!
The door was kicked open by a clearly panicked Aisha.
'Murphy or Simurgh, either way, one of them is going to pay for ruining this for me.'
In the time it took for the panicked girl to cross the room she had marked her page and folded the newspaper in one practiced movement, carefully setting it on the rickety side table as she stood up. After all, she was the Composer, nothing could faze her.
Aisha gripped her by her shoulders and began shaking her vigorously. "Taylor! You have to help me! Please! Please!"
Almost nothing. However, any surprise she might have shown was instantly and brutally repressed.
"T-Taylor!? I- wha- how-!?" The Composer stuttered.
Wow, she was really off her game tonight.
"I've known for awhile, alright!?" Aisha snarled. "Neither the Composer and Acoustic or Taylor are ever in or around the same place at the same time. No one can remember recruiting Acoustic, just that she showed up one day with a seal of approval. You're both always listening to music one way or another, and your art styles are exactly the same! Do you want me to write you a fucking list!?"
Tay-The Composer stared at her in shock for a second before narrowing her eyes behind the sleeping-mask shaped sunglasses she was wearing. "Aisha. What's wrong?"
The frantic teen stared at her numbly for a second before stumbling backwards, gripping her head as she shook it frantically. "M-my brother, my brother. He needs help! He needs help o-o-or he's gonna- he's gonna-EEP!"
She let out a surprised squeak when Taylor caught her in a hug. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough. Aisha's breath evened out, and her nervous jittering slowed until it finally stopped. She slowly took a deep breath and gave Taylor a serious look. "Do you have a laptop?"
Taylor let her go wordlessly and pulled a computer out from behind a loose wall panel. Aisha grabbed it, set it on the table, and booted it up. She hastily opened a webpage and entered a website address. A very familiar address.
The Composer's eyes narrowed inquiringly. "Uber and Leet's site?"
"Wait for it..." Aisha muttered, tapping her finger on the table impatiently.
The page loaded. Displayed on it was a live feed of the web-famous villains. And they appeared to be fighting-
"The Undersiders!?" The Composer said in surprise. Then another connection hit her. She gave Aisha a shocked look. "Grue!?"
"Before you say anything, he triggered saving me from one of my mom's psycho boyfriends!" Aisha shot back instantly.
The Composer was silent for a long time. Finally... "'One of'?"
Aisha flinched involuntarily, looking away. "... he's trying to get custody. The Reapers have been helping me stay out of a lot of trouble... but now he's in a lot more!" She jabbed her finger at the gamer duo. "Look at the theme they're using!"
The Reaper Boss stared at them for a second before scratching the back of her head in embarrassment. "Yeah, see... I don't know videogames that well..."
The young tagger facepalmed. "For the love of- Bomberman!"
That got the Composer's attention. "Bakuda." She breathed in horror.
"Exactly!" Aisha groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "She must still want revenge for that casino heist..." She gave her friend and leader a pleading look. "Taylor, please. If Bakuda fights them... you have to help! I'm begging you!"
The Composer bowed her head silently, deep in thought. Suddenly, she slowly shook her head. "No."
Aisha paled drastically. "W-what?" She whispered numbly.
The Composer looked at her in confusion for a second before jerking as realization hit her. "GAH! N- I wasn't talking to you! I was talking about this situation! Something doesn't feel right is all!"
"O-oh..." The girl began to breath easier. "What do you mean?"
"Well... look!" The Composer gestured at the ongoing fight. "Why would Bakuda do this? Why would she focus her attention on them instead of us? We captured Lung, not them! So why would she..." The Composer's eyes widened in realization behind her glasses. "Target of opportunity..." She mumbled in horror before snarling and ramming her fist on the table. "Damn it!"
"Huh?! What the hell are you talking about!?"
"It's a distraction!" The Composer spun on her heels and began walking towards the shelves, her clothes shifting as she went. When she was done, she was wearing a tactical uniform composed of a vest, fingerless gloves, pants, and heavy-duty boots. Labeled across her chest was the word "Rebel" in graffiti-style letters. On her head she was wearing a combat cap with earflaps and a military headset. The lower half of her face was covered by a facemask and her eyes were hidden behind military goggles. The whole ensemble was colored in the blacks, greys and whites of urban camo.
A quick scan and she scooped a cellphone from the assorted junk, flipping it open and hitting numbers without skipping a beat. She had it to her ear the second it started ringing.
And barely two rings later, the jovial voices of the DJs spoke up. "Hey, this is the Reaper Review! What's up boss?"
The Composer didn't bother with a greeting. "Synth, Chiptune, trouble. Get the word out to every Reaper that can or wants to fight. Bakuda is making her move. This is the heavy stuff. No screwing around. Fast and loud, and make it to the point."
The duo lost their chipper tones instantly. "Got it." The Composer was already dialing before they hung up.
Aisha finally shook her shock off enough to start talking. "Wh-what the hell are you talking about?"
The Composer tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for someone to pick up. "Bakuda's using the broadcast to draw attention to herself and away from PRT HQ. She must still have several bombs out in the city we haven't found yet. With everyone focusing on the fight, Oni Lee's free and clear to break Lung out!"
Aisha's breathing quickened. "W-we need to stop her! She might try and execute B-Grue!"
"Working on it!" A click sounded on the other end of the line. "Chicago!"
"Storage facility near the Trainyards, one-three-zero-six. Don't ask me how I know."
"Don't care!" The Composer hit another speed-dial button. She was answered before the first ring even sounded. "Psychedelic!"
FWOOSH!
Aisha jumped in shock while the Composer turned around calmly to observe the person who had materialized in a burst of crimson tribal-tattoo fire behind her.
He was wearing a pair of white sweatpants and a white hoodie with red tribal tattoos on them. On top of his raised hood were a pair of seamlessly sewn-on fox ears. His face was obscured behind a white kabuki fox mask with more red markings. Waving freely behind him were five flame-orange fox tattoo fox tails. He stared at her emotionlessly, his only movement to tilt his head to the side.
The Composer was unfazed by his eerie presence. "Trainyard storage, thirteen-oh-six. Get them out of there and stall for time."
The figure didn't respond. He merely burst into flame anew and disappeared without so much as a trace of ash or burn marks. Aisha just stared for a moment before giving the Composer an odd look. "W-who?"
For her sake, the Composer just shook her head. "A good Reaper, and a bad example. There is a reason why you have to get a senior to vouch you for high-level cans or tats. He's that reason. It's also why I took the only can of Neo-Nine Tails out of circulation."
Aisha opened her mouth to question further, but wisely snapped it shut and shook her head.
The Composer just nodded sagely as she turned around and headed for a cardboard box to the side and started rifling through to the sound of clattering cans. "Good girl. You can play detective later, when you're not poking around someones secret identities. Offhand, we're going to talk about that later. Now catch."
The younger girl almost fumbled as a few heavily decorated cans flew through the air, and ended up juggling them for a split second before she was able to get them under control. Aisha took a moment to gawk in stunned silence at some of the cans she had in her hands. Cans that senior Reapers would trade a limb for. But before she could try and say anything about it, the Composer had pocketed another cellphone and was heading to the door. She stopped at the door, looking back with a hard set to her stance. "You coming or what?"
Aisha stared at her for a moment before grinning ferally. She grabbed the bandana hanging around her neck and drew it up around her mouth and fished her beanie out of her pocket, slipping it over her hair in a practiced motion.
"Let's go kick some AB-bitch ass!" Gangsta crowed.
The Composer smirked beneath her mask. "Atta girl."
-o-
"Thank you for waiting, Park Jihoo."
The sick smirk was almost visible in Bakuda's monotone voice as she eyed the frightened Korean teenager. He was barely holding onto a pistol, occasionally glancing at the teenage villains he was supposed to be aiming at.
"You can shoot someone now."
The kid opened his mouth to say something, anything, plead for his life...
When to the shock, and to some relief, of the onlookers, the weapon was yanked from his hands.
Attention shifted from the teen to the mysterious white-clad, fox-faced individual suddenly next to him. The person was holding the gun in one hand, while the other had a finger pointing upwards that he was wagging side-to-side in a disappointed, scolding manner.
Bakuda was the first to regain her wits. "W-who the hell are you!?"
The fox-person responded by giving her a taunting wave. He then darted through the crowd of asians, faster than any of them could react, slipping in between bodies and beneath arms like his skeleton was composed of liquid.
Within mere moments, he'd reached the Undersiders. He grabbed the front of Grue's costume with one hand, Tattletale's with the other, and wrapped a hither-to unnoticed unearthly fox tail around Regent.
Bakuda reacted instantly, courtesy of bomb-experience honed reflexes. "SHOOT THOSE SONS OF BITCHES!" She roared, her voice-modulator doing nothing to hide her impotent rage.
Multiple gunshots rang out, but proved to be ineffective as fire flared up around the quartet before vanishing utterly, leaving the lead projectiles to pass through the space they'd once occupied unimpeded. The fox-like man however, reappeared on top of a cargo crate in another plume of flame shaking his head disappointedly.
"Why you-!" She growled, bringing her grenade launcher up and preparing to fire.
Before she could, however, the fox-man disappeared again in a flash of flame, this time taking the crate with him before Bakura could even start to depress the trigger.
Once again the mad bomber's reflexes aided her, allowing her to roll forwards and avoid being crushed flat by almost a quarter ton of plastic and metal that came screaming down from the sky above, scattering her troops.
Her attention was drawn to a new miniature inferno, heralding the foxes reappearance. The man was standing on top of one a row of storage lockers. He gave her another taunting wave before wheeling around and dashing away.
Bakuda growled furiously, stomping towards her jeep. "After him you sons of-!"
Her tirade was cut off when she noticed a shadow passed over her. She barely had time to curse in three different asian dialects before she threw herself backwards, the driver scrambling to jump over the vehicle's door and run away.
CRUNCH!
Not a moment too soon, because seconds later the jeep was reduced to a heap of metal beneath the talons of a massive bird.
The bird let out an ear-splitting shriek as its claws kneaded and tore the metal beneath it and spread it's wings, an image of triumph and supremacy as an individual jumped off its back while another stayed behind.
The Composer's arms were crossed behind her back as she stared down at Bakuda. "Tell me, Gangsta," She called out in a casual yet severe tone. "What is the average speed of a Cornix Canor being ridden by a pissed off Reaper?"
Gangsta planted her foot forwards and rested her arm on her knee, glaring at all the ABB members present. "Very fucking fast."
"E-xactly." The Composer nodded in agreement. "So, tell me Bakuda... what does that tell you of our current disposition?"
Bakuda ignored the question, instead squaring off with the other parahuman. "What the fuck are you doing here, Composer?" She growled dangerously. "This is my business, between me and the Undersiders! What, are they part of your gang now or something!?"
The Composer just shook her head. "No, to be frank. This isn't business, this is personal so to speak."
The bomb-maker groaned through her mask and made an exaggerated show of rolling her eyes. "This is about your stupid hard-on for 'freedom' isn't it?"
"That, and I would rather not see a one-ton dragon roaming the streets again."
Bakuda jerked in shock before snarling and taking a step forwards. "So you guessed our plan? So the fuck what? Going to try and stop me?"
The Composer shrugged. "Well, I'm already here. I just made a dramatic entrance, rescued the Undersiders, crushed your jeep, and my Reapers are already sweeping the city for whatever other bombs you might have hidden, so yeah, I'm probably going to stop you. That is, if the PRT and Protectorate aren't doing the same. People keep telling me they listen in on our broadcasts, so someone somewhere probably heard about this."
Bakuda stared at her furiously for a moment before throwing her head back and laughing madly. "HA! You think you're going to stop me!? Look at you!" She gestured at the Composer. "You might be the Composer, but you don't have any tattoos, you don't have any cans, you don't have any of your precious paint." The bomb Tinker brought her grenade launcher up victoriously. "You have nothing."
And with that, she fired.
The press-ganged asians flinched back in fear of the reaction...
But were shocked when the Composer reached an arm out and caught the canister in her hand, where it detonated uselessly into a cloud of smoke.
"That's where you're wrong, Bakuda." The Composer retorted coldly.
Cries of shock sounded out when the smoke cleared and it was shown that the Composer's arm had been replaced with a larger, bone-tattoo rendition.
"I am the Composer, and I have everything."
Before Bakuda could react, the Composer reached out with her stronger arm, grabbed a hunk of the jeep's wreckage, and lugged it at her.
For the third time that night the tinker's reactions rescued her from high-velocity trauma.
"Come on, Bakada," The Composer growled as she stepped forwards, her other arm transforming into a matching clawed arm. "Seeing how you're so woefully culturally ignorant, allow me to teach you how we white people express our unhappiness."
Bakuda snarled once again as she rose to her feet. "And I'll return the favor."
And without rhyme, reason or warning, the sound of explosions ripped through the Brockton Bay night sky.
-o-
Grunge cursed vehemently as he ran down the street, as he ran down the road, his ear pressed to his phone.
"Damn it, Bakuda's making her move!" He growled. "I need intel! Where are those bombs and what the hell is going on!" He barked into the speaker.
He started receiving calls almost a minute later.
"Hip? Hop?"
"Corner of Ninth and Queens!"
"It's our favorite arcade! It's stuck in the middle of some kind of land-locked hurricane!"
"Get several Minks out there, have them rotate opposite the vortex's direction, spin it out!"
"Got it!"
Click!
"Cajun?"
"She must have attached something to a buoy and floated it out! Water in the bay's going nuts! It's not tsunami-level, but some fishermen got caught out on the water, and I think some kids got swept off the Boardwalk!"
"Contact Shanty, I want sharks running rescue out there the day before yesterday!"
Click!
"South?"
"It's bad, Grunge. She set something off in a motel, rusted every piece of metal to dust. The whole place collapsed under it's own weight! We've got about five out, but there's gotta be close to a dozen more still inside!"
"Where is it?"
"The Dirt Nap, on Pines and Sixth."
Grunge glanced at a nearby signpost and accelerated his pace. "I'm about three streets away, hang tight! If the PRT show up sta-" He stopped, frowning as he saw an armored transport with PRT colors up ahead. One parked directly in his path, and milling with uniforms. Grunge swallowed a lump and ducked into a nearby alley.
"Grunge?"
He nodded, more to himself than anything as he used a free-hand to roll down his sleeves to cover his tattoos and reveal the PRT-Tech patch on his shoulder while he hung his mask from his belt, as well as whipping his cap off his head and stuffing it in his back pocket. A few other quick alterations, and he wasn't Grunge anymore. "Ya, I'm here. Just stay out of the PRT's way. If they give you trouble, duck out."
"Got it. Stay safe."
"Oh we are way beyond that point, my friend." He muttered before snapping the phone shut. He dug an ID badge out of his pocket, clipped it to the front of his overalls, and dashed towards the PRT van.
One of the troopers immediately stopped him before he could get any closer to the rubble, but before he could get a word out, Grunge flashed his badge. The trooper sagged in relief as he turned and followed him. "Geeze, where the hell were you?"
"Lunch break," the engineer grunted remorsefully. "Nothing ruins a sub like a terrorist attack. So, what do we got?"
"One of Bakuda's bombs was hidden in the basement. It somehow caused all the metal in its range to rust disintegrate. The building collapsed without its supports, and the missing water mains aren't doing much to help with matters either. Plus..." The trooper glanced at several Reapers that were digging through the rubble, some with claws, others directing Noise to help with the search. One particularly notable Reaper was one dressed as a cowboy. He was directing a small herd of pigs that had several ropes wrapped around them and were squealing loudly as they strained to tow a particularly large piece of wall away. "We've got these Reapers all over too."
"Leave them." Grunge ordered instantly.
"But sir-!"
"Don't you 'but' me, soldier!" He barked, wheeling around on his heel to loom over the obviously frightened officer. "We're in the middle of a full-blown city-wide attack! At this point, I would work with Hookwolf himself if he was digging through the rubble! So you will work with those Reapers to pull rescue and you will like it, or I swear that I will have you scrubbing toilets for a month, am I clear!?"
The trooper snapped into a hasty salute. "Yes Chief Engineer Lithe, Sir!"
"Good! Now get fucking moving and get the word out that no one so much as touches a Reaper, or else they'll deal with me!"
Grunge grunted approvingly as the soldier scurried off. He shouted out a few more orders before marching towards South. "So, I hear you're the guy in charge of these delinquents?"
South tipped his hat in agreement. "That I am. The name's Southern." He extended a hand.
Grunge nodded in acknowledgment as he shook his hand. He then leaned in and lowered his voice as he whispered conspiratorially with the other Reaper. "These guys will stay off your backs for now, but don't push it. How are things going?"
South growled under his breath and spit to the side. "Better then it looks, worse then it could be. Bakuda's a she-devil. We've found a few people, but this place is like a house of cards without the supports. We're being as careful as we can, but some parts need more strength then we have. It's a godsend that that effect didn't last longer than a single blast."
Grunge opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by coughing coming out of a pile of rubble nearby. He and South immediately dashed over to it.
South tried to lift a part of the rubble, but Grunge immediately stopped him when he saw the whole thing begin to shake. "It's unstable, we need some kind of support..."
South slapped at his sides for a moment before growling in frustration. "Got any Corehogs?"
Grunge quickly glanced around to make sure no one was watching before discretely slipping his friend a can. "Emo."
"That'll do it." South shook the canister and sprayed it on a nearby piece of pavement, outlining the skull of a porcupine with multiple spikes poking out from the borders. There was a flash of light and static, followed by the materialization of a purple porcupine with pink tattoo quills.
Without so much as a sound, the porcupine ambled towards the rubble and slipped in through the cracks. About a minute later, there were several thunks and the pile was pushed upwards a bit.
"Now!"
South grabbed ahold of the rubble and heived upwards again. This time the debris shifted without issue, revealing an injured man and the corehog, its quills extended into the surrounding rubble as makeshift supports.
Grunge hastily dragged the man out of the debris and into the open air while the corehog rescinded its quills and darted out alongside him.
"Alright, you can drop it."
South groaned in acknowledgement as he dropped let go of the debris, allowing the pile to collapse inwards on itself.
Grunge signalled a pair of paramedics to come over and help the victim while South panted, doubled over and his hands on his knees. "Geeze, isn't this your schtick?"
The bear-like man grunted in response. "You did alright."
"Yeah, well you're going to have to do it too, and better." South jabbed his thumb at a particularly large gathering of rescue personnel. "There are several people trapped under a large piece of the roof over there. It's too heavy for us to lift, so they're waiting for either a machine or a cape, but I don't know how long things will last."
"Can't you send in some grizzlies?"
"Gravity-enhancer four blocks away. We sent anyone with cans or paint over there, they're the only ones who have the muscle to stand under their own weight."
Grunge grunted in acknowledgement, fishing his cap out as he headed towards a nearby alley.
"Hey!"
He looked over his shoulder at South.
"Does it ever get any easier?"
Grunge stared at him for a moment before giving a feral grin. "Not on your life."
South returned the grin right back. "Good, I love a challenge."
Grunge chuckled as he walked into the alley. However, before he got changed, he got his phone out and typed in a number. A moment for it to dial followed by someone picking up.
"Hello?"
"Chicago, how are things at the PRT?"
"Well, in a word, I would have to say... bad."
"How bad?"
"Well now, that depends..."
-o-
Chicago stared flatly at the hole torn in the PRT Headquarters, idly watching the smoke roil out of it. "What would you classify Lung escaping as?"
"Damn it! Is anyone trying to stop him?"
"Yeah, I've got a few guys on it." Chicago turned to observe the flickering lights of an inferno shining over the buildings a few streets away. "They've got two Minimal Rhinos and a Wooly AOR trying to beat him down, and I called in a Drake too."
"And how's that working out."
Chicago made to answer... but was interrupted by a brown rhino falling out of the sky and crushing a thankfully empty PRT van before evaporating into static.
"I retract the question."
"Riiiight. So anyways, Oni Lee used some kind of insta-blaze bomb to set half the place on fire. The half that isn't is trying to put out the half that is and is generally running around in panic. I'm going to go check out what's left of the building, see if anyone's still inside."
"Alright, but stay away from the cells. They've got a Master locked up in there somewhere, understood?"
"Yeah yeah, I hear you." Chicago ended the call and jumped through the hole in the metal, flanked by a pair of Garage Wolves. "Now, let's see, which way to the holding cells..."
He looked down at the wolves, quirking his head. The two canines stared blankly at him before snuffling around and whining at one end of the hallway. Chicago just nodded with a smile. "That way then. Could swear he mentioned something about not going this way, but help me if I can remember what. Must not have been that important."
His pace was languid, calm even. The wolves prowled just behind, eyeing and sniffing anything out of place. A turn in the hall later, and he was at an intersection. A look to the right path gave him a view of destruction where great gouges of cement and metal were left behind, along with caved in bits of floor. Ahead and to the left showed untouched stretches of hall. He gave another look to his wolves, and they too looked right.
"Well. I suppose right looks promising. The other ones look good too though." The look he got in return from his hounds might have been scathing, if it was possible to assign human emotion to canines made of raw emotion. He just stared blankly back and shrugged. "Alright alright. Right it is. No sense of curiosity, I swear. Which is weird seeing how I made you..."
Someone else might have sworn up and down that the lupine creatures eyes rolled.
As they walked down the devastated corridor, the smoke became so dense that Chicago was forced to crouch low and dig a smoke mask out of his jacket, which he then slipped over his mouth and nose. Suddenly, his wolves perked up and dashed down the corridor, letting out loud barks as they went. Chicago was forced to break into a jog to keep up with them.
Finally, the Garage Wolves slid to a halt, barking at a large and particularly well-armored door. The Wolves gave him a wide-eyed look and scratched at the door. Chicago just raised an eyebrow. "Well now. Why oh why would someone make such a big scary door?" He smiled. "Unless it's to hide something big and scary?"
"WOOF!" CHOMP!
"OUCH!" The Reaper hopped on one leg as he glared at the mutinous hound. "Alright already, I'll stop screwing around. Geeze, can't even drop the hard-ass act for a minute."
Chicago started pounding on it with his fist. "Hey, is anyone in there? Can you hear me?" Then he stopped, his fist mid-swing. "Wait, what am I doing? This is a Master cell, it's probably sound-proofed to hell and back."
He then blinked as a thought hit him. He grinned eagerly as he looked downwards. "The floor on the other hand..."
He fished a can out of his hoodie, sprayed the ground, and a moment later there was a blueish-gray shrew-like Noise with orange tattoo-claws sticking out of a hole in the ground.
Chicago pumped his fist triumphantly. "Yes!"
BOOM!
An explosion rang out from further down the hallway. Chicago's eyes widened in panic as he saw the corner light up with firelight. "OhnononodigdigdigdigDIG!" He bellowed, jumping into the hole behind the frightened creature.
Five minutes later, the ground outside and across from the building bulged upwards for a second before exploding open, expelling a Shrew Gazer, Chicago Blues, his Garage Wolves, and a second person, all coughing from the smoke trailing billowing out of the hole.
"Fuck... Bakuda..." Chicago wheezed. "And fuck... Oni Lee... didn't anyone ever tell him... it's rude... to double-dip?"
"I don't think he really cared..." The woman next to him said, rubbing the smoke out of her eyes and patting down the feathers in her hair that were layered with soot.
"It's still rude..." He muttered before extending a hand towards the woman. "Anyways, I'm Chicago, Chicago Blues."
The woman stared at his hand for a moment before hesitantly reaching out and shaking it. "Paige McAbee, or... Canary. Whichever works."
Chicago nodded in acknowledgement, grunting as he helped her to her feet. "Well then!" He stated, clapping his hands together and dusting them off. "We'd better get going. PRT is going to hear about the second bomb and come running. Don't want to be here when they get back." He started walking forwards...
But stopped when he noticed that Paige wasn't following him. He didn't turn around as he posed her a question. "Aren't you coming?"
Canary watched him hesitantly for a second before shaking her head and looking back at the PRT Headquarters. "N-no. I'm going to wait here for them."
Chicago still didn't turn around. "... you were being held there until it was time for your trial, right?"
The Parahuman woman bit her lip hesitantly before nodding. "Y-yes. And... they're right to do so. It was an accident, but... I did it."
Chicago hummed thoughtfully, finally turning on one heel to give her a sidelong stare. "So... you're willing to go to the Birdcage?"
Paige shuddered uneasily before shaking her head. "N-no, that w-won't happen. What I did was an accident. I'll do time, yes, b-but it won't be that bad."
"... I agree with you."
Paige sighed in relief.
"However, it appears that whoever is setting you up doesn't."
Canary's head snapped up instantly in shock. "W-what!? S-set up!? I'm not being set up!"
"Oh no?" Chicago took his smartphone out of his pocket and began tapping on the screen. "Let's see here..." He held up the phone before her. It was displaying a series of pictures of men and women that he was thumbing through, naming each one as he went. "Karen Pickerton. Niece who triggered and was caught up by Abigail Rowan-Sato, aka Crane the Harmonious. Laurence Greenwich. Brother still in the ICU thanks to Acidbath. Frederick Richardson. Wife killed while on a business trip in Alaska by the Bratva. And on and on. Even a guy who was part of a short-lived Anti-Parahumans group awhile back. Never went on an official record, but considering the circumstances, I doubt it would make a difference."
Paige stared at the faces in horror. "T-those are-!"
"Your jurors. Tell me..." He tilted his head inquisitively. "Do they seem like a fair and impartial jury to you?"
Slowly, the ex-singer sank to her knees. "W-why? Why is this happening?"
"Because you're being rail-roaded. The whole trial is a sham. You are going to be someones shining example of competence of the law, exactly why Parahumans should strive to do their best to not so much as toe the line. Otherwise..." He gave her a cold, factual look. "they'll be sharing a cell with Lustrum herself."
Slowly, tears began to stream down Canary's cheeks. "W-what do I do?" She whispered helplessly.
Chicago shrugged and raised his hand, three fingers standing tall as he ticked off the first one. "The way I see it, you have three options. First, you can stay here, throw yourself at the mercy of the courts, or more specifically, lack of it. Your lawyer may try to get some extra leniency based on the fact you didn't run when you had the chance and waited, but ultimately, you'll get a cell in the Parahuman's only hellhole known as the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center, aka the Birdcage. That's if your lawyer is competent or even actually trying to do his job."
Canary whimpered miserably, seconds away from hysterics.
He ticked off the other finger. "Second, you can do the really stupid thing. That being, run and hit underground hard. Vanish somewhere and not show up again. Maybe find someone who can cover you, and go full cape."
"Or third..."
Chicago ticked off the last finger, before holding his hand out to her, his face still neutral.
"You can come with me. You can stand up and fight. You can find out just who decided to use you as an example, who pulled so many strings and placed you on the altar as a sacrificial lamb. You can find the truth. And then, you can blow the whole thing up. Things like this? Big planning with lots of strings? It tends to hang for a bit. Sorta sticks in the air till someone tries to make it disappear. Cut those threads at the right place and time? It comes down gloriously. The term heads will roll becomes a wonderful reality. And the first head to fall will be the one you want."
Paige stared at his hand incredulously before swallowing heavily and giving Chicago a searching look. "W-why? Why would you help me, of all people?"
Chicago watched her for a moment before reaching up with his other hand. Slowly, he brought his hood down and took his baseball cap off, shaking free his messy black hair. He was quiet for a second before talking. "Before becoming a Reaper, I was a conspiracy theorist. And a damn good one at that. I sniffed out secrets, uncovered lies, and I brought them to bear before the whole world. I turned a lot of heads, brought a lot of attention to myself."
Paige gasped in recognition, whipping her hands to her mouth. "Y-you! I recognize you! T-the Watchdog of Chicago!"
Chicago chuckled melancholically as he fell into a half bow. "Pearce Jackson, famed cyber terrorist and bane of politicians and corporations right here. Anyways... the reason why I did it all was that I was tired. So many lies, so many falsehoods and untruths... the air was clogged with it. I just wanted a breath of fresh air. To be able to look out at the world and not be disgusted... We Reapers all have our own beauty we seek, our own freedom. I just want the world to be a bit more honest. And if I can help with that... if I can set the truth free? Then I'm happy. So, what do you say, Paige McAbee?"
He shook his hand slightly.
"Care to take a risk?"
For a moment, Paige stared at his hand fearfully, weighing her options.
Then...
Her eyes gained an edge, a fire, and she clutched it firmly, hauling herself to her feet. "Please," She stated. "Call me Freestyle."
Chicago smirked eagerly. "Excellent. Now come on!" He turned around and started jogging away. "Let's make tracks before we both start singing the Jailhouse rock!"
Freestyle gave the PRT Headquarters a final glance, this one filled with ruefulness and spite, before running after her new friend, leaving the building to burn in the night.
-o-
Bakuda huffed angrily as she kneeled on the ground, trying to regain her breath.
"Just give it up."
She looked up angrily and glared at her opponent. The Composer stood strong, as she had for the duration of their fight, utterly unfazed. No matter what Bakuda flung at her, she always had a rebuttal, some means of defending or escaping. It was either a miracle that all Bakuda had were a few scratches and bruises, or she was being toyed with.
"You can't beat me." The Composer stated matter-of-factly. "And your lackeys and victims won't even get close to me."
True enough, her minions hadn't been of much help either, kept at bay courtesy of a certain foul-mouthed Reaper and her avian enforcer.
But then again, they were all still present, so she might as well put them to use.
Slowly, Bakuda got to her feet and laughed morbidly. "Maybe so, but that's because they haven't been properly motivated. Now then..." She pointed at the Reaper in Chief. "Get her."
Slowly, hesitantly, the asians started to step forwards, the majority of them panicked and fearful.
"Hey, woah!" Gangsta shouted, making her Cornix screech and flap its wings to no avail. "What the heck!? Do the words 'death by huge-ass bird' mean nothing to you people!?"
"They don't when put up against the words 'bombs in their bodies.'" Slowly, but assuredly, she started to laugh, her voice taking on a maniacal tone through the modulator. "Do you see now, Composer? Your precious freedom is weak! But fear? Fear is strong! Fear is the ultimate weapon! Fear has raised me on high!"
"Yes, yes it is." The Composer agreed, nodding slowly. Then she raised an arm and pointed behind Bakuda. "But arrogance..."
Bakuda looked around and gasped in shock.
The camera.
The camera livestreaming to Uber and Leet's show.
The damn thing was still filming!
"Arrogance was your downfall."
Slowly, Bakuda started to shake with raw, ungodly fury. "You..."
"Oh don't blame them." The Composer interjected. "One of your first orders was to keep that camera rolling at all times on pain of death. So that no one would miss the moment of your victory."
"But instead!" Gangsta crowed ecstatically. "The world wide web got to watch your ass get kicked around like a two-bit soccerball!"
Bakuda's breathing began to accelerate viciously.
"Enough, Bakuda." The Composer admonished, like she was scolding a child. "Your plan failed. As we speak, my Reapers are helping save lives from your bombs. And those bombs aren't even half as numerous as they could have been. Instead of fearing you, everyone now knows that you've been beaten. You're done.This fight is over."
"I say when the fight is over, do you hear me!?" Bakuda bellowed. "ME!"
"No." The Composer stated imperiously. "The victor says when it's over. And that's not you. So I'm going to say this once, and only once before I put one..." She raised her arm and let Corehog quills grow out of the entire length. "Right through each of your major limb joints. Give. Up."
Bakuda's grip tightened on her grenade launcher. She shook furiously, like a volcano about to blow. And finally...
She clicked a hidden button on the weapon, flung it at the Composer, and ran.
The Composer cursed, fired multiple rounds into the weapon and then...
Darkness.
An absolute void of light.
Not sound though, she could still hear the screaming of Bakuda's victims, as well as Gangsta.
"BOSS!"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. More disgruntled than anything. That must have been a failsafe so she could turn tail and run. Still though, this is annoying."
"Yeah. So, any suggestions to get out of here?"
"One. Hey, Psychedelic!"
A fwoosh of flames and then both Gangsta and the Composer were facing the Undersiders.
Gangsta shivered and cast a glare over her shoulder. "Don't. Do that. Again. I don't know what that felt like, and I do not want to know."
Psychedelic leaned in close, until they were eye to eye... and then flicked her in the forehead before flaming away again.
Gangsta shrieked as she took a swipe at the space he once occupie. "Damn Psycho!"
The Composer coughed uneasily as she regained her balance. "Yes, well, now you know where his other pseudonym originates. Anyways..." She brought her attention over to the Undersiders, nervously eyeing the particularly battered Bitch and her hounds. "Are you all alright?"
Grue nodded gratefully. "Yeah, just barely. Don't even want to think about what that bitch would have done to us. Thanks."
"No problem. Always happy to help out someone who's being unfairly picked on. So, if that's everything..."
"Well..." Grue trailed off hesitantly. "There is one thing."
"Hm?"
"I doubt that Bakuda is going to stop here. Chances are, things are about to heat up. And when they do, the other villains in Brockton Bay are going to have a meeting. I'm not saying you're a villain or anything!" He hastily amended. "But still, Faultline shows up to these, and as a mercenary she's best considered neutral, so..."
The Composer stared at him evenly before nodding slowly. "I'll consider it, thank you."
"If you want, I could email you or...?"
"No need, Chicago will let me know when and where. Well, I guess that's everything. Until we meet again, Undersiders."
And with that, she and Gangsta turned around and began to walk away.
"Wait!"
This time it was a female voice. The Composer looked back at a very uncomfortable Tattletale.
"Look..." She said uneasily. "One good turn deserves another and all... ergh, listen, I've never done this before, so you damn well owe. Got it?"
"Uhhh...?"
"You know that thing you're worrying about all the time? That one thing you always fear? Consider this the guarantee of a Thinker: you don't have to worry about it. Ever. Got it?"
The Composer froze, staring at Tattletale in pure, unhidden shock. "Y-you're sure?" She asked quietly.
Tattletale's grin returned full force. "Positive! So do me a favor will you? Next time you have a party, invite us! It's been way too long since we've had any fun."
The Composer hastily regained her wits and nodded confidently. "You'll be the guests of honor. Count on it."
"Looking forward to it, Composer."
"As am I, Tattletale."
And with that, the two groups parted ways, both walking off into the night.