Interlude 4a (Legend)
"So far the Simurgh has trumped every other Thinker or pre-cog across the planet. You are hoping that Defiler can do the same to her?" Alexandria asked. She had taken off her mask, Siberian's scar her only blemish.
The Doctor, dressed in a white lab coat over a mid-length green dress, nodded. "She negated every single precognitive in the world with her trigger event, and even now is undetectable. We still haven't been able to locate her, unfortunately."
"I haven't either," Eidolon said, grimacing. He had the opposite of Legend's heroic build, looking like an average office worker, balding and middle-aged.
The Number Man added, "It is likely she has fled the Northeast, possibly even going overseas. Past projections of her possible courses of action have gone from accurate to wildly inaccurate, so it is impossible to guarantee anything. However, her safety is of utmost priority."
Legend tapped his fingers. He interjected, "I admit, it would be very beneficial to have someone who could block or even disrupt the Simurgh. How does that change the timeline?"
"Unknown at this point. Even if Defiler is capable of completely negating the Simurgh, we can't extrapolate further," the Number Man replied.
The Doctor added, "Thus her safety, if not her good health is of the utmost she shows up in your respective areas, keeping her alive, and preferably on our side, is very important. Her being outed was a tragic mistake that could still have devastating consequences. Any chance we have, both to keep her alive, and on our side, is critical. We cannot let individuals like Manton, or groups like the Slaughterhouse 9 get their hands on her."
"She could allow anyone unprecedented freedom in escaping Thinker notice," Alexandria noted.
"Thus her worth," the Doctor replied.
Legend stood. "If I do find her, I will make contact and we can decide how to handle whatever situation she is in. Delicacy seems to be a necessity."
The Doctor nodded and said, "Thank you all for your time. Should we hear anything, we will schedule another meeting."
Legend gave a friendly nod to Alexandria and Eidolon, and ignored both the Number Man and the woman behind the Doctor on the way out. She never spoke, and never even seemed to move, but if she wasn't able to take all three of the Triumvirate out she wouldn't have been there. Insurance on the Doctor's part, or at least in her mind. He harbored doubts that she could even finish one of them. He left the room, walking down the maze-like halls with the ease of long use.
"Door."
The doorway opened in front of him, white tiles changing to grass. The pressure differential pushed slightly on him. He accelerated, flying straight up, and then to New York. Thoughts of Arthur distracted him for a moment, but he pushed them away. Later. He still had work to do.
The ground turned into a blur, even as the sky lightened, as he reached speeds nearly unheard of for anything less than a supersonic rocket. In seconds he was back in New York City, hovering over the Protectorate offices. Landing on the roof, he passed through the automated security and went down into the depths of the building.
With a ding the elevator stopped. The digital marquee at the top read: Containment and Interrogation. Legend left the elevator, stepping out into walls of metal, a sharp contrast from the plush spaces above. He traced a path he didn't like to, one that he rarely had to. A pair of locked metal doors separated him from his destination, up until he waved his issued-phone over the console and punched in a quick code. The doors, labeled 'Morgue', quickly opened.
A blast of cool, sterilized air followed. His nose wrinkled slightly, both at the smell of disinfectant, and of other less pleasant chemicals. Slabs of metal, elevated off the floor, were empty, save for one. A wall of square containment doors covered one wall, and one was open, showing extended rails. Legend stepped up to the occupied slab, standing next to Last Rites.
"Who was he?" Legend asked.
"Stovetop. Blaster 4, capable of shooting bursts of flame. Partnered with Smokescreen, who was seen at the scene, and one of the two responsible for starting a significant portion of the fires last night."
"And his face?"
Stovetop's face had been melted, almost like a scoop had been pushed through his flesh, centering on his nose. It looked like a cartoon, where acid had melted out a section of something. Last Rites, using a scalpel, cut him open, and placed several parts of dried blood into a tube.
"No idea. I want to call it acid or a very high heat burn, but it has the effects of both. I should be able to tell you more, once I start."
Legend nodded and moved behind Last Rites. "Ready."
Last Rites mixed in a saline solution with the dried blood, re-hydrating it. With that, he poured the final solution into an hypodermic needle, and placed it in the crook of his elbow. "Ready."
"Go."
Last Rites pushed the needle in, wincing, and depressed the plunger. He went limp, and Legend caught him, keeping him from flailing or injuring himself. Within a minute he was back to normal, and Legend helped him stand back up. His brown hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and his normally tan complexion was pale.
Last Rites' power was nothing as easy as his. Legend waited patiently for him to speak, only guessing how hard it was to, after what he saw every time he used that power.
"They were blasting away at a cape dressed in blue, who was trying to let out the people in the building. Shadow powers, she made that huge area of shadows you reported. And then once she hit them with the shadows, she punched Stovetop. Nothing else, except burning, and then he died."
"Thank you. I know it's not easy for you," Legend said, steadying him as he wobbled. "Let's get you upstairs, and get something to drink."
Legend took Last Rites' arm over his shoulders, and supported him all the way to the elevator.
"I think I saw green," Last Rites added, as Legend pressed the button to close the doors.
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Interlude 4b (Fecal)
"And all I am saying is that we shouldn't have to fucking be out tonight," Cook said.
Behind him, Nymph and Punching Bag walked silently. The stairs were narrow, and they had to go single file to get up into the office. Cook knocked on the door and waited.
"Enter."
They filed in, standing before the Boss's desk. She was a younger Italian woman, plain of face and dress. And was one of the most terrifying people he had ever met. She didn't yell, didn't scream, and rarely raised her voice. When she got mad, people vanished. For all that she took care of her people, Cook included, she was scary.
"Ma'am."
"Cook. And you two. I want this fucking mess cleaned up, and I want to know why it happened. It isn't good for business, and it isn't good for our position. Start where the car wreck and bodies were found, and work out from there."
"Ma'am."
Cook turned to leave, motioning for the other two to follow. Without a word they did, Nymph closing the door behind them. The stairs led into a bar, which was barely half full. Cook clenched his fists at who he saw there. He moved quicker, not wanting to be seen by her.
"Well, look who's here!"
Rabbit Ears smiled, her face lighting up with glee. Her overly loud voice drew the attention of the entire bar, and she stood, hands on her hips. Cook kept walking, trying to ignore her.
"Hey, Shiteater!"
"Cook," Cook ground out, stomping out the door, Nymph and Punching Bag following.
The bar noises were cut off by the door shutting, and Cook walked outside, shivering a little. Neither of the two with him said a word as he pulled out his keys, unlocking his car. As usual, Punching Bag took the passenger, while Nymph got in next to Fantasy in the back seat. Fantasy, who was currently a pair of dolphins f-
"Fuck, man! My car!" Cook snapped.
Fantasy, now a breathtakingly gorgeous woman, huskily said, "Sorry, Cook."
"I don't need that, all over my back seat."
A slimy tentacle poked tentatively out, resting on the center console.
"Or that!"
"Sorry!" a watery voice said.
"Keep those to yourself," Nymph added.
Cook sighed, and turned the engine over. A long night ahead.
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"It's Shiteat-" The man in red was cut off as he hunched over, retching.
"Cook! Fucking Cook!" Cook shouted.
Nymph, exiting from the floorboards, slammed the gang member back down into them, even as he continued to retch.
"You must be a masochist. If you didn't call me that fucking name, I'd use peppers or something."
Fantasy, now an amorphous blob, was blocking the horde of gang members from reaching Punching Bag. She was cowering, arms over her head, even as the majority of the gang tried to hit her, desperately flailing, only stopped by Fantasy, who had changed into some sort of snake/centipede. As one, they started gagging, and collapsed as Cook looked over at them.
"Now, you can answer my questions."
"Fu-hurgh."
"Want to try again?"
"Whadda ya want?" he asked, slightly more politely.
"Who killed your people with the car, and that whole scene?" Cook asked, patiently.
"We don't fucking know, its just the-" The gang member started choking.
"Don't care. Who?"
"I don't know! I told you -" With a final clunk, Cook brought his pipe down on the gang member's head, leaving him cursing and holding his forehead.
"Stay here for awhile. We're leaving."
Fantasy exploded out into a mass of tentacles, slamming everyone else standing in to walls, furniture, or each other. Nymph phased out of the floor behind him, pulling Punching Bag up by her waist. Punching Bag stumbled, blinking rapidly as she awoke from her semi-conscious state.
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"Fecal! Shoot him-" This one vomited, trying to scrape his tongue apart as well. His compatriots followed, disabled. The half dozen men, all unpowered, stumbled or collapsed.
"Nymph, him."
Nymph's arms grabbed him from behind, as she left the grass at his feet. She dragged him to the car, tossing him in the trunk with the help of an eight-armed two-headed Fantasy, relieving him of his gun in the process.
With a series of slamming doors, they got back in the car, and Cook floored it. A quick drive, monotony only broken by the bangs of the passenger in the trunk, until he stopped at a pier. Fantasy walked out of the car shaped like a half-rhino half-snake hybrid and opened the trunk, their face staring down on the gangster with what could at best be described as an unamused look, especially for something made of leathery flesh and scales. Fantasy dragged the struggling gangster to the end of the pier, and held him out over the water.
"I didn't do anything! You-" he stopped, gagging, as Cook made him taste.
"So, you're wearing blue. I'm guessing that means you know who attacked your little pals in red. Want to explain?"
Spitting, the hanging blue-clad man said, "Don't know anything-"
Cook looked at his nails, affecting an uninterested look, even as his target dealt with his power again. He stopped, and glanced at the man. "Now, 2nd round?"
"We got hit, someone stealing our money and guns. Bosses say-" he said, until he started sputtering again.
"Thank you for your contribution. Nymph?"
Crack. The man went limp in Fantasy's grip as a cone of red expanded from the back of his head. Nymph lowered the smoking pistol. "Time to go."
Nodding, Cook motioned for Fantasy, a wheel of legs, to follow.
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"-and both of them think it's the other. For all I know, it could be, and they aren't communicating."
Behind her desk, Reinc nodded, tapping a pen.
"And that is all you have to report?"
Cook could feel sweat accumulating on the back of his neck, even in the cool office. He didn't think she would kill him off-hand, but he hadn't gotten anywhere by not trusting his instincts. And they said to give more information, regardless of accuracy.
"Only rumors after that. Lots of talk about shadows, if that means anything," He added.
Reinc nodded, once more, turning to the muted TV. In closed captions at the bottom of the screen, it read -
'An unknown shadow cape was reported to help evacuate from fire, survivors say'
'In other news, the Strange Scientist has again taken control of a New Jersey insane asylum. We now go to an interview with his former assistant S-'
"Good job. Tomorrow, make our presence clear. I don't want anymore of this petty fighting going on where we do business. Make the point very clear."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Go. Nymph, stay."
Cook left, leading Punching Bag out. He felt bad about leaving Nymph, but much better at getting out of her office. A nice cold beer sounded damn good. At the bottom of the stairs, walking into the bar, he was greeted with,
"Shiteater's back!"
"Cook!"