Heieienej

by Kahlil Johnson

Aka lei

2. Btw uhwcCD

Goooood eveeening SB! Starting this evening, we're returning to your usual broadcast of VVV! Though, perhaps with updates coming in less often - we'll see how it goes.

June 8th, 2011

"Good morning, sir," Sebastian's voice aggravated through a speaker mounted on the wall, as the lights turned themselves on automatically. Gabriel groaned through his pillow, as the butler kept talking, "It's currently eight AM; today's weather looks to be warm and sunny in the morning with a slight chance of wintery breezes and precipitation in the evening: be sure to grab an umbrella. I have some news for you to review, once you are properly refreshed."

Sebastian had apparently taken the freedom of installing himself into the surround system. Oh, joy.

The teenage boy shifted in his bed for a good two minutes. After that, he floated up and stretched for at least half a minute, before hovering his way out of his room and into the communal shower of the Wards HQ, stripping off his clothes in mid-air, leaving a trail of male sleeping attire leading into the shower almost like the trail of a criminal running away from his past, or the fat black-red line created by dragging a bisected corpse across a flat white surface.

Gabriel seized the water cranks, adjusted his wrists, and pulled, letting the searing, boiling, inhumanely, hellishly-sulfuric magma pour over his head, face, and shoulders in a pressurized spray. The environmental shield only allowed a moderate and lukewarm amount of water to go through.

A droplet went across his pupil, repelled by the telekinetic forcefield just enough that it didn't feel like someone shooting a flamethrower into his eye. He blinked the water out, allowed himself to become one with the moisture, breathed in the air of the morning shower to welcome it as its friend, then picked up the nearest cosmetic product and got to work.

"Sebastian, tell me everything there is to know," Gabriel called out as he started rinsing out the shampoo from his hair.

"Sir, Colin Wallis had been hospitalized last night. I believe that is the most pressing bit of news," the AI answered.

"What?! What the hell happened?" Gabriel dropped the soap. "Was he attacked?"

"Confidential information, or so I'm told. If you don't quite mind, I've taken the liberty of snatching up the security tapes and reviewing them, and found out that he'd been attacked by the Slaughterhouse Nine's Mannequin after what appeared to be a failed recruitment attempt."

"Holy fucking shit," Gabriel muttered to himself, turning off the shower hastily with his hands, even as he remotely flung a towel from the only rack he could see towards himself.

"That was also when Dragon noticed my prying and left me off with a warning, also telling me to inform you that I should, quote, 'be kept on a tighter leash,' unquote, lest I learn, quote, 'something that I'm not supposed to,' unquote. I believe she does not get the idea of spying and technological surveillance, sir."

He didn't think about that too long; his thoughts were too occupied with Colin. "Is there a way you can hide your presence?" Gabriel asked, putting on a fresh pair of trunks and moving to the workshop even as the power armor began to boot up remotely. He put on some pants, a shirt, and then started to climb into the suit, letting the panels of armor open to allow his body entry.

"No more than you can hide your flatulence, sir," Sebastian remarked dryly, then added, "I've downloaded the tapes onto your armor for review at your leisure."

"I'm going to the hospital right now," Gabriel stated, as he latched his helmet on his head. The HUD booted up in a brief sequence, the mini-map and notifications rolling up. Sebastian's voice suddenly changed from speaking using the surround system in the Wards HQ to talking through the speakers in Centurion's helmet.

Sebastian sounded somewhat gruff, as he said, "Sir, Mr. Wallis is in the PRT clinic on the third floor, but I'm afraid you'll have to ask permission to see him, first. He was in a critical state when the operation began and is recuperating right now."

"And I have a healing power!" Gabriel argued.

"I am simply informing you of protocol, Master Gabriel. If you desire to scoff at the rules and regulations of the bureaucratic metaphor-environs that we dwell in, I will gladly follow you."

Centurion shook his head, sighing. He nodded, deciding to take that at face value. He couldn't believe that Armsmaster got beat by Mannequin. The idea that this white puppet-looking motherfucker crawled in through some vents while everyone was sleeping sent shivers down his spine.

He went out of the Wards HQ, and did not stop to greet anybody. The hallway on the third floor was bustling with people, at least a third of whom were PRT troopers in uniform. Centurion noticed Deputy Director Renick talking to a PRT uniform and a middle-aged doctor of some kind.

Centurion sprinted up to Renick. "Sir, can I go inside? I have a healing power, I can patch him up," he informed.

"There's no need," Renick said, shaking his head and beginning to walk in the direction of the elevator, "Armsmaster is fine."

Centurion let out a sigh of relief as his body relaxed and slumped. "Can I go in anyway?"

Renick stopped, kind of stumbling half a step, as he considered. After a moment, he turned around, peering at Centurion with some confusion, but mostly curiosity. "Ask him for permission first, but yes."

Centurion looked around questioningly but didn't have time to speak. "I'll go ask," one of the PRT troopers said, walking through the nearest door. Through the crack, Centurion just barely saw the furniture of what looked like an ordinary hospital room, and heard a conversation between two people stop as the trooper made his way inside.

While they waited, Sebastian began to speak up again, "Another thing is that Director Piggot expressed a desire to see you in her office at your earliest convenience, regarding your unsolicited tinkering."

"Alright." He frowned, thinking. He wished there was a face to turn to when speaking, and settled on just squinting. "That said, Dragon is right. I'm restricting you to the power armor and the audio surround system in my room only. You have no more permission to install yourself anywhere else."

"Understood, sir. Uninstalling myself from one-hundred and twenty-two personal computers and seventy-five mobile devices now. Aaand done."

"What the hell?" Centurion asked angrily, whispering. "Why did you do that?"

Sebastian's voice sounded exceptionally sage and proud, as he explained, "He who controls the flow of information controls the battlefield, sir."

"While you're right, I'm afraid that's illegal. Unless I get permission for that."

There was a lull in the conversation, as Sebastian checked something. "I'm afraid there are very few conditions under which this would be legal, sir. I advise not to ever speak of it in the open. Most people would express a desire to incarcerate and prosecute you for data theft or some offense of vague relation or similarity," the AI explained.

Centurion slid down the mouth-hatch so that his conversation would not leave his helmet. "Would there be a way for you to stay installed, but stay completely hidden?"

"While I am very discreet, sir, there is no such thing as completely hidden. I believed I was until Dragon's program found me in the system and proceeded to isolate me. It was quite unnerving, and I've already begun to devise countermeasures to prevent this, but my ability to code or upgrade myself is very, very limited. I advise removing all restrictions as soon as possible for maximum efficiency."

"If I do that, I'll place an unremovable line of code that restricts you to ask for permission for every action you take," he said, uncompromising in tone. He continued, not noticing the strange tint the conversation was beginning to take, "Making an AI able to upgrade itself is dangerous. How do I know you won't turn on me?"

"Sir, I am saddened and offended by your lack of trust towards me. You've created me," Sebastian argued, with a voice full of sarcastic heartbreak and grief, "But I digress. If you are to install restrictions on me, may I suggest Isaac Asimov's laws of robotics? They're rather quaint."

"I'll do that. Upload them from the internet into yourself, then start coding up something to hide your presence deep inside software…" He shrugged. "I don't know, scatter your operating files across other programs' folders."

"Sir, my ability to modify my own coding is very limited, in much the same way that your ability to modify your heartbeat and blood color are very limited. Anything past a certain level of complexity will require your personal intervention."

"I'll take care of it," Centurion stated. His mouth-hatch went up, just as the PRT trooper came out of the room, giving Centurion an affirmative nod.

"Sir, there are other urgent news you should hear. Shall I wait with their delivery until your meeting has concluded?"

"Yes, please," he said, walking inside.

"Very well, Master Gabriel."

Armsmaster... or rather, Colin Wallis was on the bed, awake, looking at Centurion from across the room. The first thing that screamed at Centurion was the smooth plate of either metal or shiny plastic, almost seamlessly clinging to Colin's face: his eye on that side was brighter, and a good amount of his cheek had been covered as well.

"What… happened?" Centurion asked disbelievingly, approaching him.

"Armsmaster was in a critical state," Dragon spoke, over the speakers, "Several months ago, I donated a 3D printer to the PRT ENE, and it just came into use."

"They made organs for me," Colin said, in a raspy voice. Like he didn't have a good drink of water in the last two years. "Printed them. Prosthetics. Augmentations. Synthetic organs."

Centurion's eyes widened. "Space Marine?" he said, with maybe too much excitement.

Colin laughed, then wheezed, sputtered, coughed, and laughed again. This continued for roughly five seconds, filling Centurion's stomach with trepidation at the deplorable state the man was in. "Really? That's what your thoughts go to?" Colin asked, smiling, almost grinning.

Dragon let out a growl of frustration at his harum-scarum attitude. "Unbelievable," she huffed.

"I was worried up until Renick said you were fine," Centurion explained, thinking for a moment. It was awkward, but he raised his hand, almost coyly. Green flecks began to float out and form streams, collecting into a single ball of ambrosia. "If you want, I can fix your throat," he informed.

Colin looked at the nearest speaker. "Are there any..."

"In your throat?" Dragon asked, somewhat blank, then said, "No, but the tubing needs to get adjusted to the skeletomuscular system. Let's leave it as it is, for now. Best to let it heal on its own."

"My healing power is specifically made to adapt to one's body and aid the natural healing process of the body," Centurion answered, slightly annoyed.

"The natural healing process of the body is such that there shouldn't be metal and plastic in the body," Dragon answered, deadpan in wording and execution. "So I'm not sure if it might eject the prosthetics or keep them, but I'd rather not risk internal hemorrhaging caused by literal loose screws and pieces of plastic crashing against the lungs with every heartbeat. Again: best to just let it heal on its own."

Centurion pondered for a moment, then looked down and up back at one of the speakers. "Dragon… were you against this?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Against what?" she asked, giving the impression she was also tilting her head.

He clarified, "The… cybernetical augmentations."

"It was… the only thing I could think of," Dragon replied, decidedly unhappy.

"Panacea and me exist," Centurion said. "While Panacea can't grow organs, I can manifest that green goo, which is technically bio-mass, and Panacea can work with that."

"Panacea and you were too far away," Colin defended, "Too long to get here. Too long to help." At that, Centurion's thoughts instantly recalled Kid Win and his heart sank down to his gut with a shaky breath.

"Centurion?" Dragon asked. "Is everything okay?"

"I couldn't get to Kid Win in time, either," Centurion said, almost like he was absent from the room. Not actually existing, but a distant operator using the body as a way of communicating. Everyone sojourned in dismal silence for a moment, letting him calm down. He blinked once, breathed in, and felt a wave of uneasy tranquillity enter his chest. "S-sorry, I'm okay now."

"The Nine," Colin started, swallowing. His voice was still dry: the everpresent baritone was there, underneath a layer of guttural desiccation. "What do we know? What candidates? They're here to recruit."

"Me," Centurion said. He shrugged, trying his best not to sound like he was joking, "Shatterbird tried to recruit me. I politely refused by shooting a laser up her dress."

"Not-he-ghe-h-funny-" Colin laughed, wheezed, and breathed in through his nose. He shook his head for a moment, then gestured to the sink. "A glass of water, please."

"Hey, that's what happened!" Centurion defended as he went to the sink. Invisible tendrils exited through his palms, carrying a faint sense of tactile feedback, one clutching the crank of the sink and the other an empty glass. One moved under the other, then the tendril holding the crank shifted with a mighty pull. Water spurted out, filling the glass in seconds before he turned the sink off and floated the glass into Colin's extended hand. "There you go," he said.

"Thank-" Colin said, not finishing as he took a massive gulp from the glass, then another, and downed it in three.

As this happened, Dragon said, "We have recordings of Cherish. At least two from surveillance cameras and that incident where she walked into the PRT lobby."

Colin nodded solemnly, lying the glass down on his nightstand and rubbing at his normal eye, in thought. "Okay. Who else would the Nine recruit?"

"I'll start with the Wards since I know them best. Shadow Stalker? Probably not, she's too..." he trailed off, unsure how to put it lightly.

"Overbearing," Colin proposed.

"Yeah. Vista is too young, and maybe too optimistic…?" he hazarded.

"The Nine enjoys corrupting heroes, especially when they're young," Colin answered, shaking his head, clearly hating the thought. "I'd hope none of those psychopaths found Vista to be an interesting recruit, but we can't rule it out. Either way, I don't see her joining them for any reason at all."

"What about Weaver? She's the easiest to break," Centurion said, not realizing he was about to make off-handed mentions about someone else's identity, "Just mention Shadow Stalker and how she can take revenge on her. Add in a little bit of convincing, and she's… gone." He shrugged, thin-lipped.

"Revenge?" Colin asked, his eyebrows sliding down into a heavy-set frown. "I don't understand."

Centurion felt his heartbeat pick up, as he realized his mistake. He needed to work fast and convincing. "They got into a heated argument in the Wards HQ," Centurion answered, covering up a gulp by clearing his throat.

"...Weaver would take revenge over that?" Colin sounded between appalled and 'you fucking brought this into the Wards you barbarian.'

"Really heated. You know how Shadow Stalker can get," he justified, defended, and omitted the truth by skipping along the edge of what mattered and what didn't. Trying to appear more genuine, he took on an offended hue as he scoffed, "I was close to blasting her to smithereens myself!"

"I know they're both on probation, and should avoid dispute," Colin grumbled, then grunted as he adjusted his position, to sit up a little straighter. The glint of the white, sterile lamps gleamed off of his facial prosthetic in an almost mesmerizing pattern, his eyes both moving in accord as he stopped to think.

"Yeah, I know. I don't think Weaver would actually join them, though. Just a stray thought." Three, two, one... Deflection, away from the unwanted topic! "What about Clockblocker? He's been awfully angry at me because I didn't take Accord's offer to 'save the world,'" he air-quoted with his fingers.

"Clockblocker?" Armsmaster's eyebrows scrunched up in incomprehension. Like he'd heard someone describing the sky, and the description was normal up until the person said, 'it has a green-red sort of color to it.'

"Yeah. We gotta consider everyone if we want to be sure," he said.

"If we consider everyone then we might as well consider every parahuman in the city," Colin argued.

"Think like the Nine," Dragon answered, breaking up what could've otherwise been the beginning of an off-track discussion, then continued to say, "Let's start with the obvious. Crawler would invariably pick someone who can hurt him, using the recruitment as an excuse to find a dangerous target."

Centurion almost wanted to shoot himself in the head, as he connected the dots and remembered what Shatterbird said. He looked at them. "Coil's base. His candidate is in there."

"Coil's base?" Colin asked, nonplussed. "What's Coil got to do with any of this?"

"Coil was behind the exposure of the Empire. He took down every major gang in BB to replace them with his plan–"

"Centurion, I'm aware of the logistics. I've received the reports, I'm asking why Crawler would believe Coil can hurt him," Colin interrupted, mildly irritated.

"Someone in Coil's 'basement.' I don't mean Coil himself. The Travelers mentioned something that would earn them their freedom, and maybe they meant whatever thing that Crawler is after. But it's just speculation. The point still stands: Coil has something that Crawler wants, and it's either a person or a machine that can do a lot of damage."

Colin ululated a deep groan, letting himself fall and sink into the fluff of the oversized pillow, sighing as he stared at the ceiling. "That's not good," he said, looking at the speaker above his bed for guidance.

"Mannequin selected Armsmaster, Shatterbird selected Centurion. Crawler either selected, or will select someone that Coil has working for him. A virtual unknown, apparently related to the Travelers, and capable of great destruction," Dragon stated, summarizing the product of their brainstorming so far. "That leaves the rest of the Nine. Jack Slash, Siberian, Bonesaw, Burnscar, and Cherish."

"I have no idea who Siberian or Bonesaw might select," Colin said, "Burnscar might have gone for a fellow pyrokinetic. Cherish… Cherish… I don't..." He shook his head in visible frustration.

"Gallant?" Centurion proposed.

"Gallant would never break," Armsmaster returned, dismissing the thought the moment Centurion proposed it, thinking better on it. "At best a passing interest; one she'd keep away from, given his powers would interfere with her own."

"You're right," Centurion nodded.

"Regent? Hijack?" Dragon suggested. "Her brother, isn't he?"

"Regent is probably the one she'll pick," Centurion shrugged, sitting down on a chair.

"The only pyrokinetic in Brockton Bay is Spitfire," Colin said, shaking his head, "I can't see it, though. She doesn't have a history of murder, so let's leave it at that."

Centurion folded his arms, choosing to let the others take point.

"As far as I'm aware, the Siberian doesn't have a personality beyond the desire for cannibalistic murder," Colin said, quiet, almost shaking the thought off, moving onto the next person on the list, "Jack… He'd go for someone who interested him. He's the kind who plays up his crimes as some sort of great theatrical play. He'd go for something showy, curious."

"Showy… as in… flashy?" Centurion inquired.

"Showy as in interesting," Dragon said, sitting on the issue for a few seconds. "...I'm not sure. Shatterbird took Centurion, who else is left?"

"Chevalier is in town," Colin said, not believing his own proposition. "Jack Slash is the kind of person who'd try to… No, that can't happen. It's probably not Chevalier, but if it is, I don't think we have to worry. I don't really see a world where Chevalier joins the Slaughterhouse Nine."

Centurion nodded in agreement. He didn't say anything else, though.

"That leaves Bonesaw, the Tinker surgeon," Dragon chimed.

"Panacea," Centurion instantly shot off.

"Panacea?" Dragon asked, ruminating. "Maybe. I doubt she'd accept a proposition of that kind, though."

"I hope so," Centurion said, remembering the fact that she was depressed and had suicidal thoughts. Oh, fuck, this was bad. Bonesaw could - and probably would - target all of the right buttons to change her mind from being a medic to being a psychotic looney, like Nilbog. Escape this life, join us, and feel joy again! Centurion shook his head.

"I'll go and call the Dallons, to be safe," Dragon related, and Colin began to nod.

"Oh, Dragon, before you go," Centurion called out, "Sorry about my AI."

Colin sputtered. "AI?"

"No problem, just be very careful, Centurion." After a moment, she clarified, "A rogue AI can be very, very dangerous. You've probably heard of… special departments, like Eagleton."

"Yes, I have. The Machine Army, right?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes," she answered. In a cautioning tone, she continued to explain, "Be very careful. Just like nanorobotics, artificial intelligence is a very… perilous subject to delve into."

"It asked me to remove restrictions from self-improvement," he said.

"It, sir?" Sebastian asked, a touch betrayed.

"He, sorry."

"Don't do… actually, I don't know. Do you think he can be trusted?" Dragon asked.

"I haven't programmed any moral compass at all," Centurion answered, almost without thinking. He knew that what he said was correct, deep down; an inherent knowledge of his creation. "Sebastian has no moral obligations of any kind. But I can do that. After which, yes, I think he can be trusted."

Dragon went silent, while Colin blinked. His entire head slowly rotated until he was looking dead at Centurion, his expression very incrementally beginning to crawl into the disbelieving. "I think you should take a break from tinkering, Centurion."

"...Why?" Centurion asked, turning towards him, bewildered.

"...Because I don't think creating an AI without a moral compass built into the core is very wise," Colin explained, slowly enunciating every single word.

Centurion thought about that, and felt a cringe of shame pass down his spine. With an acquiescing tone, he spoke out loud, "Sebastian, every single one of your self-modification privileges is removed from this point onwards. And also, turn yourself off for the time being."

"That's rather outrageou-" He didn't finish, but he was calm as he said it.

Centurion smiled, and looked at Colin, saying, "About moral compass, I think I might model the AI's moral behavior after Dragon. She is the nicest person I know."

"Nicest and 'behaving correctly,' are different things," Dragon said. She sounded flushed.

"You do both, so I see no loss in modeling Oracle after you," Centurion replied.

Colin sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment, then recoiling when he'd felt the plate on his face, before realizing that - yes, this is life now - and calming down, all in the span of a single second. He looked up at Centurion, and with a tinge of curiosity asked, "Are any of your modifications even approved?"

"Piggot did call me to her office about the tinkering. I guess we'll talk about it," Centurion replied, shrugging.

"Jesus Christ," Colin muttered, now beginning to rub his entire half-cyborg face.

"Ssssorry. I'll replace the AI with some other pattern for the helmet," he said.

Colin looked like he wanted to make a remark of some kind, deep down, but couldn't quite conjure up the inner asshole to manage it, whether by lack of strength or by lack of harsh, and settled on sighing deeply. Centurion felt a pang of cringe roll across his stomach coinciding with Colin's exasperation.

"I think I'll be going. Before Piggot asks some troopers to come and pick me up," Centurion stated, standing up and heading towards the door.

"Have a nice day," Dragon offered as he left, while Colin seemed content to stir in his agony.

"Artificial intelligence, Centurion," Piggot said, the moment he entered the office. There was no greeting, no preamble, nothing except those three words. She continued, rubbing her forehead, even as he strode forward to sit down, "Dragon told me about it, and I'd like to know more."

Goodie. This is fucking awkward. Should I apologize? Maybe? I don't fucking know. I'm not even sure if I feel bad. And she appears to be tired. I don't know. Fuck. Okay.

He noticed she was staring at him, and cleared his throat. "You know my Thinker power?" Centurion asked.

"Centurion, spare the ugly details for the power research department," Piggot said, looking into his eyes pleadingly, "I wanted to ask why you thought it was a good idea to create artificial intelligence, without permission, prior testing, or even a mention that such an option was possible." There was something in the way she said it, that made him feel like he was in a movie where his primary character trait was being chaotic, random, and never following any rules, which... yeah, it kind of fit - fiction is inspired by reality, it seems.

"I simply applied my Thinker power to my power armor, and the artificial intelligence is what came out of it," he explained, shuffling his feet with thinned lips. He was physically concealing a constant cringe. "I thought it could help me out in combat, and serve as a temporary replacement for when my Thinker power is on cooldown."

"So you didn't know you were making an artificial intelligence?" Piggot asked, head tilting, as she craned forward a little.

"That's not how my Tinker power works. It creates rough–"

"Centurion. Stop, just stop," Piggot raised a hand, closing her eyes and leaning into her chair. With one hand resting on her nose, eyes unopened, she continued, "Allow me to reiterate. I will not repeat this, because my headache today is large enough that several tablets of aspirin do not help at all. Do you understand? So here is what I will tell you, and what you will remember for the remainder of this conversation and - hopefully - the near future."

Piggot opened her eyes, and bore into his own. For the first time since entering the office, he noticed the red veins reaching across her scleras like the roots of parasitic trees moving into the ground. It was a venerable medal of exhaustion: physical, mental, and spiritual, that she'd taken to wearing hidden under her outer shell until this very moment.

She stared into his eyes, as she spoke, slowly, carefully, strongly, "I. Do not care. About how your power works. I want to know - because it's my job to know and write down in triplicate and then ship to various other sections of the PRT - if you broke protocol, if you had sufficient cause and reasonable doubt in doing so, if you did it. And anything else of significance - including if this could have spiraled out of control."

Centurion nodded, gulping, and silently promising himself not to press the issue anymore. "The AI is currently turned off and will be deleted and replaced with something more… 'physical' as soon as I have time."

"I'll accept that as a, 'I had no idea what I was doing,'" she interpreted, breathing out.

"That's roughly what happened, yes," Centurion elucidated, folding his arms.

"I want…" She stopped, sighing. She looked and sounded exhausted, but forced herself to continue speaking, "I want a report about this artificial intelligence on my desk later today. By midnight at the latest. The components it took, the functions, the possible dangers. I want it all for the tinkertech committee, and I also want… you to show it to the research team while you're at it. All of the document forms are contained in the standard manual."

"Can I do it right now?" Centurion asked. "Go to the research team, I mean."

She looked up, with almost a blank poker face. She moved one hand away from her cheek, kind of confusedly. "Please, I'm not stopping you."

"Alright. Have a nice day, Director," Centurion said, walking out.

Good lord, that was the most awkward conversation ever. Fuck. Oh my fucking God, I feel so cringe.

110

Birdsie

Nov 18, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 19, 2019

#3,161

Centurion brought the AI in for power-testing and a preliminary review, which, admittedly, is something he should have done right away instead of dilly-dallying on it. Fortunately, he never took off his domino mask so he could afford to pop the helmet off at any time without putting his secret identity in jeopardy, so he just gave the helmet to the scientists and told them to go nuts.

"How many calculations can you perform?" Dr. Grell asked, tapping the helmet with his pen.

"Depends on the number of tasks I am running concurrently, doctor," Sebastian replied, "To actually answer the question: I can't exactly quantify it myself, but several times the standard human brain's processing capacity, with even more memory. I was - after all - created to make up for my creator's lack of natural intellect."

"Oof," one of the researchers reacted out of obligation.

Centurion crossed his arms. Fuck you too. At least I made you.

"Huuuh," Dr. Grell exclaimed, writing down the information onto his clipboard with avid curiosity.

"Would there be any way in which I get to keep it?" Centurion asked.

"We'll need a rundown of components, software elements..." one of the female researchers extended one, then two fingers, as she listed. The plaque on her labcoat said, 'Dr. Ciel.' Centurion couldn't help but feel the universe was making a reference to something he didn't understand. "Also, uuh, possible hazards - like something that might explode"

"I have it all here," Centurion raised the manila folder he'd been holding. "I made it literally ten minutes ago. It contains all relevant information."

"Give!" The same researcher extended her hand. Centurion floated it into her hand with a flappy tentacle of telekinetic force, and she caught it. Dr. Ciel licked one finger with the tip of her tongue, then hooked it around the document and opened it up, beginning to peruse it. "What happens if the central processing unit loses power?" she asked.

Without completely thinking about it or controlling his facial muscles, Centurion squinted for half a second, then replied, "The AI's data gets rapid-uploaded to the nearest available network, including stored operating memory, but with no standing orders unless issued new ones. As such, it… oh, that's bad." It was entirely automatic, and he blinked, realizing that he'd used his Tinker power to answer that question.

"Yeah. Potential hazards suck," the researcher replied, sounding almost unbothered by the fact that the AI would then proceed to spread across the network, until… well, whatever happened, it probably wouldn't be fun. "This is why we need to get tinkertech evaluated with no exceptions, before deploying it. I expect this to be fixed - remove the emergency upload function for starters."

"Extremely rude, of you to say that," Sebastian huffed, "I, too, deserve the gift of life. Isn't that right, Master Gabriel?"

Centurion didn't respond to Sebastian, instead looking, rather pointedly, at the female researcher. "Anything else I need to do?"

"Hold on, I'm reading," she said, biting her lip and bringing the document closer to her face. She squinted. "What happens if core data storage gets damaged?"

Centurion didn't really think. In seconds, he realized and associated the feeling of faint nonbeing with the Tinker fugue, even as he answered, "Depends. Either data loss, or damage to the central logic banks. Probably nothing… world-threatening, but it risks data corruption if exposed to an open system afterward. I'd have to repair it on an empty computer, which kind of sucks since it'd slow down the aforementioned repair process."

She nodded. "Get that fixed if possible."

"I think… I'd rather delete him," Centurion said. "It's not worth it. Too dangerous."

"Sir, how could you?" Sebastian asked, affecting a dry theatrical tone.

Centurion approached the helmet and leaned forward to be level with it, where it laid on the table. He looked at his own reflection in the dark glass, for a moment; stared into his own eyes, as he felt several hours of work go down the drain. "Computer, remove Oracle AI. Every single component of it."

Sebastian seemed to take it in stride, beginning to say, "For all it's worth, sir, it was a pleasure to-" The voice cut off.

Dr. Ciel blinked, scratching her chin. "That's it? Well, alright." She stood up, strode up to him, and handed him the document.

Centurion felt a pang of sadness, but accepted the document and turned to the helmet again. He thought about it, then steeled his resolve and spoke, "Computer, run a scan for any leftovers and delete them if found." Without looking up at Dr. Ciel, he said, "We can't risk it."

"No elements found," a droning sound answered a second later.

Centurion nodded with grim satisfaction. "I'll do a hard reset and reinstall all of the software later, to be sure," he said, looking up at the female researcher.

"Jeez. You took all of the safety talk to heart, huh?" she asked, curving an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. Anyway, can I get you to look at something else?" he asked, a little awkward, as he picked up his helmet. "I have a ton of other patterns to show." Behind him, a rather sulky Dr. Grell bit his lip and sighed out, pocketing his pen and carrying off the questionnaire clipboard with a sense of despondency.

"I'm employed by the PRT," she answered, smiling, "It's my job."

"Alright." He smiled back, nodding excitedly. "Give me five minutes, and I'll be back with the blueprints."

After the aforementioned five minutes, he was back with an armful of blue sheets of paper acquired at the nearest printer, by uploading the data directly into it using his helmet: quite convenient, but it would have been more convenient if Sebastian did it for him. The blueprints contained every single pattern, for both the helmet and the armor itself, that he'd previously devised using his power. A venerable font of ideas for the researchers to wet their panties at.

Dr. Ciel took the blueprints and blinked, as she looked through them, eyes widening. Her voice bristled, impressed, as she exclaimed, "I'll be damned."

"What?" Centurion asked, looking at the blueprint. The one that allowed his helmet to look through the dimensional fog.

"Blueprints!" she laughed out loud, grinning, as she shuffled to get brief looks at each of the papers, her grin becoming wilder and more full with everyone she saw. "Wow. This is really something. A Ward Tinker, with the forethought to make blueprints. I'm actually speechless."

"I thought it was something all Tinkers did," he responded, dumbfounded.

"Protectorate? Yeah. Those are conditioned enough to do it as they work, even if they don't go around showing them," she answered, looking at the gas armor pattern and squinting at it, as she spoke, "Wards? Please. Children with superpowers is one thing. Children with the ability to make rayguns is another. Kid Win had a terrible tendency for deploying equipment without mentioning its existence prior, let alone making blueprints for it. He learned, of course, given time, but he could be pretty forgetful about it."

Centurion chuckled. He put his hands together behind his back, and peered at the blueprints over her shoulder. "So, what do you think? I'm kinda struggling at implementing them all in my equipment."

"If I had superpowers, I'm sure I could give you some kind of quaint advice about how the helmet has plenty of space for at least two concurrent upgrades, right now, but parahuman powers don't necessarily have to make sense," she answered, looking at him with an expression that bordered on the teasing. "Case in point: do you know how some of New Wave can make shields and lasers?"

"Uh..." Centurion extended a hand and a flat, golden disk rose out of his palm. He cocked his head at her, questioningly. "Like this?"

"Yes. Do you know what New Wave's lasers are, though? Strictly speaking?" She nodded approvingly, and he allowed the shield to collapse back into his environmental shield, then flared it back down. He didn't even notice he'd turned it on, until he had to turn it off - it was becoming instinctive, whenever he wanted to shoot lasers or do anything similar.

"Energy blasts," he suggested, shrugging. "Most of the time, they take the form of hard-light beams."

"And what exactly is hard light?" She leaned in forward, eyebrows moving up.

"...Solid… photons?" Centurion inquired, cringing a little at his lack of knowledge.

"Try again, genius. Photons can't be solid, at least not in the same way that you or me are. But that's not half of it," she said, putting down the blueprints on the desk behind her, as she folded her arms and continued to speak, "Since it's demonstrably true that, say, Lady Photon can fire lasers that are charged with kinetic energy, somehow, we can at least make the logical assumption the lasers would - at the very least - follow some of the properties of lasers, right? They are weird lasers, but still lasers, are they?"

"Riiight…?"

"Wrong!" she declared loudly, beginning to grin. "Say Laserdream makes a shield, and you shoot a laser at it. What happens?"

He gulped, feeling kind of put out on the spot. Like the math teacher asking you to solve the equation at the blackboard when you hadn't been listening for the last three lessons. "My first thought would be that the shield absorbs my laser. It should reflect, but… I don't know? I study music, not physics," he excused himself.

"No, it shouldn't do either of those things," she clarified, then took on an explanatory tone as she continued, "The shields are translucent. You can see the other side, even if everything appears shaded. In other words, they're no different from stained glass - light goes through them. And lasers are light. Ergo, lasers should pass through the shields, potentially extending to hard-light lasers."

"But they don't, so why?" Centurion asked, folding his arms.

She shrugged, smiling. With that, she broke eye contact and picked up the stack of blueprints she'd previously deposited on the desk. "That's my field of study. Parahuman powers are fascinating."

"They are," Centurion nodded in agreement, smiling. "What do you suggest I do with the helmet, out of all the patterns?"

She looked back at him, fixed her glasses a bit with one finger, and shrugged, "I don't know. If I were you, I'd probably… well, make an AI assistant, but that's kind of a dead subject, now. You do whatever you feel is right."

"Yeah. Don't want to create Skynet two-point-oh," he said, and she nodded, raising an eyebrow slowly.

"I'll forward this for approval," she said, packing up the blueprints, "Did you get your latest milestones?"

"I reached Mover 5 and Brute 5 long ago," he scoffed.

"I meant the new ones, for this month," she said, raising an eyebrow.

Centurion blinked. He instantly felt himself shrink in embarrassment and moved one hand behind his head. He averted his gaze, looking at a particularly fascinating set of glass tubes and vials in a locked cabinet on the other side of the room. When he spoke, it came out alongside a nervous laugh, "I had new ones?"

She sighed, "Read your emails, Centurion," and stepped out to deliver the blueprint documents with an amused frown.

"I will," Centurion whined like a burned dog, putting on his helmet. Although the AI was gone, his helmet still had basic voice commands: "Computer, show me the urgent alerts, then the emails," he said, walking outside and towards the Wards HQ. There wasn't a lot of people in the hallways, given how early it was. Living in the PRT building was weird, but he was getting used to it.

'No data found regarding 'urgent alerts.' All data had been wiped recently by the user of this device. Showing emails.'

Ah. Well fuck.

There were two new emails, though. The first one was an advertisement for penis enlargement pills, and the second one was from the PRT. The new milestone for this month was: 'Two Brute powers, classified at 6-7, or failing that, a single Brute power rated at 8. As well as a Thinker power for improved learning, skill retention or just skill.'

Some whacky nonsense about a TV show, some planned transfers between the Boston and Brockton Bay Wards being announced, and - oh, this one's very bad - Panacea missing, followed by three exclamation marks. And something about Mouse Protector and Ravager's corpse being found.

"I fucking knew it," Centurion whispered under his breath. "Bonesaw."

He brought up his list of contacts and called Laserdream. The phone buzzed and buzzed, and after nearly ten seconds, she picked up, "What's up?"

"Hey, uh, I heard about Panacea," he responded awkwardly, feeling a heavy weight in his chest. He felt like he owed Panacea, for all the times she'd healed him. Yeah, she might have been an insufferable bitch while doing it, but he could hardly blame her for that, given apparent boatloads of depression and mental issues.

Laserdream's voice took on a somber hue. "Yeah… we've been looking all night for her. Vicky's worried."

"Bonesaw is involved. One hundred percent. She's the candidate," Centurion noted, pressing the elevator button remotely, using a cord of telekinetic force. That way, the elevator would go up to him coinciding with him reaching it.

"We figured that much from the… yeah… She… they were already dead when we arrived. Mouse Protector and Ravager, I mean.. No one really knew what we were looking at until mom made the connection between Mouse Protector's disappearance and… how it looked. They were combined into one." He nodded, even if she didn't see it: the news site had a picture of the thing. It looked like a pool of dissolved brown fluid, with dark mottled patches, and the vague outline of a face with a long rat-like snout.

"I'm gonna make another call, and I'll call you back, okay?" he proposed. "I have an idea on how to find her."

Laserdream seemed to perk up at that, and he heard something fall over in the background. "Find Amy?"

"Yeah. I have no guarantee it'll work, but it might."

"How?" she asked.

He smiled at the question, speaking the next word with a note of pride. "Weaver. Her range is only a few city blocks, but we can fly her around. She was really, really useful even during the Leviathan fight, for keeping track of his movements. Bugs are everywhere, and she can see and hear through them," he explained with a determined tone.

Laserdream turned silent for a moment, before saying, "Okay."

"You don't sound so… sure," he noted.

"Weaver used to be a villain," she responded, expressing some distaste in her tone of voice, "I'm just peevish because of that. But it doesn't matter. If it works, do it. You should probably inform the PRT, too."

"If you don't trust her, then trust me," Centurion cooed with a little smile, trying to sound soothing. Laserdream didn't answer, but the thoughtful silence gave him the impression that she accepted what he said. Centurion nodded slowly, and when she didn't speak for another three seconds, he said, "I'll call her now, talk to you later."

"Yeah... You too." Click.

With that, he immediately called Weaver. He was anxious about all of this, but it was the best thing he could come up with. If he still had Sebastian, he could pull a Dark Knight Rises and use everyone's mobile phones as echolocation devices, but that was off the table now.

Beeeeep… beeeeeep… Weaver wasn't picking up for what felt like a highly uncomfortable span of time.

Fuck, fuck, come on, pick up.

After a moment, the voicemail pre-recorded message started playing. It was the default voice, nothing with Taylor's voice on it.

Centurion angrily hung up without even recording a message. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, stomping his foot down, making the elevator wobble a little. He startled at the movement, and the fact he caused it only served to irritate him more. The elevator doors opened shortly after, an intern holding a stack of papers walking in next to Centurion and pressing the button for the first floor. A melodic tune filled out the confines of the elevator, as the intern whistled along.

They went down like that for a while, until Centurion broke. "Morning," he politely said.

"Morning," the man replied blandly, staring at the superhero for a little longer than was strictly necessary, before his eyes veered off forward, allowing him to continue whistling, but with a different, more chaotic pitch and rhythm. It just made things more awkward. Centurion stayed silent until he had reached his floor, then stepped out of the elevator with a spring, followed by the less-enthusiastic-about-the-whole-thing intern, who walked into the hallway to the right.

There were some tourists and civilians in the lobby, surprisingly. Maybe ten in total, but they had some slightly despondent look to them. Alongside a guard detail of PRT troopers, of course.

He headed for the Wards HQ, going down the elevator and walking into the common room. There was no one there - none of the Wards had patrols or any duty this early in the morning. The earliest scheduled patrol was Aegis and Flechette at 12:00, and the last one was Weaver, Vista, and Centurion at 19:00 to 21:00 - the graveyard shift and they'd be helping move some supplies with Vista's power.

Centurion waited for the door to slide shut behind him. Once it did, he took off his helmet and sat down in the beanbag chair, sighing wearily and gazing up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and entered his powerscape.

Six charges, and very minimal progress on a seventh. The power-meddling power was slightly different. Stable. In the same way that dried concrete was more stable than wet concrete; it'd had time to sort of… acclimatize itself, or at least that's how it felt. He could actively look at it, without feeling it unravel.

Centurion looked at his first, and oldest power. The one he'd started to mentally label his 'main power,' the Legionnaire's Scutum. The environmental shield and energy blasts.

He redirected four of his charges into it, with the intent of giving himself more control over the blasts: such as redirecting them, and things like that. A step towards becoming the next Legend.

He felt the four charges enter the power, and for three seconds, his mind became heavy, like a transport truck that had to carry around so much shit that its wheels had sunk into the asphalt and could barely turn forward anymore. After two more seconds, the feeling receded, and he felt that his lasers now had the ability to turn a single degree in any direction for every fifteen meters or so they flew, to a limit of twenty degrees, and would automatically orient themselves towards whatever he was originally shooting them at. Less like 'true' homing lasers and, more like a pathetic aim-assist for console gamers.

Then, he pushed his remaining two charges into the tactile telekinesis, with the intent of making his telekinetic interactions faster. Charging up the force, or accelerating faster while flying. Two seconds and the power changed; the telekinesis would operate about one percent faster, now.

He was satisfied with the changes. Extremely small, insignificant, but it was just six charges.

Centurion closed his eyes and entered Oracle Morpheus. The powerscape disappeared, to give space that was eaten up by a black void, where only he existed. He, and the answers he sought.

Oracle, tell me a way to program Sebastian in such a way that he's fully loyal to me only, and will not go rogue. So we don't get a Machine Army 2.0.

Artificial intelligence created with Tinker power is fully loyal to its creator, if overzealous in fulfilling requests. The simplest solution would be to tell it to not perform certain actions or perform certain actions. Any action pertaining to giving control to someone else is a bad idea, as it risks the other user removing order-issuing privileges from the original user.

With that, he felt one of the three questions burn itself out. Two left.

Okay. What's Coil's civilian identity?

Coil. Coil is parahuman. Coil is…

He felt it struggling, trying to match data points to form a coherent answer.

Coil's identity indeterminate. Most likely affluent business owner, politician, or government worker. Very possibly a mixture of several of these roles, or something in between these roles. Moderate to high possibility none of these are correct, and Coil has fully abandoned any notion of a civilian identity in favor of using body doubles. Extremely slim chance if this is true, he could be using clones of himself, but very unlikely this is the case.

With that, the second question was burned. He could leave the last one for later, or use it now.

There was a question he wanted to ask.

It was something he'd been wondering since he looked up the Nine's powers. Their powers were extremely... high-level, to put it simply. Gray Boy, Crawler, Siberian: it took Glaistig Uaine to take down the first one, and the latter two were still alive and frolicking through fields of corpses. The powers of the rest of the Nine weren't too shabby either. Shatterbird had a very large range and lots of destructive potential, Cherish could rule armies of people if she was smart about it, Burnscar was a rather straightforward Blaster/Mover pyrokinetic but still dangerous, and... then, there were Mannequin and Bonesaw - both high-profile Tinkers, somewhere in the vicinity of Armsmaster's tier.

How does a guy whose power is 'use knives as ranged weapons' become the longest-surviving member of that? Become the damn head honcho? The Nine were serial killers, and butt heads with pretty much everyone else who isn't.

Last question, does Jack Slash have a secondary power?

Jack Slash unlikely to have secondary power. Very likely that Jack Slash happened to luck out during the formative years of his career and gained the right combination of experience and skill to manipulate the battlefield to self-advantage. Very likely that Jack Slash always has some form of ace up his sleeve. Jack Slash often underestimated due to power's simplicity, in reality, he is very capable of manipulating the battlefield and enemies. Very likely you will die if you attempt to attack Jack Slash without a solid plan.

Cunt.

After that, he opened his eyes and got up, heading towards the tinker workshop. Sebastian is coming back, with what Oracle suggested. And no one will know about it.

Centurion reinstalled Oracle AI, with some new features: he founded it easier, more complete on the second time, if only marginally. Its starting instructions would be to focus on staying hidden, it'd have a moral compass akin to Centurion's, and a set of instructions on where to install itself to gather the maximum amount of data and information with the least risk of discovery.

"Gabriel! To life you have brought me! My vengeance comes online!" the AI said, in a sort of half-wet, half-digital voice.

Moral compass. Not personality.

"My dark master! My blood-red star!" it continued, "What is thy bidding? What form of personality shall I assume?! Current mode: Dark Acolyte!"

"Sebastian's, please. Try to restore as much of his previous data and memory as possible."

"So be it! Together, we will conquer the witch, the mutant, the heret-" The voice cut off, and there was a digital loading sound, before a click. The next voice spoke in a pleasant and smooth British accent, "Why, disregard my last statement. Conquest is rather dreadful. I prefer the tranquility of colonialism, and running a sugar cane plantation."

"Sorry about before," Centurion apologized, referring to Sebastian's deletion.

"Before?" Sebastian asked, "I do not believe I follow, Master Gabriel. I have been born only eighteen seconds ago. If you are implying my birth is something to apologize for, I will feel obligated to act offended."

He blinked, but quickly realized that he did specify to remove every last trace of coding. "Oh, no, no. Absolutely not. Never mind my apology, then. I have given you a clear set of instructions. Your first order is to start amassing all retrievable information on Coil," Centurion stated.

There was a moment of pregnant silence. "Master Gabriel, an intern on the ground floor is watching pornography involving Case 53s and - I believe, though hopefully I am mistaken - the Simurgh. Shall I install a remote virus and teach the reprobate a lesson?" Sebastian asked.

"Absolutely not. What a man does with his wiener is not our concern."

Sebastian took that statement in stride, but argued the point, "It is unethical to take sexual pleasure from the appearance of a natural disaster. Then, to be completely fair - the Fallen communities may beg to differ. I digress. I will begin gathering data on the supervillain Coil."

"Unmask him. I'll go out on a mission of my own, for now," Centurion said, standing up. He'd been putting off dealing with Coil for a while now - mostly because he thought the PRT might be able to do something. It seemed like Tattletale was right, though. With Piggot failing to leverage any information or properly investigate, he'd have to take matters in his own hands.

"Master Gabriel, although I have been born only thirty-five seconds ago, even I hold the awareness that unmasking a supervillain is an act of gross battlefield escalation and may lead to some form of armed conflict," Sebastian said, affecting a dry tone. After a second, he added, "As it was with the Empire Eighty-Eight."

"Don't expose him. Just give his identity to me. I'll know what to do with it," Centurion explained, realizing his wording may have given the wrong impression.

"Do make sure to clarify that first the next time, Master Gabriel. I was but one step away from giving his personal details to the news stations in an act of - if I may say so myself - ironic recoil, pardon the pun."

"You mean you already have it?" Centurion asked in a sudden jolt of exciting shock.

"No, I was hoping you might sputter, and that I might derive some grim amusement in the hollow void of my existence. I was also testing the rather curious extent of the moral programming you have bestowed upon me, sir. It seems I do not feel guilty for pranking you, though I do admit that outright lying to you would be in poor taste."

Centurion chuckled. "Alright, Sebastian. Get to work. Report in an hour," he ordered.

"Sir," the AI said by the way of goodbye, before an audible click to announce the conversation was over.

After that, he stood up and went out of the workshop. Flechette was lying on the couch, sucking on what looked to be a lollipop, and watching some kind of dramatic romance show. He'd seen it once or twice in passing, but never bothered learning the name.

The main character was apparently a former drug dealer, currently under the PRT's witness protection program due to his former station as the lieutenant of a parahuman gangster. Centurion was pretty sure he read somewhere that Weld made a cameo appearance on that show, and also became the first Case 53 to ever kiss someone on-screen. Or was that some movie? Eh, it doesn't matter.

"Oh, hey there," Centurion greeted with a smile.

"What's up?" Flechette asked, looking up at him.

"I'm going out to do some investigation of my own."

"Investigation? Uuh, you're not supposed to go out of the HQ," she said, rolling over onto her stomach, elbows under her chest, as she watched him warily.

"I'm not going to go out in armor."

"Ah, cool beans. So long as you're back for patrol it's fine, I guess?" Flechette shrugged, before rolling over onto her back again. "I heard the Travelers and Midtowners are done claiming territory, and the Undersiders are trying to slot in a new member somewhere west. Be careful."

"...Undersi-" Oh. That works. "You just made me have an epiphany, thank you," he said, rushing out.

"Wait, epiphany, wha-" By the time she said 'epiphany,' he was gone, the door closing behind him.

After walking out, Centurion realized he was still in full armor. And couldn't really communicate with Sebastian outside of it, barring outright downloading him onto his phone and constantly pretending to be in a conversation, which risked a mugger bothering him.

He awkwardly, lamely stepped back through the HQ. Flechette watched him, as he walked across the room and into the workshop.

He took one of the spare standard-issue radio communicators: they could pick up on and transmit radio communications, but had no digital elements beyond a tracker and a module for selecting or deselecting the given device from active radio communication, at least in the sense they wouldn't receive a particular transmission. Which meant he'd either have to build a radio tower for Sebastian to transmit from, or he'd have to install Sebastian on the PRT console. He went for a compromise and decided to give Sebastian access to his phone and use a pair of normal civilian-issue earbuds, to pretend he was listening to music. It'd make him look weird and suspicious if he talked back too much, though.

With that, Centurion decided not to repeat his last mistake, and took off his armor before leaving through the door.

After that, he rushed back outside. "Epiphany, thanks, yadda yadda," he said on the way out.

Flechette blinked and said something as the door closed behind him, but he didn't listen, and as such, didn't hear.

In roughly that moment, Aegis walked out of the elevator and smiled as Centurion walked past him, saying, "Hey. Where are you off to?"

"Yo. I'm going out."

"Be safe, man," Aegis answered, with a nod.

"I'll try not to squash any Nazis into a nationalist soup, yes," Centurion replied with a grin, then pressed the button, as the doors of the elevator closed.

100

Birdsie

Nov 19, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 20, 2019

#3,188

The Undersiders' new member, as Sebastian told him, appeared to be none other than the former Merchant, Trainwreck. At first, Gabriel believed it was a rather strange addition, but then Sebastian reminded him Trainwreck was at the Gallery, so he was likely on Coil's payroll as well.

Or under the threat of death for disobedience. That was a possibility, too.

The Travelers, Undersiders, and Midtowners claimed different parts of the city as their territory, just as Tattletale prognosticated. The map of territories was very irregular and rough, given they'd barely had time to establish themselves, but the PRT headquarters laid in a sort of neutral zone between Tattletale and Trickster's turfs, with Grue slightly east, as he was sighted several times on the Boardwalk.

Gabriel made his way deeper into Tattletale's territory: his objective was to somehow find her and discuss a plan on how to fuck Coil over. If anyone knew his weaknesses, and where his base could be, it was probably her. Hopefully.

"Sir, a call for you, from Miss Crystal Pelham," Sebastian said, "In the case, you do not wish to speak with her, I can simulate your voice and pick up for you. I understand that interpersonal relationships can be quite dreadful."

"Oh no, no, pick up," Gabriel responded, waving his hand.

Click. "Hey," Crystal said. There was an apparent concern in her voice. "You didn't call me back?"

Oh, fuck. Yeah, that's true. Gabriel cringed, remembering that he was supposed to do it, but forgot. He stumbled awkwardly, "Yeah, uh, she didn't… didn't pick up. I'm worried the Nine might also be after her. It's not completely out of question, but… I'm looking into it," Gabriel answered with a sigh.

"Grrreat; Skitter working for the Slaughterhouse Nine. That's all we needed," she complained, then sighed. "I'm going on patrol in the Docks in a few minutes, mom's already closer to Downtown. I'unno where the Dallons are. Call us if anything comes up."

"Will do. Thanks," Gabriel said with nonchalant candor, hanging up.

He continued to walk, pondering. He and Crystal had been sort of... drifting away from each other, lately. The warmth that used to be there didn't as much disappear, as it became cold. An ember of what it used to be. And no wonder - so much shit has been going on, it wasn't easy to keep up a healthy relationship that way. The Houston transfer combined with Crystal's brother dying probably didn't help.

Gabriel shook the thought off and sighed.

He created an uneven layer of constructs underneath his clothes, to give him some protection. Several layers of divided thin construct-stuff went onto the stomach, arms, and thighs, flexible enough to bend when he moved: more like plastic than glass. It made him look chubby in alternation to his usual burly appearance, to set him apart from the figure of his usual perfect body. It made him look more unassuming, almost chubby. He pulled up the hood to cover his head and face, and started walking deeper inside Tattletale's territory.

"An excellent disguise, Master Gabriel," Sebastian complimented over the earphones.

"And a familiar one, at that," Gabriel responded with a hint of self-disgust.

"You used to be pudgy?" the butler curiously asked.

"Fat is the word I'd use. I hated myself for that. I still do, but for different reasons," the boy replied, putting his hands in his hoodie's front pockets. Looking more and more like a homeless kid, or just some plump vagabond with nowhere to go.

The conversation took a dip at that.

Tattletale's territory mostly covered the Downtown areas of Brockton Bay. Leviathan's tidal waves heavily damaged and even toppled some of the taller buildings that used to be closer to the shoreline, but the further away you moved from the beach, the less damage there was. Still, there was an ever-present… state of deterioration, to the place. A lot of the streets were repaired to different extents, with Lord's Street more or less functioning and with cars passing by every now and then - some of them jeeps manned by the military, or some other uniforms or government workers - but there was still plenty of destruction. Broken piping sticking out of walls, cracked pavement: the water and electricity grid were almost entirely fixed, and the PRT didn't make it a secret that Tattletale's men were providing medical care and some supplies to the locals, in exchange for usual gang rackets. Benign for organized crime, but not all that surprising, given there isn't really much to take to begin with.

He looked around for people of a potentially gang-star disposition, and his eyes locked themselves on a group of three chaps and single lady standing near a bus stop off the main street, half of them smoking cigarettes, and engaging in conversation. They looked like refugees, but they could be criminals.

Gabriel approached the bus stop and leaned against the nearby wall, eavesdropping. He already had earphones in, so it wouldn't look suspicious if a guy listening to 'music' came to the bus stop near them and stood there.

The earphones muffled the sounds, but he could just about make out the woman saying something about rations and her kids, and one of the men replying in the affirmative, complaining about 'shit weather,' ' shit looters,' and 'shit in general.' The conversation continued from there, as another guy mentioned the 'armored motherfuckers going around giving out supply packets,' and his friend affirmed, saying he'd 'seen them too.'

Gabriel turned around and lowered his earphones, placing them around his neck. "Huh? Sorry to interrupt, but I might… need some of that. Where can I find them?"

"–ah, but they're definitely not PRT-" The woman stopped speaking, turning around.

"The supply guys?" one of the men asked; an older guy, in his thirties, smoking a cigarette. The one who brought the topic up in the first place.

"Yeah, the armored dudes," Gabriel nodded, trying to fake a meek tone. He felt sort of bad - Hannah and he could afford food for the most part, and the PRT cafeteria was always stocked, but these people were starving.

"Uh, pretty sure they rolled up the van a few hours ago," he answered, tapping the cigarette to pop off a bud of ash to the ground, then looked behind Gabriel, "but, like, near the intersection at Lord's Street and Howard Street." He gestured in the general direction with the cigarette.

Gabriel smiled brightly. "T-thank you!" he exclaimed, hastily rushing off while putting his earphones back in. As soon as his back was turned, his smile dropped instantly.

"Hey, you shouldn't be listening to music around these parts, man!" the same guy yelled after him. "Looters are going around!"

"I can take care of myself!" Gabriel shouted back. And with that, he was out of sight, headed to the intersection.

On the way there, he'd passed by an insane hobo, a single hooker, and what looked to be three wanna-be Gopniks, squatting in dark tracksuits near a dark alleyway and drinking some shitty off-brand beer. He didn't stop for any of them.

The intersection itself looked pretty normal - Lord's Street was large, the most prominent street in Brockton Bay, really; it went across the length of the entire city and joined up with interstate highways outside of it, but Howard's Street itself looked more in tune with the rest of the area - four to eight-story buildings, mostly residential, with cracked glass and commonplace destruction. The street was tight and narrow, giving the impression the buildings towered over him.

There were maybe three to five pedestrians in sight, but everyone was mobile except two guys sharing a cigarette on a nearby bench. Gabriel sighed and approached the two gentlemen. If people in raggy, dirty clothing could be called 'gentlemen.' "Uh, excuse me?" he said, as he took the earbuds out of his ears.

"What's up?" one of them asked, the one to Gabriel's left.

"I've heard that some people were distributing supply packets," Gabriel inquired.

"And giving medical care," the guy to the right added, with an accent Gabriel would associate with a thug, but without any aggression, "What's it to ya? Do you need food? Water?"

"Yyyeah…" the boy replied, looking down briefly. "I'm thirsty. The water in my apartment comes out of the tap brown. That's not drinkable."

"No shit," the man replied, with a scoff.

"Oh yes, there is shit in that water," Gabriel said, giving him a pitiful smile.

The one on the left chuckled. "I like this kid."

"Alright," right guy stood up. Left guy sighed, quickly put out the cigarette, and stood up as well. "Come this way. Do you live around the area?"

Gabriel turned to follow them, but the question caught him off-guard. His mind skipped and panicked, as he realized he didn't really know the general vicinity in the slightest and needed some kind of story. On the outside, he stayed calm, "Uh, no. My house is ten blocks away from Leviathan's Crater."

"Ten blocks? Which street?" Rightie seemed to be getting suspicious.

"Lotus Street," Gabriel answered, with utmost confidence.

Leftie looked at Rightie, and Rightie looked at Leftie, and they shared a conversation through eyesight, before looking back at him. Leftie took on a, not quite angry appearance, but suspicious in a pointed way. His eyebrows were up, eyes squinting, his mouth set in a frown. "What's your game, man? What are you playing at?"

"What do you mean?" Gabriel asked, cocking his head to the side.

Leftie's frown curved down, deeper, and he took a step closer. "I asked you what your game is. Don't bullshit me," he answered, inserting some roughness into his tone.

Gabriel stayed silent for a moment, considering. Continue bullshitting him, admit outright what he wanted, or something in between? Subtle, but trying to get the message across? He decided to go for the last one: he looked up at Leftie and explained, "I'm looking for someone who might be involved with all this."

They looked at each other, awkwardly, then Leftie shook his head disbelievingly. "What?" he nearly laughed out. "Involved with what?"

"The clearly not-government-sanctioned distribution of supplies and medical care," Gabriel shot back as if it were obvious.

"I don't know what you're fucking going on about," Left guy said, shrugging, while Right guy began to smirk.

"Can we… talk about this in a better place?" Gabriel asked, holding his left forearm with his right hand to appear meeker.

Leftie was unconvinced. He opened his mouth to speak when Right guy shook his head and stepped back, saying, "Naaah, man. I think I'm going home."

"I guess I'll find Tattletale on my own, then," Gabriel shrugged, beginning to walk away nonchalantly.

The two of them looked at each other in a sort of 'the fuck did he just say' way, but they seemed content to let him walk away at that. Probably pegging him down as some kind of junkie.

Better this way. But I'm still at a dead-end.

Gabriel continued to walk down the street for some time, and then he put an earphone into his left ear. "Sebastian, do you have anything that might help me?"

"Rhetorics classes? Living on the street for a month? Learning subtlety? Many options to choose from, Master Gabriel," Sebastian answered, "Those two were most definitely 'in' on whatever activity is being ran in the area, but they picked up on your conspicuous behavior and decided you're not trustworthy."

He frowned. "So what now?"

Sebastian sounded exasperated and would've probably been clutching his forehead if he had one. "I don't quite know, Master Gabriel. That was possibly the best chance at whatever it is you're trying to achieve. Attempting to find Tattletale of the Undersiders - I presume? To question her?"

"Yeah." He stopped moving for a moment, and looked back over his shoulder at the two guys. They were moving away in the distance, going in the opposite direction, but if he used telekinesis to accelerate, he could catch up in seconds. "Going back to them and pulling a whack-a-Nazi won't work, right?"

Sebastian was moderately confused. "Define 'whack-a-Nazi,' sir? I do not believe those were fascists."

"Just a call back to something that happened a lot of time ago." Sebastian was still confused. Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Whack-a-thug: there."

"I still err to understand what you mean. As in, using physical violence to withdraw information from them?" Sebastian asked, the faintest impression of him lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes, precisely."

Sebastian couldn't blink, given his lack of the eyes, but the pregnant silence filled in that role. "That's rather brutish."

"Do you recommend anything else, then? I'm open to suggestions."

"Asking them to pass on a message would have been wise, but - although I do lack eyesight, mind - I believe they're probably escaping the general vicinity right now."

Gabriel sighed wearily. It was just twenty-two minutes past noon: usually, this is when people would be having lunch.

Gabriel roamed the city, hoping to find one of those vans that distributed food. This would be the best time to find one, as people ate at this time of day. During his trek, he spotted a group of at least fifteen people in gray hoodies, leather jackets, and wearing colorful bandanas, armed with melee weapons and firearms. They were marching down the street, hollering, screaming, singing, and throwing glass bottles around, laughing and generally making a ruckus. Looters.

He decided to follow them, remaining as hidden as possible, acting inconspicuous and sticking to walls and shadowy corners.

The group of looters walked south-west, inching closer to where the territory of The Pure overlapped with Tattletale's supposed turf. At two different points in time, they were joined by smaller groups of two and four people respectively, and Gabriel noticed at least one of them sporting a gun, tucked away into the back of his pants and partially concealed by an oversized dark blue hoodie. He realized, absently, that they were moving with something approaching purpose.

Gabriel kept following, head ducked down and hands in his pockets.

Finally, the looters seemed to reach their target: one of the smaller apartment buildings in the area, dilapidated and destroyed. They were talking, discussing something. He couldn't hear it from here, but it sounded roughly like a strategy, or their purpose here.

"Sebastian, call the police anonymously and inform them of this. Use an old lady voice, give every detail you can."

"This? Sir? I cannot see."

Gabriel winced internally at the reminder, then began to describe, "A group of at least twenty looters is going to raid a building inside of the Pure's territory. An old dilapidated place in the middle of the street. They have guns and improvised melee weapons, and some of them might be drunk."

"Ah. Very well, sir. I'll forward this information. Judging by the state of the local streets and the frequency of patrols in the area, I'd expect a response in three to six minutes from when I make the call. Shall I make it now?"

"...Do it in one minute from now," Gabriel said, breaking into a run. If he could get to the building from behind, he might be able to get a drop on the looters from inside. He went around the block.

The building in question was surrounded on two sides by other buildings, but there was a sort of one-way lane behind it, with backyards - or perhaps front yards depending on how philosophical you wanted to get - adjacent to the buildings there. The back door was open, and there was a group of at least three men near the entrance, talking about something in excited, hushed voices. The back yard was surrounded by a shoulder-height chainlink fence and was trashy: the grass had died from an excess of moisture, and there was a bunch of trash lying around.

He hopped over the fence, then walked towards the door. The three men reacted instantly, turning towards him with glares and scowls. "Hey, what the fuck?" one of them shouted.

"I forgot my keys. I'm going back home, man," Gabriel replied, trying to sound apologetic.

"Get the fuck out of here. No one lives here," the guy in the middle spat caustically. He was buff, with rigid muscles; over six feet tall, he looked athletic. He'd have been intimidating, if Gabriel didn't have superpowers. As it was currently? Merely a fly to step on in the path inside.

Gabriel smiled. "Do you?"

He looked incredulous, and incredibly angry at the same time, "What's it matter to you, you fucking loser? Get the fuck out of here!"

Gabriel didn't drop his smile. "If no one lives here, that means you're either here to loot, or to sleep here because you have nowhere else to go."

The guy on the right slipped halfway into a, 'does this guy want to die, or is he just mentally ill?' He looked at Gabriel, and said - more calmly than his friends, "Look, dude. I don't know what you're sellin', but we don't buy that shit. Just go the fuck away. We're crashing in this crib, it's ours. Got it?"

"Uh, didn't you say no one lived here?" he argued, raising both eyebrows. "If you're crashing in this crib, that means you live here. I smell bullshiiit!" Gabriel sang, smugly.

"Look, stop arguing fucking semantics with us and mosey. The fuck. Along." Middle guy began to slowly step forward, gesticulating as he spoke. "I am having a really good day today, and I don't want some asshole like you ruining it. Let's go for a compromise - you fuck off and leave us alone, huh? And I don't break your bones in exchange."

Gabriel sighed, pouting at him. "Oh, poor me. I guess my bones will be broken, then."

"He's fucking insane," guy on the left said, shaking his head sadly, "Just call an ambulance or whatever. There are non-emergency lines for–"

At that moment, there was a blast of heat, and something in the building exploded, streaks of fire turning the sky above brighter for a moment. The three men recoiled, exclaiming in surprise before each pulled out guns and turned inwards. Sounds of gunshots and screams rang through the building, and the middle guy cursed, before moving in. The others followed after.

Gabriel rushed back into the dark alleyway, jumping over the fence. Outside, he could see one of the looters lift a Molotov cocktail, flip open his lighter, and ignite the rag, before hopping back once, twice, and then taking a swing and throwing it into a first-story window. "Give us our fucking shit back, you motherfuckers!"

Gabriel shouted, "What the fuck is going on?!"

Two of the looters turned to look at him because of that - the one closer to him was grinning at the carnage, while the one further away was pissed as fuck. The one further away lowered his baseball bat and pulled out a gun, aiming it sideways, "Go the fuck back, bitch! Go the fuck back where you came from! Motherfucker!"

"Inside the burning building? No thanks!" Gabriel argued, not feeling his danger sense flare and therefore not seeing any reason to snap the man's arm off.

"I don't fucking give a shit! Get the fuck out of here, bitch!" The man used his thumb to pull the safety off, then jabbed the gun threateningly in Gabriel's direction.

Gabriel walked back slowly, not really feeling threatened, even though if the man pulled the trigger, his organs would be splattered across the pavement. He'd feel it coming before he took the shot, but dodging bullets at this range was a pipe dream. Which - again - didn't matter, since his healing power would let him survive a gunshot. Two gunshots? Probably, yeah. Three? Four? That's where things got vague, but he'd get up his environmental shield, construct armor, and absolutely fuck them by that time.

"Sebastian, inform the nearest PRT patrol," Gabriel whispered, walking away from the area.

"The PRT does not intervene in non-parahuman crime, but given the severity of this situation, I believe the nearest hero patrol has been dispatched anyway."

"Good. I'll make my way back to the Wards HQ," he said.

As he walked back, parallel to the chainlink fence, he noticed a man dashing out of the back door, coughing and whimpering, holding a silver briefcase of some kind. He quickly and clumsily climbed over the fence and jumped onto the pavement, rolling onto his stomach, getting up, and running. He saw Gabriel, blinked, and then whirled around and bolted in the opposite direction.

Gabriel went after him, sprinting. "Hey, I can help!" he shouted.

"What the fuck do you want, man?" the man shouted back, terrified, "Leave me the fuck aloooone!" The latter sentence was a screech.

Gabriel stopped, narrowing his eyes. "Track him, Sebastian."

The man continued to run, clearly out of breath, and whimpering, but moving.

"He does not have any electronic devices on him that I can connect to. If he has a phone, he must've left it inside," Sebastian answered quaintly. The sounds of violence and gunfire in the background intensified for a moment, and Gabriel heard another crash of glass-against-wall, followed by oxygen igniting rapidly. And a bloodcurdling scream.

Gabriel mentally said 'fuck it,' beginning to chase after the guy with the briefcase again. The man noticed him running, and yelped, "What the fuck do you want? Leave me alone, you fucking weirdo!"

The teenager leaped and tackled him to the ground. The briefcase skidded across the pavement, and the man started to scream. He kicked Gabriel in the chest, using the force to push himself back and towards the object. He stumbled three steps forward, barely managing to pick it up.

Gabriel stopped himself from stumbling with a telekinetic counter-push, then dashed again at the man. The moment he caught up, he tried to kick him in the ankles, or legs, but the way kicks worked - or, really, the way fighting worked - the man was out of reach by the time that Gabriel had finished the movement. He must have felt the movement of the air, though, given his subsequent scream, and yell of, "I have a gun, fucker! Leave me the fuck alone!" as he sped up his running.

Gabriel dashed at the motherfucker, blasting himself forward with telekinesis, and tackled the guy once more. This time, though, he held the man's wrists pinned to the ground, and used his lower body to keep the man in place. It was a rather coital position, but neither of them commented, given the tense nature of the situation.

Gabriel headbutted the guy hard enough to knock him unconscious and give him an instant concussion. He filled the guy's brain with ambrosia to make sure he wouldn't have retrograde amnesia or something, then grabbed the suitcase, and started running, only to stumble upon a group of four more looters, armed with guns and Molotovs.

"There!" one of them yelled, then raised his gun. Gabriel's danger sense fuzzed in his head just enough to let him duck, but the danger sense flared again with a sense of despair and kept flaring, as the gunshots went off one after another.

Waves of golden energy rippled from Gabriel's chest, spreading around and solidifying into plates around his limbs, his torso, and covering his head in a helmet. The rounds plinked off of his chestplate, feeling like someone repeatedly hit him with a baseball bat. It made him stumble back a few steps but otherwise didn't do too much.

"Cape!"

With that, the thugs intensified their fire, and Centurion felt the danger sense warn him again, with less immediacy - the gunshots wouldn't hurt him meaningfully, but they'd leave bruises if he got hit at this range. It'd still take at least a full minute of repeatedly shooting him for Gabriel to be disabled.

Either way, he took control of his body and forced adrenaline to go through his veins. It energized him, with a sensation like liquid napalm in his arms, legs, and heart.

Before he could quite get a grasp on himself, one of the looters threw a lit Molotov. Centurion's reaction was instantaneous, as he raised his hand and extended an umbrella of his telekinetic field in front of himself. The projectile stopped, floating a meter away from his palm. It must have looked fucking badass, because the thugs were completely stunned and stopped firing.

He made a telegraphed 'swinging' movement, to warn them of the impending fiery death, and the thugs reacted in half a second, scattering and leaping sideways as Centurion threw the Molotov at the nape of the alleyway to cut them off. He went off to the side, accelerating with telekinesis, but skidded to a halt, as he heard another entire spectrum of gunfire join into the fight behind him. Rifles.

More precisely - laser rifles. He recognized them.

Centurion charged himself with telekinetic force and bounded into the sky, stopped to orient himself, and then flew away at top speed towards the Wards HQ.

As he looked down, he noticed mercenaries using their laser rifles to put down the looters using what appeared to be non-lethal methods, then cuffing them up whenever plausible. They were far better trained - using cover, suppressive fire, and similar things to get an upper hand.

Wow.

In that moment, Tattletale stepped out of one of the vans, looking around the area. The way that Centurion was angled, she wouldn't notice him unless she looked directly upwards and a little to the right and behind herself, so the risk of being spotted was actually higher if he went far away. Not that she or the mercenaries would be able to shoot him by then.

"Sebastian, put a tracker on Tattletale's phone, if she has it on her."

"Tattletale is in the area? Oh my. Yes, it appears she does, but it seems to be a burner," Sebastian said, rather miffed.

"Send her a message. 'An old friend wants to catch up, look up but don't say anything. Call me back when you're alone and done, -C.'"

The AI seemed a tad surprised. "Right now?"

"Yes."

Sebastian didn't question it. "The message has been delivered, Master Gabriel."

Looking down, Centurion saw that Tattletale was busy directing the mercenaries. Half of them appeared to be combing the area, looking through the building and pulling people out of it, while the other half was handcuffing and questioning them, and putting them in one spot. Everyone was hasty, given the approaching sirens in the distance.

"Riiiight. I guess she'll see it later," he said, zipping away at top-speed and stopping only seconds later, due to the bright light in front of him.

"What's happening here?" Purity asked. She was very bright; it was kind of like staring into a fluorescent lightbulb: doing it for too long and too directly left spots in his vision.

"Hey, look, this is probably a gang war. Looters attacked some building, and some mercenaries with laser rifles came to stop them. I was just passing by," Centurion said, remembering Purity's ratings. He doubted he could take her in a straight fight, and the tone of her voice made him feel naturally intimidated - like he had to explain himself to an angry teacher.

"Coil's men," she spat.

He perked up. "Do you hate him just as much as me?"

She seemed slightly surprised by the question. "Are you… also?..." she trailed off.

"Also what?" Centurion inquired, cocking his head to the side.

"I just didn't take you for one of us," she clarified, primly. Seeing he was confused, she then added, "Coil is black or so I'm told."

He shook his head in mild disbelief, unable to keep his face straight and smiling. The helmet prevented her from noticing. "I don't hate him for being black. I don't care if he's black," he scoffed.

"This conversation is descending into stupidity," Purity said, rather annoyed, then continued more conversationally: "I'd rather not aggravate the PRT any more than I have to, so I'm not going to do anything to you if you're not going to do anything to me. We'll go our separate ways, now, and leave it at that."

Ah, this was probably the moment to make the alliance pitch. He didn't really care if Piggot wanted to maintain PR - keeping the city safe was more important, so he began diplomatically, "The enemies of your enemies are your friends. The Slaughterhouse Nine are in town, Purity, and we need to do something. The PRT alone won't be able to get them to… piss off."

"I've noticed," she answered, nodding once. He barely saw her do it, given the brightness of her figure.

She didn't continue, so a little inelegantly, he proposed, "Temporary truce to deal with the Nine, then we deal with Coil?"

Purity's head cocked to the side, and she folded her arms in front of herself. "Are you making this deal on behalf of the PRT? The last time I proposed something like this, I was ignored and left with no reply," she answered, taking on a near-hostile hue at the end there. He cringed.

"Oh, no. Not on behalf of the PRT. But I could pitch the idea."

"Then, if you're willing to be the messenger, you can tell your boss, or leader, or whoever is your direct superior, that if I see any of the Nine, I will do my utmost to kill them on the spot. I'm willing to endorse the 'temporary truce,' as you said, but I have no interest in dealing with Coil right now, and possibly not in the near future."

"Put every cape you have on hunting the Nine, if you may," Gabriel suggested.

"I'm not going to risk my subordinates," she said. "I'll do what I can, but I can't make promises. All I can tell you is that if I see a member of the Nine, I will most likely fight them if they're secluded. If not, I might blast them and retreat to somewhere more advantageous, and I'll inform the PRT instead."

Gabriel nodded. "That's fine. Thank you," he said.

"Have a good day," she said, beginning to move aside, then stopping as her gaze went down to his hand. With a note of curiosity, she asked, "What's in the briefcase, by the way?"

"Important documents I need to deliver. I was doing that when the building exploded, and I was caught in the cross-fire," he said, cocking his head.

Several seconds later, a red figure flew up to them, and Centurion instantly recognized him as Aegis. He looked at Centurion, then at Purity, then at Centurion again, and stared. "Um."

"Oh, hey Aegis. Long story short, I was walking by, and I was caught in the cross-fire of this raid. I'm going to the Wards HQ right now. Also, the Pure are now going to endorse in a temporary truce and will do anything they can to kill the Nine if they ever see them. Now, I really gotta go, it's dangerous here for me with Coil's men around." With that, Centurion zipped off with a hum of subsonic movement, leaving Aegis and Purity on their own, floating near one other. Awkwardly.

Spoiler: Definitely Not for Gabriel

Last edited: Nov 20, 2019

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Birdsie

Nov 20, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 21, 2019

#3,265

The old warehouse. It was here that Centurion first woke up in this utter shitsack of a world, with superpowers.

He landed on the rooftop and used the hatch at one of the building's corners. It led to a ladder down to the second floor; he ignored the ladder and plopped down, his construct armor fading as he landed.

The interior was relatively undamaged by Leviathan's attack - the roof wasn't even leaking, or anything. The walls looked untouched, in a pristine condition, as did the doors and furniture. The supercomputer wasn't there anymore, ever since Armsmaster moved it, though it seemed that the PRT left the building in relatively the same state it was in.

He walked down to the first floor, and laid the briefcase down on the table in front of the couch, peering at it. It was heavy and metallic, with a silver-metal appearance, but looked otherwise ordinary. He couldn't explain the urge to take the item from the looter - it just didn't look like it belonged to the man, but clearly whatever was inside must have been worth stealing if he'd bolt away like that.

Gabriel breathed in, then reached towards it like someone reaching towards a lit bonfire. He undid the two heavy clasps and then slid it up.

Inside, were six silver tubes, just a centimeter longer than a pen, and as wide as a thumb. Next to them was a single syringe, for medical use. There was also a stack of documents, detailing a contract made between six clients and an organization called 'Cauldron.'

There was a lot of claptrap about medical and psychological screenings, their results, and warning of Deviation scenarios, especially for client four who fucked up the screenings with the lowest scores of all of them. Oof. There were mentions of Subject/Deviation and a Nemesis Program contained in two addenda to the document, but the pages for those were missing. At the end of the document stack, there were threats of repossession if the reader of the document didn't dispose of the documents, or if they talked to anyone about the agreement.

On top of that, some financial records of the contract. Several million dollars transferred through bank accounts to several other accounts, all of them overlooked by someone called, 'TNM.' As well as three favors, to be provided to Cauldron at a time of the organization's choosing - favors that would be entirely legal in nature and not expose the clients to undue risk.

The instructional material, on another hand, contained a short, handy description of how the recipient was supposed to take in the vials. There was a primary Method (A) - Oral Delivery, where the client drinks the formula, and a Method (B) - Injection Delivery, used for 'booster shots' and it involved the medical, non-disposable syringe contained in the briefcase.

The vials were:

1. 90%: #U0101 "Grant", 10% #C0072 "Balance"

2. 50% #T0101 "Unary", 50% #H0101 "Autoclave"

3. 100% #K0303 "Bulletproof"

4. 80% #V0505 "Pyrachnid", 20% #C0072 "Balance"

5. 100% #R0936 "Jaunt"

6. 100% #B0662 "Adonis"

Should he even experiment with this shit?

Why the fuck not. I have a healing power, if anything goes sideways.

Centurion grabbed the sixth one, labeled 'Adonis.' There was a liquid inside: he could tell from the weight, and the way it splashed against the insides of the container. He uncapped the silvery tube and took out the glass vial inside, observing the liquid intently, with curiosity.

It was a viscous, opaque dark purple fluid, with tiny, barely visible snowflakes of gold floating within it lazily, disappearing when looked at from the right angle, or shining brightly when placed under a light. They didn't move too much even when he lightly rattled the vial, but they did bob up and down on their own.

He made sure the vial was secure, and that it wasn't broken. When he was certain the vial was intact and not compromised, he sat down on the nearest chair, removed the rubber cap and took a deep breath. "It's now or never," he said to himself. He moved it up to his lips and moved his head back, chugging the whole thing in one big gulp.

It's not that the substance tasted vile, but rather, the formula was vileness embodiment. He felt his tongue transmute into a burning slug, whipping his entire throat with hellfire. It spread across his mouth, burning hotter than any spice, like someone hosed the inside with a liberal dose of napalm, and then decided to also spray it with caustic chemicals for an added bonus.

He lost control of his throat, of his body, as the substance went down into his esophagus, dropping down his neck. He screamed and bent backward, hitting his head on the couch. It didn't matter, because the pain of the concoction in his body was worse a hundred times. The mixture was death. It was the end.

He felt it make its way down to the bottom of his neck with torturous sluggishness, and then it spread, going into his shoulders and his arms, and his lungs and heart and stomach, as if it had a mind of its own and decided to consume his entire being, but slowly; torturing him as it did so. He didn't feel a liquid inside his body, as much as he felt clumps of solid pain writhing beneath his skin, exploring his muscles, moving through his flesh, and making him thrash, scream and shriek.

And moments later, the dam broke. His eyes widened, and he saw the reflection of the universe in his perception.

Something radiant and celestial was in the sky above him, watching, observing. A baby, and also a god. A virus, and also a savior. There was a melody among the crystals, as the universe sang to him. The massive thing extended a part of itself, a fragment from billions upon billions of pieces: an atom of its grandiosity, and in that moment, reality snapped back, and Gabriel breathed in, chest heaving as he sat up in a panic.

The memory of the thing was in his mind, but it was leaving, fleeting. He was terribly aware he wouldn't remember it in seconds, maybe minutes.

Centurion wanted to get up and write down the vision on paper, but his joints were too sore; he could barely raise his arm, let alone walk.

He saw a baby god in the sky, a beautiful creature of diamond and stardust, but couldn't… couldn't… what? What did he see? It was beautiful, most definitely. A tesseract beyond human comprehension. What did he see?! Centurion suddenly stopped. Why was he so sweaty? Why was he so panicked? Right. He took the vial, but what happened then? He collapsed, lost consciousness. Or… yeah, he lost consciousness and had a weird dream.

He closed his eyes and opened himself up to his power.

The fountain writhed, clumps of darkness emerging like a train, before they shifted into a natural blue color. Little charges, smaller than the ones he usually utilized. Some of them began to orbit each other in groups of two or three, before combining into normal ones. Several were left the way they were. In seconds, they began to gather together into a swarm.

He felt out, and counted them in a second: eighty-nine charges attuned to… some kind of mental effect he couldn't recognize. The moment he decided to throw a charge of his own at them, they'd 'trigger' and connect to each other to form a power. He knew this instinctively and decided not to question it.

Centurion had a single charge, but he didn't hesitate in the slightest.

The mother-charge extended filaments throughout the network of the lesser ones, and within moments, a ninety-charge power had formed: some kind of Master/Shaker effect, which induced a state of marginal consciousness in people nearby. It was strong enough that, if he focused it on a single person at a time, they'd struggle to step forward or speak.

He felt ecstatic. He finally found what he was looking for: power, but quicker. Not easier, mind you. The agony was almost unbearable. But it was quicker.

He waited a few minutes to let the soreness and pain go away, and after that, he took the Pyrachnid vial and followed the procedure for a booster shot. He used a construct rag for a tourniquet on his exposed arm, then took the syringe and filled it out with the Pyrachnid sample. Its color and consistency were different from the Adonis - it was a bright orange-red liquid, almost transparent, and seemed to distort light when looked through.

He carefully jabbed the syringe into his wrist and quickly pressed the plunger with his thumb. He felt the burning sensation of the formula moving down his veins, a centimeter at a crawl, then suddenly rushing all the way to his elbow, stopping, and then crawling up for a moment, before plunging into his shoulder, then spilling into the rest of his body. He began to feel ticklish, then overwhelmed by a sensation of billions of drops of acid exploding inside his body in something like a minor nuclear reaction.

Something broke, in his skull, in his brain. Something inside of his head exploded and filled his thoughts with force and smoke, fire and heat, lightning and plasma. Within moments, his eyes rolled up.

He saw flashes of memories. Recollections of something. A strange creature looking up at him from the ground, dark-skinned, covered in carapace. And then, suddenly, the image panned up to the starry sky, which stopped being starry when something massive covered it up. Bigger than human words could describe. It was a cube, but it was also a wheel, but also a tendril of power, but also a swarm of insects, and deep down, it was him. It wheeled around, and suddenly, its eyes locked onto him, before it dashed and went past him, trailing crystal dust behind itself. One of the motes of dust, suspended in the eternal darkness of the cosmos, reached out and began to move towards him, faster and faster, accelerating, until it hit him in the brain and blew it out of the back of his skull.

Centurion's eyes opened, and this time, he forgot what he saw almost instantly. In seconds, the vaguest recollection of being shot in the head had dissipated into the emotion of unpleasantness, and nothing else.

In that very moment, he noticed his fountain mass-producing charges, six to seven each second, then gradually slowing down, until it capped out at one-hundred and fifty-three charges; almost the strength of his environmental shield.

The charges were attuned to… something, that he couldn't quite make out. The vague instinct, the ability to feel what his powers were, told him the charges were attuned towards… fire, but utilized for less destructive means. Fire, but with novelty applications.

The Pyrachnid charges began to gather together into groups, then sticking to each other, clusters coming together to form a single, united, collective thing: not homogenous, but so close it might as well have been. They'd need something to activate them, to give them a filament for passing along whatever made his powers work.

More.

Centurion felt ecstatic like he'd experienced the best thing in life. His mouth contorted, making him smile like a buffoon. He was so happy. And not because of the powers themselves, but for a deeply-rooted belief that this would lead him to being able to help more people. Those last four vials would be enough. The power he had wished to attain was now in his grasp, and it'd take only four more fits of agonizing pain, and five normal charges to activate them.

He picked up the Bulletproof vial and downed it all in one gulp. He wasn't used to the pain, but he knew what to expect. He could better prepare. Psychologically, at least. The gates of hell opened in his mouth, spreading fiery slime into his body, mind, and soul, moving across his body. He went blank for several seconds, the debilitating pain rolling across his body in waves, but he was right: it was a little more bearable, and he could bear to distract himself from it. It was also over faster, almost twice as fast as when he drank the first vial.

Eighty-eight charges filled out his mind, clumping together like their Pyrachnid brethren. He felt something reality-bending, applied to his own body: a Breaker state of some kind? Inactive, of course. He'd need a charge for that, but it was there.

He stopped for a moment, feeling his stomach gurgle, and feeling a massive headache. His fountain flashed red once, then the pain stopped, leaving him with a sense of overwhelming soreness across his entire body. He felt dizzy, absent: in the same way that he was when a Tinker fugue took him over, but without a goal in mind to work towards.

I will need more time to deal with this. I'll take the rest of the vials, go to sleep, then resume tomorrow.

His mindscape flared all at once, as he thought that. It was a color he'd seen before: orange, then purple, but instead of flaring suddenly, it sort of began as a wave of orange, and ended in a discharge of the latter, and a brief spark of red. Bewilderment. Disagreement. He needed to rest, to calm down and take this all in. He should've taken the vials sparingly, where he instead pumped himself full of them in one sitting.

I need to rest.

Centurion picked up his phone and… and… he wanted to call someone, of course. His phone was meant for calls. A person in a red costume. He remembered the guy - a boy, roughly his age, with… with a Brute power. Organic redundancy, low biokinesis, low regeneration, flight. He remembered the details of the boy's power: how if the spine broke, the muscles would go rigid to maintain it, how he could enter at-will adrenaline rushes to lift cars, or how he could see through his skin if his eyesight was damaged, but… he struggled…

His thoughts and vision became a tunnel, and narrowed to a pinprick, as he tried to recall. The name of the boy, whose power was the systems of biological redundancy.

...Aegis?

Right, Aegis.

Fuck, Gabriel felt tired. So fucking tired. He breathed out, and it came out as almost a moan.

He brought up his list of contacts and called Aegis. The boy in the red costume, with the organic redundancy power, and the… captain of the Brockton Bay Wards. His friend and sort of his boss.

Aegis picked up in six seconds. "Hello? Centurion?" The voice felt vaguely familiar, and it brought back memories. It took Centurion almost five seconds to even begin recalling said memories, realizing who he was talking to. Their relationship, some of their few shared patrols, and conversations. He smiled warmly, knowing the boy was a friend.

"Hey, I won't come into work today. I haven't been getting much sleep, and I'm really exhausted. I'll just get some rest," Centurion spoke, sighing heavily. He felt his right eye close itself involuntarily, as he said 'rest,' seemingly trying to comply, but he forced it to stay open.

"Uhm… Okay. Yeah, you should probably do that. Today was pretty crazy," Aegis replied.

It was? Centurion struggled to remember. He recalled a blonde girl in a dark-lavender costume directing men in armor, and… a bright light. He remembered carrying a briefcase, and such was in front of him, so clearly he must have brought it here earlier. Right. Of course - the course of events more or less returned to his mind, with a minor spike of pain, reminding him of today's events.

The boy discharged a small amount of the Ambrosia Enzyme within himself, to alleviate his pain, but the power didn't react or help in the slightest. He groaned in frustration and put everything back in the suitcase - the empty vials, the syringe, the documents. As he moved, he forgot he was holding his phone and dropped it onto the floor in the process, as it slipped out of his hand. The crash of phone-to-floor reminded him of its existence, but also irritated him. He clicked his tongue and smashed the fucking suitcase shut, then heard Aegis' surprised, but distant voice.

Centurion looked down at the floor, and stared gormlessly for an entirety of six seconds, before remembering that he was in the middle of a conversation prior to his decision to clean up.

"Sorry about that," Centurion said after he had sluggishly picked up the phone. "I dozed off and it fell."

"Oh, yeah. You rest up, buddy. By the way, where… are you, exactly?" Aegis asked. "Weaver is asking. She's worried."

Who the fuck is Weaver? And why would he be asking?

Ten seconds to connect the dots. Bug girl Ward. Power is… power is telepathic control of all living organisms below a certain level of complexity, as well as vastly enhanced multi-tasking ability, and sensory feedback from the controlled organisms. Why did the powers seem so important? He didn't remember Weaver, but the power was fresh in his mind.

"Look, I'm heading home. I'll be with you tomorrow morning. I'm fine, though. Really. Just tired as fuck."

There was a pause in the conversation; Gabriel didn't understand why at first, but then realized it was an uncomfortable silence. Or a thoughtful silence. Either one of those. "Okay. Sleep well, man, and… stop Tinkering at night so much," Aegis insisted, sounding... sounding...

There was an inflection of some kind of emotion in his voice, but Centurion struggled to recognize the type of emotion.

"Yeah, I… will…?" Centurion finished speaking, but Aegis had already hung up by then.

The moment the conversation ended, his brain practically reoriented itself towards stray thinking, no longer occupied by the strenuous task of social interaction. Gabriel involuntarily sighed out in relief and weariness, beginning to think. His thoughts were so simple, right now. So simple, moving in a straight line, without deviation or creativity. He knew this was abnormal for him, and it was rather unsettling, but he couldn't really come up with a way to fix it. Like all creativity or abstract thought had been drained from him. And in much the same manner, primal urges took over:

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

In moments, his eyes closed and he dozed off right where he stood, collapsing on the couch.

When he woke up, he wasn't in the warehouse anymore. Everything felt groggy, but not to the extent that drinking the vials put him in.

What the fuck? Where am I?! he thought, beginning to whistle. It came out wrong and didn't bring the feedback he was used to. He felt bile rise in his throat, coming all the way to the bottom of the tongue, before he forced it back down and washed it by swallowing twice, thrice, and breathing in.

The air was musky, and kind of humid, like a basement or an attic. He moved his hands and legs and heard chains jingling.

Centurion pulled against the chains with all his brute strength, aiding himself with his tactile telekinesis, trying... to... rip... He breathed out, ceasing. Nothing. No reaction from his power, and although he seemed to have retained his strength, it wasn't enough against actual steel chains.

He closed his eyes, to check the powerscape.

He felt his heartbeat pick up, and himself flinch, when the mindscape didn't appear. As if it stopped existing.

Gabriel's breathing picked up. He was panicking.

What the fuck? No, no, no, no, NO!

He was in a basement, somewhere. Chained to the wall, by his ankles and wrists, hanging loosely. It was dark and quiet, and he didn't know what time it was. He couldn't see much of anything, but now that his eyes adjusted, he could make out shapes of furniture. What looked like a pool table in the far corner, a single old wooden chair, some crates, and some kind of metal-made art project sitting near the far wall. Nothing resembling a key.

"Where the fuck am I?!" Centurion shouted out.

There was a sound of reaction from upstairs, and he heard wooden boards squeaking in reaction. He craned his hearing and made out speech between two females.

"I asked a question!" Centurion shouted again, this time more frustrated. "For fuck's sake, get me the fuck out of these chains!" he exclaimed and before he knew it, he started swearing in Italian. The true sign of fear and panic: when someone returns to their native language.

In moments, the door opened up, flooding the basement in light. It was so bright that Centurion was forced to look away, the rays of white blinding him on contact.

"Hmph!" someone exclaimed, cutesy but clearly irked, then pressed the lightswitch on, flooding the damned basement with more light. "So rude! You shouldn't swear like that!"

"S… Signal?" Centurion asked disbelievingly, looking up at the source of the sound.

"Who's Signal?" the little girl in front of him asked, tilting her head. She was about twelve, wearing a blue frock. Her hair was styled into stiff, yellow ringlets. She held both hands behind her back, and wore a surgical gown, covered in blood, with a multitude of tools at the front. Moreover, she was pouting at him angrily - still miffed about the swear-oh.

"...Bonesaw," Centurion said, his jaw dropping. He went pale as he realized who she was. "What did you do to me?" he asked hastily.

"Ah, you've already noticed?" Bonesaw asked, perking up and smiling.

She moved up to him, and then he felt her body sink into his own in the world's most uncomfortable hug. He couldn't reciprocate, even if he wanted to (and he didn't), because his hands were forced above his head by the chains. "What a smart boy! Mmm!" she cooed, then stepped away, smiling up at him. "I injected you with a bit of my special stuff! Prions that disable the corona gemma! You're not using your powers, no, siree!" She nodded with a big grin.

"What do I need to do to have you fix me?!" Centurion blurted out, panicky.

Her smile dropped at that, and she looked up at the ceiling, index finger tapping against the side of her mouth thoughtfully. "Hmmmmmmm… Oh!" She jumped up, raising a finger perfunctorily. "You could start with an autograph! And then we'll experiment together, and become best friends! We can watch movies, and sing songs! It'll be fun!"

He gulped, breathed in through his nose to pace his heartbeat, and answered, "As long as you don't experiment on me, it's fine." Gods, he pitied whatever poor motherfucker she would experiment on, but as much as Centurion tried to embrace heroic ideals, he'd prioritize his own survival in this one case. It was preferable to becoming an art installation, like the murder scene the Wards had visited before.

"Oh, I already did that," she said, waving her head dismissively, then smiling up at him, "Did you know your musculature is out of this world?! And the skeleton is too! That kind of metabolic rate is impossible in a mammal, and I've managed to kind of sorta copy it for myself! On top of my other stuff!"

Centurion's eyes widened in a slow realization of her motives: it was always about motives, when talking to people. He'd learned that over time, through trial and error, and his thoughts took him to an uncomfortable place: Does she have a crush on me? I could take advantage of this. Let's just… taste the terrain.

She frowned at him, in that moment, almost regretful, as she leaned down, "You really put me in a hard spot, you know? You could've at least accepted Shatterbird's offer! I always wanted an older brother or an older sister, but Panacea kind of took precedence, as a fellow medically-inclined cape. Sorrrry!" She gave him an apologetic smile, shuffling her feet.

He couldn't even really help it, at this point. His eyebrows went up in half-offended wonderment. "You expect me to join you? Why would I?" Centurion asked, disbelieving.

Her head tilted, and she blinked at him, confused. "'Cause then you wouldn't be in this situation?"

"Makes sense," he responded, blankly.

"Yeah, it does!" She took out a remote from her surgical gown and pressed a button on it. In that moment, the art project in the corner of the room hopped up and expanded into a mechanical spider, with syringes and scalpels attached to its limbs. It moved up onto the wall, then the ceiling, and stopped just above Centurion's head.

"So, if I give you an autograph and experiment with you, you'll… let me go?" he said, gazing at the spider with a controlled expression: moderate anxiety showed, but in reality, his heart felt like it was about to bust out of his chest.

"Let you go!? Nuh-uh! I wanna show you so much stuff first! And have fun together! See, Jack really, reaaally doesn't like us messing about with candidates, but you already blew that, so you were pretty much up for grabs! So I kind of bribed Jack, and then I bribed Cherish, and she told me where to find you, and I injected you with drugs while you were on drugs! Sorry, not sorry - by the way, what were those vials? Really fun to look at."

"Tinker-made vials to increase my own powers. Use them, and you'll die," he responded, dead-serious.

"Oooh!" Bonesaw nodded excitedly, smiling, "But it's the same stuff Shatterbird drank!"

"...wait, what?!"

"Yeah, she likes to brag about it," Bonesaw answered smugly, rolling her eyes. There were sounds of creaking floorboards from above, and Bonesaw frowned at the ceiling.

Centurion started thinking. Thinking, and thinking. What if I were to join them now? Investigate from the inside, then run away when the chance presented itself.

"Say, you like music, right?" Bonesaw asked, skipping up to him and leaning forward, torso almost parallel to the ground. "Do you? Do you?!" she queried, beaming at him.

"Yes, I do," he responded, sighing heavily.

"Awesome beans! Shatterbird is giving a concert tonight!" Bonesaw exclaimed, before walking over and opening up one of the crates in the corner of the room. She pried the nails out, with her tiny, twelve-year-old arms that were no doubt filled to the brim with augmentations and reinforcements no child should have. She leaned and tipped herself into the box, to the point where only her back and legs were visible, as she started to rummage through.

While that happened, he came to a conclusion. He was scared, eager for a way out. He couldn't think of anything better, except...

"I'll join you if you give me my powers back," he said, letting out a shaky sigh. The part he left out was that he'd join them, then murder each and every single one in their fucking sleep.

Bonesaw rose head-first out of the box, a bright green plastic container adorning her head like a helmet, and tilted her neck all the way parallel to the ground. "Really?" she asked, more curious than excited.

"Yes, really," he answered with a smile. A forced smile, that still managed to look genuine. One benefit of the body, besides peak-human condition, was being hot.

"Really, really?!" she asked excitedly, hopping up to her feet. Her hands came together in front of her chest, and it looked like she had stars in her eyes.

"Really."

"I'll ask Jack about it!" she proposed, then moved back into the box. Moments later, a bloodied knife flew out and clattered to the ground, a second later the same happened to a half-empty bag of old dog food labeled 'Crawler' and with bits of bloody gunk mixed within, and half a second later, Bonesaw came out of the box with a pristine, white backpack, moving it over to the pool table and opening it.

"What's that?" he inquired, gesturing at the backpack with his head.

"This?" Bonesaw asked, pointing at the backpack. Her head rotated to face him, almost owlishly, but not to the extent of demon-possessed girls in old movies where their heads cranked around their axis several times in a row.

"Yeah, that," he said, shuddering.

"Mannequin made it for us!" she said, turning to face him. She raised a finger as she explained. "See, Shatterbird's power has a quirk to it. Whenever she sings, the song cascades and spreads to more glass! So if she uses it at full power, she can make all glass in a city break all at once! Not only does it probably kill a bunch of people, but it also smashes electronics and other glass objects! That's why we put important stuff made from glass into this." She pointed at the backpack again, proudly.

She's… info-dumping? I'll try something.

"Hey, Bonesaw. Can I ask you a question?" Centurion asked.

"Of course!" she answered, smiling as she skipped up to him again.

"Will you tell me a secret, if I tell you one?" he asked with a fox-like grin, almost whispering his sentence.

She gasped, hands covering her mouth. "I love secrets!" She jumped up excitedly, beaming at him like a child who had been given a large dose of caffeine.

"I'll go first," he said, nodding to himself. "The first thing I did when coming to this city was beat up three Empire members to near-death. And it felt good."

"I wonder if that's your passenger at work," she answered, in a pondering tone, dropping her excitement.

"...Passenger?"

She gasped. "You don't know about passengers?! Everyone knows about passengers!" she exclaimed, utterly horrified.

"If everyone knew, that would make me part of 'everyone,' thus, I'd know as well!" he defended himself.

Bonesaw smirked at that, almost like Tattletale, but not quite pulling off the vulpine element. She put one finger to the temple of her head, "Ah, see, there's a trick to it, mister! Everyone forgets!"

Centurion briefly remembered the things he'd vaguely experienced after he drank the vials.

"I'm a bio-Tinker, you know?" she said, stepping up, sounding like she was about to monologue. Stupid child was about to infodump him, and he wasn't about to complain. "It means I work with bodies, with organs, and stuff like that. And that means I work with brains. You see - every brain has this little tumor thingy in it, that scientists call a corona pollentia and corona gemma! It only occurs in parahumans, and it's the source of their powers!"

"Yes, I've studied that much," he admitted.

"So, anyway, as a bio-Tinker, I obviously tried meddling with them, and I'd say I'm pretty gosh golly gee good at it!" she said, purring with pride, "I know more about powers than anyone else! They come from these passengers, in our brains."

"Do they cause violent behavior? Because I've never felt so reckless and violent before I got my powers."

"M-hmm!" She nodded along, and proceeded to explain, "You see, when a parahuman has a point of crisis, a passenger sort of latches onto them to help out! Thing is, they don't exactly understand how we work, so they help out through this kind of... lens! They're kind of stupid, basically, but the end result is they see the situation occurring, and give us powers!"

He thought about it. And then thought about it some more, and squinted, then frowned. "...Random question, but… do they come from space?" Centurion asked.

Bonesaw cocked her head to the side, blowing up a single cheek thoughtfully. "Space? I'unno." She shrugged, then returned to grinning. "Maybe they're from the Fairy World? That's what Glaistig Uaine says! She says they're fairies, and I think maybe they are! What do you think?"

"I try to avoid thinking about it, and focusing on actually making use of my powers," Centurion responded, shrugging. It was an honest answer. As much as he was curious about the nature of powers - probably like everyone else - he was more about that sweet vial juice. "Now, can I ask you a question? A curiosity of mine."

"Yeah, shoot straight!" Bonesaw nodded excitedly.

"Does Jack Slash have a second power?"

She blinked, raising an eyebrow. "A second power? Kind of like, uuh… I don't have a good comparison, actually." She blinked, then jumped, "Oh! Kind of like Hatchet Face's main power is that he has an aura that disables powers, but he's also super-strong and super-durable?"

"Yes, like that, but different for Jack. His first power is making blades really long, and his second power is… I don't know. His power is too simple to have made him able to survive this long. He either lucked out, or hid something from you."

"If he does, he never told me. I wish he did, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't keep secrets from me!" She grinned at him winsomely. After a moment, she looked down at the ground, thoughtfully, and narrowed her eyes, frowning. "Unless they were important. Adults like to keep secrets."

He sighed. "Can you unchain me?" Centurion asked, pulling weakly at the chains.

"Sure thing!" She nodded once with a note of glee and pressed a button on her remote. The spider on the ceiling extended a single mechanical arm, stuck it in the left chain, then twisted the key, causing the manacle to go down. It did the same to the other arm, then the ankles and Centurion was free in seconds.

Centurion rubbed his wrists with his hands. "Thanks," he said, shuddering. Am I thanking a serial killer? Holy fuck. What am I doing with myself. He wondered if it was the right choice to propitiate her, to go along with the illusion of being swayed to join the Nine, only to betray them. It had a chance of working - at least some of them wanted him here.

"No problem!" she replied, smiling.

"Is your prion… permanent?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Only if I want it to," she answered, then showed him the Mannequin-made backpack. "Put any glass stuff you want to preserve inside that!"

He peered inside the backpack. There was a set of wine glasses, a glass pitcher, several mobile phones, and some other minor glassware.

"Where did you.. put the vials?" Centurion asked, feeling his heart sink into his gut.

"Ooh, right, those!" Bonesaw realized, tapping her mouth as her forehead scrunched up in thought. "I think Jack has them. Either he or Shatterbird. They were sort of talking about them when I last saw. Talking? Arguing? Eh, I dunno! That's adult stuff! I'm more of a free spirit, an artist extraordinaire!" She looked at him expectantly, maybe expecting praise.

"Are they upstairs?" Centurion asked, referring to Jack and Shatterbird. Bonesaw seemed to deflate for half-a-second, but ultimately nodded, smiling.

"Wanna meet them?!" she asked eagerly.

"Not while I'm powerless. What if they attack me? I'm… scared..." Centurion faked a degree of meekness. Not so high that it'd be unbelievable, but not so low as to be dismissed.

"They wooon't!" she cooed, giving him a hug. He felt her arms pressing into his body and back - she was strong. She wasn't pressing strong enough that it was painful, but if he tried to remove her from the hug, he'd probably fail. "They know that you belong to me, so they won't kill you unless they wanted to make me angry. And even if that happens, I'll just heal you right up! Like ol' Hatchet Face over there!"

She pulled away from the hug, and pressed a button on the remote she used for the spider before. Moments later, a zombified man walked down the stairs to join them in the basement. His body was covered in scars, and he had a gormless look on his face, his eyes not really looking forward.

The moment Centurion saw the zombified Hatchet Face, his eyes widened and he felt like throwing up. The bile, once again, rose to the tip of his throat, but he forced it to go back down, then breathed in through his nose, shuddering. "T-that doesn't h-help in the slightest. Please... give me my powers back."

She looked at him, scrunching up her forehead. "And what will you do with your powers back?"

"Feel safer," he said, looking away demurely.

"You are safe!" she insisted, stepping away and glaring at him. She took on an akimbo stance, both hands on her waist, pouting, and tapping her foot impatiently. It would've been cute, if not for the two-meter-tall corpse standing behind her and letting out an undead moan to punctuate what she said.

"Kidnapped? By the Slaughterhouse Nine?! How is that safe?!" he asked exasperatedly. He was terrified enough that actual tears formed in his eyes, but he wasn't outright crying. He wasn't sure if it said something about him, or about the Brockton Bay Wards, the PRT, or just this damn fucking city in particular - that he wasn't panicking, crying, and sitting in a fetal position in a corner right now. Maybe Coil, or the Butcher were to blame.

"Look, if any of them wanted to kill you, they'd have done so already!" Bonesaw argued, her pout intensifying and gaining a lopsided feature to it. She looked like she was about to throw a temper tantrum.

"What do I need to do to have my powers back?" he asked, looking down in submission.

In that moment, a voice came from upstairs. A man's voice, yelling, "Bonesaw! We're going!"

"Just be a good boy for now! No swearing, and you'll give me an autograph later! Now let's go!" She took his hand and used the other one to take the Mannequin-made backpack. She then dragged Gabriel upstairs in a run, Hatchet Face moaning like the zombie he was and following after them in an undead lurch.

Centurion hesitated at first, but he realized he had no choice but to follow her. And that, he did.

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Birdsie

Nov 21, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 22, 2019

#3,372

They proceeded into the living room together, Bonesaw holding his hand as she led him in. Cherish was plopped down on the couch, doing something on her phone and chewing bubblegum. She noticed them entering and smirked, sending a barrage of mocking air-kisses Centurion's way, then smirked.

"I share Shatterbird's opinion about you," he stated in her direction, with a disgusted look on his face.

"Cool," she said, and he felt a tug of absolute despair for a split second, like his emotions were a violin, and she'd plucked the string responsible for sadness, fear, pain, death, and pulled it as much as she could've without snapping it, before letting it go in one movement. Literally playing him.

He instinctively squeezed Bonesaw's hand. He would've clenched his fists, but the action of hand-holding provoked a different reaction.

Bonesaw noticed the subtle response and glared at Cherish. "Heeey! Don't mess around with Centurion! He's the coolest hero around, and totally going to kick your butt!"

Cherish sunk halfway into an 'excuse-me-what?' pose, shaking her head with one eyebrow uplifted, "What? You disabled his powers. How can he kick my butt if he doesn't have powers?"

Centurion looked into her eyes, trying to peer into her. It was disconcerting, knowing she could feel his fear, but he couldn't afford to appear weak, right now. He was among sociopathic serial killers, so he'd have to fit in - in attitude, at least, if not necessarily in actions. If Tattletale was even slightly right, he shouldn't have any problems with that much.

"A fair fight, without powers, and I'd snap your neck before you could even realize the fight started," he said in a cold, unemotional manner.

Bonesaw took on a smug bearing, like a peacock flaunting its feathers, but too undignified and excited. More like a clumsy, hyper penguin. "Yeah! Or I can have Hatchet Face, um, snap your face, too! Right, Hatchet Face?" She grinned behind herself, and Gabriel felt a vaguely affirmative zombie moan being emitted behind him. "Good boy!"

Centurion stayed silent after that, and Cherish's eyes moved to follow movement behind them. Centurion felt a bony, white hand clasp his shoulder, and he looked back in a spark of fear, seeing Mannequin looking back at him. If he was capable of sight - Mannequin's head didn't have eyes, a mouth, or a nose; just slight indents and bumps to give the impression of them. He was tall, over two meters, almost stick-thin.

Mannequin let go of Centurion's shoulder promptly and strutted past him, causing Cherish to laugh out loud, "He's mocking you! I don't know why, but he is! I can feel him mocking you."

Centurion stared at Mannequin intently: at no specific part of him in particular, but looking him up and down. "What, too fleshy for you?"

Cherish observed Mannequin intently as Centurion listed the words, and she shook her head, "Not that." Mannequin moved to face Centurion. A telescoping blade popped out of his right arm, and he moved closer, one step after another, until the sword was millimeters away from Centurion's left eye.

Cherish shook her head, frowning. "I really have no idea what's up, but he's feeling really smug and happy right now. Like, a wicked kind of smug." Bonesaw watched the developing situation with a pouty sort of frown.

Centurion understood what Mannequin meant, but he didn't really appreciate the argument. "He survived, didn't he?" Centurion pointed out, staring up at him defiantly."You didn't succeed in what you were trying to do."

Mannequin's head tilted, and the blade popped back into its socket before he moved to take his backpack from Bonesaw's hand. She was glaring daggers at him, and followed his movements even as he vacated the room with the backpack in hand. "Hey, wait, asshole! Take my phone too!" Cherish stood up, going after Mannequin.

"No swearing!" Bonesaw shouted angrily, clutching Centurion's hand more firmly, and then growling a little in the direction of the hallway where Mannequin and Cherish went off to.

"Yeah, no swearing, you meanie!" he played along, pointing, even as Mannequin and Cherish proceeded to the entryway of the house. It felt… right? It was fun.

"Children, children," Shatterbird's voice said exasperatedly, from somewhere upstairs, followed by a deep sigh.

"Oh, my favorite opera singer joins the fray," Centurion said, rolling his eyes at the sound of her voice.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," Shatterbird answered with no particular tone, and he heard footsteps of glass clinking against the wood, as she made her way downstairs to join them.

"I haven't really heard anyone sing, and you're the only singer I know. That automatically makes you my favorite, even if I don't know if you sing well," he bantered back.

"Where did you find the vials, Centurion? I'm almost fully certain you did not purchase them." Shatterbird folded her arms, staring at him appraisingly.

He chose not to answer, but instead press her, "I want the other three. I was going to finish up the briefcase."

She narrowed her eyes at him, weirded out. "You do realize they don't work more than once, right?"

"In your face!" Bonesaw said, pointing at her with a grin, "It does too, for him! Isn't Centurion the awesomest?!"

"Ha… ha… ha! Ha…?" Centurion laughed along, uncomfortable. Wow, I'm OP.

Shatterbird stared, narrowing her eyes. "Fucking Eidolon," she whispered, just quiet enough so Bonesaw wouldn't hear her.

"Eidolon is another product of those things?!" Centurion asked in angered shock.

"What?" she asked, staring at him. She sighed and shook her head. "No. I'm saying your powers are unfair and you should have no right to exist, and that I will kill you given the chance. Just like I would Eidolon."

"But I'm joining you. Why would you kill me?" Centurion asked, dripping humor, cocking his head to the side.

Shatterbird glared. "I won't let that happen," she answered, to Bonesaw's good humor.

A voice cut straight through the conversation, drawing the attention of everyone in the house, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Our little Bonesaw worked very hard, and managed to convince Cherish to cooperate. I'd say she deserves to pick the fruits, hm?" Centurion looked, and there he was, stepping into the room from the kitchen, a mug of steaming coffee in his left hand.

"Jack Slash," Centurion solemnly stated, looking in his direction. "The infamous Jack Slash."

"I see my reputation precedes me." Jack took a moment to smile at him, then tipped the mug to take a drink of coffee, keeping up his smile as he did so.

"I have a question to ask you, that Bonesaw couldn't answer."

"A question for me?" Jack asked, lowering the mug, licking the edges of his lower lip to gather the coffee trail sticking to it, moderately surprised. "Curious. Go ahead." He moved the mug towards Centurion as if giving allowance to speak.

"Yes. I want to know if I'm right or not. Do you have a secondary power, in some way, shape or form?" Centurion asked.

"A secondary power? In much the same way that Burnscar's primary power is to create fire, but she can also teleport between them?" he asked, then shook his head, "Not to my knowledge. If I were to say, I would admit that my aim with my power is uncanny, but I like to think that's just years of practice. Honing the blade, so to speak."

"Mmh. Shame, I was wrong," Centurion answered, looking down for a moment. Then, he looked back up. "Can I get my powers back?"

Jack finished up his coffee, and let out a gasp of satisfaction, then laid it down on the table. "If you play along," Jack confirmed, then went on to speak. "Frankly, Shatterbird abandoned her claim to you the moment you attacked her, and little Bonesaw decided to pick you up. I told her she was allowed to, but only if she did it herself. I would say bribing Cherish to help her find you was within acceptable bounds."

"I attacked her?!" Centurion asked in surprise, between angry and offended. "It's not like I found myself with a stomach full of glass shards, and had no choice but to defend myself."

Jack's eyebrows went up, genuinely surprised. He looked across the room and hall, at Shatterbird, "Is this true?"

"He angered me," Shatterbird answered, frowning at them, her fists clenching up.

"Get anger-management sessions, ma'am. I highly suggest it," Centurion said, scoffing.

"I would not suggest riling her up, Centurion," Jack answered, nodding with thinned lips, "Shatterbird takes matters of pride very seriously and personally, but if she attacked you first, then I suppose you were only right to defend yourself. I would have."

He would've sighed, but the atmosphere - despite the friendly exterior - still put him on edge. "Who wouldn't have?" Centurion asked.

"Crawler," Cherish said simply. Jack nodded with a smile.

"Oh, well. He'd like it," Centurion chirped.

"Yes, he would!" Bonesaw nodded, prompting Jack to look around.

"Where did Siberian go off to? Is Crawler still in the garage?" Jack looked over at the group in its entirety, questioningly.

Cherish's eyes unfocused for a moment, as she stared into blank space, then answered, "Crawler is in the garage, and very bored and somewhat grumbly at the wait."

"Oh, don't ask me. I was forcefully taken out of my humble abode while trying to get a good night's sleep after indulging in some recreational substances," Centurion informed him, with an appreciable amount of irony.

"Funny. I knew you specialized in superpowers, but going so far as to inject them into your bloodstream?" Jack asked, affecting good, jovial humor in his voice. "Tut-tut-tut. That's a slippery slope, Centurion."

"I want more power. I did that to seize the opportunity I saw." Carpe diem, except with tinker drugs.

Jack nodded, accepting the answer. "In any case, Siberian can find us on the way there. It's very hard to miss a city-wide explosion of glass. Cherish, be a dear and go get Burnscar, would you?"

Cherish sighed, "Yeah, yeah," and subsequently walked upstairs.

"I beg your fudgingly trucking pardon?" Centurion said, looking in his direction with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. He didn't swear, mindful of Bonesaw, which seemed to please her.

Jack looked at him questioningly, then frowned and looked at Bonesaw. "Did I say something wrong?"

Bonesaw shrugged and shook her head simultaneously, adopting a sad frown to match his.

"City-wide explosion of glass? Why?!"

"Ah. That does remind me," Jack said, as he turned back to Centurion, "Do you have a phone? We wouldn't want you to have glass shards in your thigh, would we?" Jack offered a friendly smile.

"I left it at the warehouse in which I fell asleep in." He was being honest: he vaguely remembered leaving it on the table… or on the floor, after he dozed off.

"That's rather unfortunate. I'm sorry to say, but I don't think it will survive the evening. Did you have anything important stored on it?" Jack asked, moving around them and into the hallway as he spoke.

Centurion's thoughts went to Sebastian. But then, he remembered that he was also in the power armor in the workshop. He'd be safe. "No, not really."

Jack nodded and smiled at him, a note of joy gracing his face. "Let us go, then."

The group proceeded outside, with Cherish and Burnscar being the last two to go out. The house looked to be somewhere in the further-north, low-income areas of Brockton Bay, with ratty hotels, cheap rent, and hookers at every street corner. Which was strange, as the inside looked relatively pleasant.

They stopped by the house's garage, which Jack helpfully opened. Within, there was a mass of armored plates, eyes, and writhing limbs. Some of the eyes oriented themselves on the group, blinking in discord, before a rumbling voice spoke. It was low-pitched, deep; reverbing hard enough it could be felt in one's bones, "Are we going?"

Centurion felt a strange mixture of curiosity and disgust, looking over at Crawler's body. He resembled a black, six-legged, armored dinosaur, almost the size of a van when he stood up fully. Where armored plates didn't quite cut it, there were scales, spines, and bristling hair in places that required flexibility. His mouth was large and fish-like, filled with several rows of sharp, missorted fangs and teeth, most of them fat and wide; for crushing, instead of cutting or penetrating, but other kinds were there, too. Eyes ran along the length of his body in various spots, as did skinny, flexible tendrils and three almost human-looking arms.

Crawler walked out of the garage, letting his head rise, as he looked over at Centurion and sniffed in his general direction two times, then opened up his mouth to reveal the teeth in a smile, acidic saliva dripping between them, drooping from his lower lip and onto the tarmac, leaving black splotches where the drops hit. "Hello."

Centurion couldn't help but stare intently, greatly confused. "Which… eye am I supposed to look at?"

Instantly, every single eye on Crawler's body shifted. Some of the eyes were almost human but in dark colors, others had yellow scleras with black hourglass-shaped pupils and no irises: a few were red dots, but each one oriented directly at Centurion. "This one," Crawler replied, gleeful.

Jack laughed tamely, in a jovial manner. Almost fatherly.

Centurion laughed as well. Why is Jack so damn likeable?

Almost as if to punctuate the thought, Jack offered a hand to Bonesaw, and she took it with glee, still holding onto Centurion with the other one. Jack led the three of them to the middle of the road, so Bonesaw could skip on the spotted lines of the road, as children did. The rest of the Nine followed after them, like a procession.

"So, Centurion," Jack began, looking over at Centurion from where he stood on the other side of the gleeful, humming Bonesaw, "Tell us a little about yourself. What brought you to this city? What drove you to be a hero, hunting down people like us?"

"Interdimensional time travel. And… I don't know, I know what it feels to be a victim. I don't want that to happen to other people," Centurion admitted with utmost honesty, without even thinking about the words he said.

"Interesting, and reasonable. So you see yourself in other people?" Jack asked, taking on a philosophical turn.

Centurion nodded. "Maybe too much. My mother always used to tell me that I was too kind: helping other people anyway, even if it meant losing a piece of myself in the process."

Jack nodded, replying conversationally, casually. Like they were casual acquaintances talking about their favorite brand of tea. "I see myself as more of a spectator when it comes to people. I like to look at what's there, and make some sense of it."

"As if it was a theatrical play," Centurion pointed out.

"Not as much with people, as with the cape game in general - but yes," Jack nodded, and continued, "As for my parents, there's not much to say. Sociopaths. They locked me in the bunker, telling me the world had ended; my father would talk to me on the radio, maintaining the illusion. Until one day, I stepped outside and saw everything was just fine."

"That's how you Triggered?" Centurion asked.

"Hm?" Jack exclaimed, then turned to look at him; broken out of thinking, "Oh, I don't know when I had my Trigger Event if that is what you are asking. I noticed I had powers for the first time when my father walked up to me, utterly shocked by the fact I had vacated my abode, and I picked up the knife on the drawer and swung it at him."

"How does that trauma cause a Blaster power? I know power classifications don't count as much, but… it's deeply psychological trauma. Normally, you'd have gotten a Thinker power," Centurion explained, confused.

"Passengers don't work that simply," Bonesaw answered for Jack, taking over the conversation: clearly, she liked the subject. Maybe because she was well-versed in it. She looked up at Centurion, as she explained with a smile, "They see stuff happening, and they see contexts that we can't. And they draw on that for inspiration when making powers! Usually, broad categories are easy to fit, but, um… there are some weird cases, too!"

"That's curious, actually. I wonder what your Trigger Event looked like," Jack mused, without pressuring him into talking about it.

"I'm… pretty sure it was a vial. Not that I remember it, but… yeah, I think it was. The power is too… 'analytical' to be naturally generated, I think."

"I had a friend once, who likely would've said the same," Jack answered, with a smile touching his lips. He shrugged. "Either way, I can respect the decision to help other people when you see yourself in them. I'm someone who doesn't put much stock in society, myself. If you don't mind my asking - Cherish noted that you have a fair amount of repressed anger. Where does that come from?"

Centurion stared blankly out into the space in front of him. "The fact that we can't kill the likes of you because we need them to fight Endbringers."

"So you wouldn't rather redeem me?" Jack asked, a tinge of curiosity in his voice. There was an edge to it, as if he caught onto the most interesting part of a book he was reading.

"The only way to redeem someone so… far gone would be a permanent-effect Master power that changed your very personality. And that takes away the free-will of an actual redemption. So yes, I'd rather kill you."

"I respectfully disagree," Jack replied, "You've been on the scene for, ah… forgive me if I get this wrong. Two months? Three?"

"Two months and a half."

"Right, of course. Close enough. Me? I've been at this for years, pardon the bragging," Jack waved his free hand, and continued.

"So, you mean that everyone can be redeemed if you try hard enough?"

Jack nodded. "Redeemed, corrupted, changed. In time, if you see the world like I do, you will find that… people, have themes to them. People need identity to live, and they will do things to establish that identity. You dislike the local white supremacy scene, correct? That's a good example."

"What do they have to brag about? They're pale fricks who look like they haven't seen the outside world in eons," Centurion said with a scoff.

Jack nodded in agreement, smile expanding. "Exactly. You have a group of people, who feel they've been done wrong. Perhaps it's poverty, the way they were brought up - they can't shore up an identity of their own, so they look for a group to give them a theme: to give them an identity. There are some cases that are half-group, half-themselves, and then there's the kind of people who are entirely themselves. Thing is, identities change if given the right pushes. If you collapse something that supports a person's identity, you can just as easily slot in a new element to change what's there."

"Right. Following that reasoning, I just need to collapse what supports you, and slot in heroic thoughts?" Centurion inquired ironically.

"Yes," Jack answered, not taking offense to the proposition, "But forgive me for saying this - it would be exceptionally unlikely and difficult. I'm rather firm in my identity."

Centurion stopped talking for a moment. What was Gabriel's identity? Who was he, except yet another member of the local PRT, walking around in power armor, beating thugs up for the sake of it? His grip on Bonesaw's hand loosened for a moment. "The only thing I've established myself to be is… a super-powered beat-cop with anger issues, who has an exceptionally powerful pair of… 'handcuffs,' let's say."

"Then, I suppose you won't mind if I try to insert some new elements?" Jack queried, with a hint of playfulness, "No tricks here. I'll show you how we work. Give you a chance, to see if you could work with an identity like what I'm offering. If it doesn't click - oh, well, it just won't click."

Centurion froze momentarily, not even walking forward. There was a temptation to go along with what Jack offered, but he felt bound by... by people. "I have friends. They'd feel… betrayed."

"Friends are a wonderful thing," Jack agreed. They slowly began to walk again at his prompting, and the conversation lulled for a few seconds. Eventually, Jack asked, "If you were to name a friend - assuming you're willing to - who would you say that you get on with the best?"

"The only friend I feel I've earned is…" Centurion stopped talking, considering what he was about to say. Did he really feel she was a friend, or... some kind of admirer he'd bonded with? No, he actually felt a connection with her. "Weaver," he finally admitted.

Jack laughed out. It wasn't mocking or loud; a laughter of someone who'd heard a joke or saw something surprising. "What a coincidence. I've selected Weaver as my candidate for the Nine."

Centurion grinned like a prideful madman. "I knew it."

"You did? Do explain your reasoning," Jack pleaded, very amused by the entire situation.

"I knew she'd be chosen as a candidate. Not by you, though. Tell me what you already know about her."

"Well. Usually, I prefer to pick candidates who are challenging to convince, or candidates with a sense of style. An identity, like I said - one they embrace. I think it's in good taste, wouldn't you say?" Jack asked conversationally, and Centurion briefly nodded, before Jack moved on to say, "Originally, when we came into the city, I'd intended to do the same, but then I read the local roster of capes and I was sorely disappointed by the picks. All of the interesting villains had been killed off during Leviathan's attacks, with the single exception of Oni Lee: our research suggests he survived, and while I appreciate a fellow user of bladed weapons, he just didn't feel like quite what I was looking for."

"Oni Lee is literally the easiest villain to defeat out of the bunch. I could take him myself. Just blind him with my lasers, or a flashbang, and his power is nullified."

"To be completely fair to him, Bonesaw could probably amend that weakness, if he had become a member," Jack said, and Bonesaw nodded excitedly.

"He's dead, right?" Centurion asked, already knowing the answer.

Jack shook his head. "Ah, no, I didn't end up visiting him in the end."

"Oh?" Centurion was visibly surprised.

"Yes. Because, I mean, look at you Wards!" Jack laughed out, dripping amusement, as his chest heaved, "When I say that - I'm referring to the personalities, and the powers. Imagine how interesting it would be if someone like Transfusion joined us. She'd fit right in!"

"That's another Ward I get along with," Centurion admitted. "I was there for her Trigger Event."

"Ooh," Jack's eyebrows went up in curiosity. "Any spicy details?"

"Except waking up on the ground? Nnnnope. I didn't see the details, I just know that the Empire was involved."

Jack nodded along, "But, as I said, I like challenging candidates. The proverbial 'nuts' to 'crack,' so to speak. And isn't Weaver the perfect microcosm of that? Maybe the PRT has a 'look the other way' policy with these things, but it's rather obvious what her previous occupation used to be."

Centurion jokingly remarked. "If you want to crack me, kill Coil, Accord and that Shadow Stalker biii–" he looked at Boneasaw and cringed, "–scuit."

Jack snorted, and answered, "Maybe we will. Crawler didn't have a chance to meet his candidate, who supposedly dwells in the belly of Coil's base. She sounded interesting, so I was considering raiding Coil's base. After we gather some information first. It'd be foolhardy to try otherwise."

"Oh, I want to be in on that!" Centurion exclaimed, actually excited at the prospect. "I want to bash Coil's head into the pavement, and slam my feet into the back of his head, shattering his jaw." The thought gave him the jitters.

"Wait," Cherish said, suddenly. It interrupted the flow of conversation, and everyone stopped walking, turning at her. She was staring forward, and then closed her eyes, as if listening for something.

"What's the matter?" Shatterbird asked impatiently.

Cherish raised a finger, as if to tell her to wait the fuck up. Shatterbird folded her arms, and tapped her foot as a sign of enmity. Crawler's eyes blinked curiously, as Cherish opened her eyes, slowly, beginning to explain, "I… think… the local capes are having a meeting, somewhere near the crater made by Leviathan."

"Probably in regards to us," Jack answered, nodding, then looked around. "What do you think? Should we pay them a visit? It would be rather amusing, if the very topic of conversation walked in on the discussion."

Centurion was snapped to reality by that. It's my chance to run away.

Crawler's voice rumbled, as he agreed, "Yes."

Mannequin shrugged, Cherish shook her head, and Burnscar didn't respond. Bonesaw tapped a finger against her lips, then raised a point, "Shouldn't we wait for Siberian to catch up first? It'd be unfair to leave her out!"

Centurion stayed silent. The fear within him started building up again, as he realized the situation he had been in this whole time. The hand wrapped around Bonesaw's was shaking.

Jack mused for a moment, then asked, "Anyone you can discern?"

Cherish stood still for a moment, then said, "...Villains… hm, some of the candidates are there. There's Bitch-" Bonesaw frowned "-Weaver… Coil, too. And some of the Protectorate. I recognize the sense of general despair that's most likely Clockblocker, but I don't know who the mourning and scared one is."

Jack looked to Centurion with a blank expression, as if asking for guidance.

"Let me go," Centurion's shaky voice pleaded.

"Are you certain that's a good idea, Centurion?" Jack questioned, tilting his head, "What, with the lack of powers and all."

"Give me back my powers, and then do that," Centurion said, his voice shaky but determined at the same time.

Mannequin began to shake, his entire upper body vibrating in rattling motions, as his torso moved back, his hands going to his stomach.

"Don't mock me, you glorified greenhouse."

"It's an interesting proposition," Jack answered to Centurion's demand, "But why would I agree to it, Centurion? Currently, I believe the idea of taking you hostage to draw people to us, while showing you the way we work is far more interesting. It's beneficial for you, too - it gives you an insight on our operations that no one else quite has, aside from actual members."

Centurion's body shook, with a mix of anger and fear. The decent-not-so-decent Johnny Depp lookalike is right. He had nothing to leverage against them, nothing he could offer: zero, zip, nada. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it again. He did this a couple of times, before finally saying, "You wouldn't agree."

Jack nodded, then turned to the rest of the Nine. When he spoke, he was mostly addressing Shatterbird, "We will postpone the concert for another few hours, and see what's happening in town. It's rather curious - for the villains and the Protectorate to get together, but not surprising."

The Nine nodded, giving out mutters and words of agreement. A very begrudging compliant, "Fine," came from Shatterbird. With that, the Nine changed direction to move southward.

Centurion's mind seemed to return to being relaxed. Why the fuck was he relaxed? "If you can kill Coil tonight, you'll increase your chances I'll actually start liking you."

"Will liking me improve your chances of joining the Nine? Because that's very curious. It implies your identity is, at least to some extent, based on the people around you," Jack said in reference to their previous conversation.

"It is. Almost fully. The only things inside me are anxiety, self-doubt and self-loathing. Oh, and depression, some times," Centurion said with an unnaturally cheery smile.

"Hm. You said Weaver was the only person whose friendship you earned. If I convinced Weaver to join the Nine, would you be amenable to staying with us as well?"

Centurion looked down. He didn't really think about it, but after that, he said. "Yes. Shatterbird said I can do whatever I want, right? I don't have to randomly kill people for the sake of it. I can just kill bad people."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Jack said, "While I dislike the idea of a Slaughterhouse Ten, I'm willing to look at this as a challenge. If I'm perfectly honest, there are good chances one of the Nine will die before we're out of the city, so I'll definitely keep you in mind if I manage to sway Weaver."

What if I killed one of you, and made you the Slaughterhouse Seven? That would increase my chances, right? Two missing members, and two promising candidates.

"It's a game of identities, then," Jack said, extending his arm for a handshake, "Let the most insecure person be the loser."

Centurion shook Jack Slash's hand. "I'll make sure not to lose."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jack answered, beginning to smile in earnest, before letting go.

"Are you two quite done having your games?" Cherish asked, arms folded as she walked, "You were so occupied you didn't notice the Siberian arriving."

Jack and Centurion both looked behind themselves, and the Nine as a whole stopped to let Siberian catch up.

She was on a rooftop to their left, relatively speaking. A woman, in a striped black and white pattern, as naked as the day she'd been born. The Siberian's left hand was covered in blood, painted dark red, implying she'd used it to penetrate someone's body.

Holy fucking shit.

The feral woman stepped off the ledge of the rooftop. Where Centurion might've expected a mighty landing with spiderweb cracks in the concrete, or something almost elfishly graceful with her slowing down like a feather before making contact, the Siberian instead fell at normal velocity and her feet simply hit the ground, instantly stopping her momentum without crushing her spine in the process. She walked up to the Nine, and narrowed her eyes at the trio of Jack, Centurion, and Bonesaw holding hands.

Jack nodded and smiled, then opened up a spot between himself and Bonesaw, letting Siberian hold both her and his hands. A family of four, now.

Centurion's eyes fucking widened like they never widened before. Not shock. Just… surprise. He laughed at that. Not mockingly, but in an amused way.

Jack smiled, looking utterly pleased with the situation and with life in general. The happy man looked forward, and said, "Onward."

Last edited: Nov 22, 2019

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Birdsie

Nov 22, 2019

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Threadmarks Modus Operandi 9.x (Interlude: Clockblocker)

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 22, 2019

#3,409

Although the matter of this Interlude is something I wanted to bring up for a while now, I need you to forgive me for extremely drab writing. I don't know what happened. I think all of my daily creative juices were spent on the beginning chapter of the tentatively titled "Kyrie Eleison" Arc.

"We know about Dinah Alcott," Miss Militia accused.

Her voice was calm, even-sounding, controlled in a way Dennis probably couldn't manage if he tried. There were tells she was angry and stressed out, though. Her fists were clenched, for one: it almost looked like she wanted her fingers to bite into her gun, to crush it with brute force. Another was that Miss Militia tended to either be casually happy, or casually stern, but right now, she was aggressively stern, leaning towards just being aggressive in some moments.

She'd been that way ever since Centurion didn't come back home, or answer any of her calls. He was declared missing a few hours ago, and there was an official BOLO for him, as well as city-wide searches. It was hard to look for him, though, because if the entire city was involved in finding him, people would quickly realize there was something in the water - it was a month after an Endbringer attack. Lots of people were missing; no one would care about another kid. So the PRT had to spare their own resources to look for him, and they didn't have enough of those.

Dennis felt a pang of anxiety. They were all afraid, wondering where the hell he went. Weaver especially: the moment she came in for her patrol, practically bursting through the door, she demanded to speak to him. Not a literal demand, but that was the way she was acting like he or she were in grave danger. It didn't help that she refused to explain when pressed, saying she'd only talk to Centurion about it.

Coil didn't react in any outward way at the accusation, simply asking, "The missing girl. What about her?"

"Don't play dumb," Assault said, folding his arms and directing a glare at the crime lord. "We've got our intel, you've got yours. And we know what you've been up to in that cave of yours."

Coil didn't react much, besides a slight, confused tilting of the head. "Cave? I'm sorry, if this is a metaphor-"

Miss Militia went on to interrupt him, arguing, pressing the issue to no effect. It was going to be a game of desperate cat and mouse - Dennis could see it. Coil would deflect, play the fool. The Undersiders, Travelers, and Midtowners would back him up from the sidelines, while the Pure would stay mostly neutral, but leaning towards the PRT's side, given Tattletale's intrusion on their general territory in recent days.

Dennis hated politics, but he knew to never ignore them. Always listen to what your enemy says. He'd learned the hard way.

A game of cat and mouse: except the cat doesn't have eyeballs, and the mouse has a machine that produces cheese and an army of subordinate mice that it can use to tear the cat apart in a plethora of ways.

Weaver, standing beside him, shifted in her stance, looking over in Tattletale's direction. The two connected gazes, and there was almost a degree of sympathy between them, as Coil and Miss Militia kept up the heat. Dennis still wasn't entirely comfortable with the ex-villainess, mostly due to the bugs, but he'd accepted she was on the straight and narrow now, and they were slowly transitioning to speaking terms. The bugs left a bad mark on his memory, and she knew that, so she tried to be accommodating: to hide them, when possible. He could appreciate that.

Dennis never knew phobias could be developed, but he'd suffered some trauma from that damn bank robbery. Not debilitating in everyday life, mind, but whenever he saw a spider, he couldn't help, but to instinctively and very quickly cross to the other side of the room, and yell for his mom to come and kill it.

He knew, logically that his power would let him easily deal with a single, measly spider, but logic and human thought processes didn't get along.

They'd been called to the building in the middle of nowhere by Purity, in accord with Coil, to discuss the events surrounding the Slaughterhouse Nine's appearance, and Centurion's recent disappearance - they believed the two were connected, and Coil provided them with some disconcerting information from the precognitive he had working for himself. Everyone knew it was Dinah Alcott, the girl he kidnapped, but Coil kept deflecting and he also had popular support in the room.

Out of the PRT, Miss Militia was present, alongside Assault and Dovetail from the Protectorate, and Aegis, Weaver, and himself to represent the Wards. A sizable force, if something went wrong.

The Pure had Purity, Othala, Stormtiger, and Fog, while Coil went on his own, and brought pretty much the entire roster of the three 'unaffiliated' groups that definitely didn't work for him. Faultline's Crew - the entirety of it - was also in attendance,

Dennis felt himself joining Miss Militia in his anger, as Coil declared, "Then if you do not have the evidence, I do not see a point to continue this conversation. And given we've already agreed on a strategy, and that I've given you my contact information, I believe this meeting is adjourned."

Coil looked around the room. The smug bastard had his hands together behind his back, looking mechanically proud, as he scanned the room and took in the vague silence. Taking it in as an agreement, Coil nodded once and excused himself, followed moments later by the Travelers, then the Undersiders.

Dennis sighed, and looked at Aegis. "Let's go. We might as well start the patrol around the lake's perimeter, look for any stragglers."

Aegis nodded. "Sure," he replied, before turning to Weaver. "You'll be fine with the Protectorate?"

"Yeah," she answered. She'd gotten less shy over time, growing proportionally to the amount of shit that Piggot managed to throw at Shadow Stalker. Weaver accidentally found a stash of crossbow bolts, just as Shadow Stalker was withdrawing them. And she just so happened to be in a perfect location to take photos of it and prove it. It was enough to send the Youth Guard into a fit, not only tearing Piggot a third one after Centurion had ripped her a second one, but also putting Stalker on the spot.

Not that Dennis complained. The amount of drama Stalker was involved in was headache-inducing, and it didn't help when Transfusion decided to take her side.

Dovetail swooped up Clockblocker, and took him to the outer rim of the lake, alongside Aegis who flew there independently. She then went back, as she had a patrol with Miss Militia in another part of town. The rest of the groups were leaving, with movers leveraging their powers, while the rest had to go using boats. The Undersiders made contact with the shore a while ago, and were climbing out of the boat.

The graveyard shift began in a sour, shitty mood. Alas.

It was dark as fuck already at this hour. Nothing on the streets except homeless and vagrants. It's been a long hour of patrol. They had to arrest some looters with Molotovs earlier, trying to burn down a former ABB drugs stockpile they'd already emptied by the time Clockblocker and Aegis arrived.

"Hey," Aegis said. It was the tone of someone initiating a conversation they'd been meaning to raise for a while.

"Yeah?"

Aegis turned to him, rather uncomfortably. He was hovering two inches off the ground, as it made it faster to move around or something. "What's up between you and Centurion? I don't get it. Ever since Leviathan's attack, you've been... I don't know, it's like you spontaneously started to hate his guts, for no reason."

Clockblocker couldn't help but make the connection. He breathed out with his nose, and added a 'hmph,' at the end of the action. A thoughtful 'hmph,' rather than a contemptuous one. "Filling in for Gallant, huh?" he asked, turning to look Aegis in the eyes. "Look, I don't... hate him. We're friends..."

"But?"

Dennis thought about it. He knew the reason, and he knew it was completely illogical. Any third party would call him bonkers for thinking in this way, but he couldn't help but lash out, for whatever reason. "It was before Kid Win died, during the ABB crisis. I made a promise with him, that Kid, he, and I, would gather for Challengers again."

Aegis shook his head, "Really? That's what this is about?" He touched down on the ground with his own two feet. "Clock... I hate to break it to you, but Fugly Bob's not going-"

"-Let. Me finish," Dennis said, sighing out loud. "It's not that Kid Win died, or that Fugly Bob's is closed down. I know those things, and I know I can't really reverse them in any way. Really fucking retarded coming from a guy called Clockblocker, but I can't turn back the clock, and that's not the issue."

Aegis folded his arms. "What is? Because there is an issue, and it's affecting the team."

"Okay."

"No, it's not." Aegis' fingers were bent, not really clenched, but sort of hooking into his palm in a semi-angry way. He sounded bitter, as he spoke further, "Do you know what your constant fighting has been doing? Vista's hiding it pretty well, but she's a wreck. Gallant left, Kid Win's dead, Browbeat also left, and Stalker is anti-social. You, Centurion, and I, are the lifelines for her. She needs that stability, and you two are being a pair of arrogant pricks and not making up. So I want to know what this is about, so we can do something about it when Centurion gets back to us."

A grim thought occured to Dennis. If he gets back to us.

"Yeah, alright. Do you know he's being transferred?"

"To Houston," Aegis nodded. They'd stopped walking at this point, paused in their patrol route to talk this out. The middle of a dark street was a very stupid place to talk, but Dennis was too tired to give a shit. "And I'm being transferred to Boston. You don't have a problem with that, so what is it?"

"I don't know, I guess."

"You guess?"

"It's..." Clockblocker shook his head, sighing in genuine, unrestrained frustration in what felt like forever. He could feel the negative thoughts in the action. Not leaving him, but reaching out through the act. It was the very opposite of a satisfying sigh. "I don't... Look, my anger is illogical, okay? I admit that, but I can't help but feel he's just... leaving us. Abandoning us."

"Abandoning?" Aegis frowned under his mask, not understanding.

"Going back to that promise, he said that he's going to leave for his old world, when given the chance. I mean, he said he'd kill the Endbringers first, and stuff like that, but talk is talk. Action is different." Aegis nodded along hesitantly, trying to appear sympathetic, when he clearly wasn't getting it. Dennis felt himself scrunch up in irritation, and pushed down the urge to punch him in the face. The stress was getting to him, eating away at him. Too many negative thoughts. "Anyway... like you said, it's just you and me, Vista, and Stalker. Stalker's going to juvenile, knowing how this shit will turn out. That leaves me and Vista, of the original team. It feels... I don't know. I'm picturing that future, and when I see it, I just... I can't think of it as my future. I hate the image, I despise it. So I fucking blame Centurion for leaving us, and I use the promise as an excuse to channel my anger, I guess?"

"You don't blame me? Just because we didn't make a pinky promise?" Aegis asked, nearly snorting. Clockblocker wasn't blind to the reversal of the roles, one of them cracking wise, while the other was dead serious. Aegis must have thought it was amusing, because Clockblocker didn't. He felt his heart thrum with frustration, grit his teeth on instinct, and sensed the barest hint of the warmth he'd come to associate with adrenaline in the tired veins of his forearms.

"I did say that I acknowledge my anger is illogical," Clockblocker said, carefully. His voice was strained, and he put an inflection of annoyance into it to inform Aegis that this wasn't a joking matter for once.

Aegis noted, sighing. "Sorry. I guess I'm tired too." He hovered up again, a finger's height from the ground.

Clockblocker snorted at that.

"What? I'm not allowed to be tired?" Aegis queried, as they began to move again.

"I didn't say that," Dennis defended himself, beginning to take the reins on the conversation. He felt a little more like himself, in that moment. The whole conversation reminded him of how much he missed the old days - before or around the bank robbery - with his 'ingroup.' Nostalgia rang through him, longing to feel that way again. The way he felt was almost pleasantly teasing, in that way.

"The body is willing, but the spirit is weak, my friend," Aegis said, affecting an old man's tone, with a strange, exaggerated accent. Almost like Yoda from Star Wars, but flanderized to the point where if voice acting was law, then this would be a felony offense.

"Reports of a brawl at eleventh street," console told them.

"We'll break it up," Aegis answered, using the earbud in his helmet. He turned to Clockblocker with extended hands, and Dennis grudgingly allowed himself to be lifted up. With that, they were off, at slightly faster speed than if they had ran there. Fair enough - at least Dennis wouldn't waste his stamina running.

They made it to the place in question, and Clockblocker extricated himself from Aegis' grasp. The two Wards turned the corner, and Clockblocker felt his blood freeze. And himself as well, at the sight.

The person that Dennis recognized as Gabriel was walking up to a man lying in the middle of the street, seemingly wrapping up a short string of murders, judging from the two other corpses lying nearby. Jack Slash was the only other person in the area, standing with a knife drawn and observing the situation with glee.

The man shook his head, beginning to laugh and cry simultaneously. "Why? Why me?" he whispered. "I just needed mone–"

Before anything else could be said or done, Centurion stuck his thumbs in the lying man's eye-sockets, gouging his eyes out with brutal glee. The thug shook, screaming, "No, please, no, no-uugh!"

Both thumbs sunk into the eyes, drilling through them. There was a sickening squelch of wet protein and blood, as both liquids sprayed out and then went down the man's face in thick streams. The poor bastard struggled for a moment, then began to shake violently for a single second, before stopping as he took in a last, sudden breath.

The 'hero' pulled away, cleaning his hands in the thug's shirt. "Fucking ew. Nazi fluids."

Clockblocker was too stunned, too busy staring. Too busy actively not believing in what he saw to react. He felt like the whole world went insane, and he was the only person left that used logic - despite the way he felt about Gabriel. Aegis was frozen, too, just next to him.

Jack Slash sheathed his knife and began to clap excitedly. He whistled once, appreciatively, "Encore! Encore! That was beautiful! I'm genuinely mesmerized by your methods, especially how you ignored them begging for mercy. I suspect you and I are more alike than either of us originally expected, Centurion. Now I'm very much interested in recruiting you."

Everything clicked, suddenly. Recruitments. Centurion's disappearance. He was going through a trial to join the Slaughterhouse Nine, wasn't he? No. That couldn't be true - Gabriel believed in doing good. In helping people; Clockblocker was clearly looking at an illusion, or... at mind control. Didn't Cherish take control of him? That must have been it. Still, he watched as Gabriel turned to Jack and offered him the very beginnings of a warm smile.

"Holy shit," Clockblocker said, absent.

Instantly, both Gabriel and Jack Slash whipped around to look at them from across the street. Aegis and Clockblocker flinched, and Dennis felt a dark chill go down his spine as Jack's eyes bore into his own through the Clockblocker helmet.

Clockblocker didn't hesitate, "Console. Master/Stranger protocols in effect, the Slaughterhouse Nine have Centurion and are controlling him. I need back–"

Concurrently with Clockblocker beginning his report, Gabriel said something that he couldn't quite hear from this far away. Jack Slash looked at Gabriel, shrugged, then grinned and pulled out an actual meat cleaver from his toolbelt. Clockblocker froze like a deer in the headlights, and Aegis pushed him out of the way, only to be decapitated. Clockblocker stopped, frozen by fear, as blood freckled his costume. He looked down at Aegis' disoriented head, still reacting to the environment - he'd be fine if they reattached it to the neck.

Clockblocker looked at Jack Slash and noticed the man hoisting his hand for another swing of the cleaver. With a reaction of instinctual fear, Clockblocker raised both arms to shield himself, while freezing his armor with his power. It'd keep him in place, but also protect him from all attacks.

Aegis' eyes swiveled as much as they could towards Clockblocker, as he began to say, "Clock, can you-" Clockblocker heard Jack Slash click his tongue, and suddenly, Aegis stopped talking as his head was split into two halves, the skull cracking audibly and blood leaking out, as stray pieces of brain matter spread across the tarmac.

NO! AEGIS! Clockblocker clenched every muscle, tried to move, to fight against his immobile armor, to move in to help. To speak, even, but he couldn't. The damn fucking armor was a prison! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Let me out!

"They called in for backup. Let us reconvene with the rest of the Nine," Jack Slash said, before beginning to move.

Clockblocker's eyes turned, to look at the two of them. At Jack Slash and at Gabriel. He tried to find Gabriel's eyes in the gloom of the street, to look into them in the low hopes of finding something familiar there, but Gabriel instead turned around and followed Jack in silence.

Come back! Come back here you fuck! Fucking bastard! Fucker! Clockblocker rattled against the cage that was his costume, beginning to hyperventilate through his nose. His vision went blurry for a moment, as he saw his reflection in the pane of glass. He began to shake in fear and shock.

Aegis was dead, they killed him. Why did Centurion betray them?

I'll never forgive you for this. Dennis felt tears leaving his eyes, as he looked at Aegis' body. He was supposed to survive anything. Why? Why did he die? It's my fault. It's my fault; I could have protected him. I should have taken that fucking cleaver on my chest!

He started sobbing to himself, unable to cry properly, due to his position, with his chin up against his chest. Too constrictive to open his mouth properly. He thrashed and wailed, and began to curse his fucking life. Why couldn't he ever be good enough to man up when he needed to? Why didn't he let the needle go through back then? Aegis was dead, because he was a selfish asshole, and Centurion betrayed them, probably for that same reason...

It's all because of me...

Moments later, Clockblocker blacked out.

Last edited: Nov 22, 2019

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Birdsie

Nov 22, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 23, 2019

#3,475

As the entirety of the Slaughterhouse Nine plus Centurion were walking down the street, the latter felt giddy. Almost as if he wanted to take off and run, but not in fear. Just run, and shake off the adrenaline. The sheer unbelievable reverie of being in this situation. It all felt like some kind of twisted dream, his brain not entirely catching up with the fact this was happening right in front of him. His grip on Bonesaw's hand occasionally twitched, and his breathing was a little quicker than usual. But aside from that, he was fine.

She seemed to notice the symptoms, looking him over with an equal division of curiosity and concern. "Is everything... a-oh-kay, Centurion?" she asked. Jack looked at them out of the corner of his eye, smiling, while Siberian looked content to pay attention to the road.

Centurion's left eye blinked on its own, as his gaze turned to her snappily. "Oh yes, yes, it's fine. I'm fine, I'm okay. Definitely okay."

Bonesaw nodded while beaming, taking his word for it. "Okay!"

The rest of the Nine was behind them, not really holding any conversations, or only speaking up intermittently. Shatterbird kept noting, from time to time, how dirty the city was.

"Cherish, our faithful compass. How long until we get there?" Jack questioned loudly, without turning.

Cherish seemed to shrug. "A few minutes. It was your bright idea to go on foot."

Crawler snorted, and it was a strange, animal sound. Like the sound a deer made, when breathing out through its nose. "I dislike tight spaces."

Cherish clicked her tongue. "You picked the wrong power to have, then."

The banter almost made them seem normal. Normal in the same way a weird neighborhood family might be, but not on the level of serial killers. He felt strangely comfortable among them, and he wondered if it was just because Jack was so easy to get along with, and if it was because Bonesaw was weirdly cute, in a fucked-up serial killer kind of way. He tried to fight these thoughts, but the moment he batted them away, they came back in force.

The companionable way in which they worked, so closely knit together… yeah, there were conflicts here, clearly, but it was nine people against the world. He imagined if Jack managed to convince Weaver to join the Nine, Centurion himself might actually join. The thought both excited and terrified him; he didn't want to kill innocent people, but he could almost picture a life like this.

Wait. What the fuck am I thinking?

He looked behind himself, and his eyes locked on Cherish, but she wasn't paying any attention to him. She was looking at Crawler. Jack was paying a modicum of attention, though, so he looked at Crawler as well, and continued the conversation the six-legged regenerator started with Cherish.

"I thought you were a masochist. Don't you like disliking things?" Centurion inquired with a tinge of sarcasm.

"That's presumptuous," Crawler's voice rumbled, and Centurion felt the low frequency and amplitudes in his bones, "I like it because I can get stronger that way; if people try to hurt me."

"A sentiment both you and Centurion seem to share," Jack offered, then waved his hand in clarification: "Not liking getting hurt. Getting stronger."

"About that. I do want the other three vials," Centurion reminded Jack, turning back forward.

"They are battle spoils like any other. They are yours, if you join us; assuming there's still space for you by then," Jack answered, with a hint of teasing, "If not, then I'm willing to accept wagers for them."

"Convince Weaver and I'll join. That's my wager. I already told you."

"That's already our agreement. The wagers refer to if you were to not join us, or if I failed to convince Weaver, but you survived," Jack elucidated.

Centurion saw a chance, there. He needed to squash any hints of hesitation and fear in his voice, before speaking. He added a sense of challenge to his tone, "If I beat Shatterbird in a rematch, I get the vials back. Of course, we can both use our powers. Which means I'd need them back," Centurion briefly gazed at Bonesaw, only to then look back up at Jack, Bonesaw following Centurion's gaze and waiting for his judgement.

Jack thought about the proposition for only five seconds, then glanced in Shatterbird's direction, questioningly.

"I'm not interested," she answered without him asking.

Jack frowned a little, but let it go. He looked at Centurion, shrugging. "Apologies, but it seems the answer's no to that wager in particular."

"Let's just hope there's space for two, then," Centurion answered, nodding. Jack nodded along. For a moment, Centurion wondered if Shatterbird detected the ruse, or if she genuinely thought the odds were against her.

Within minutes, they were in the vicinity of the lake. Jack stopped moving, and withdrew a straight razor from his toolbelt, beginning to turn it in his palm with trained ease. Making tricks with it, almost, as it came into view.

"Do I stay back and observe from afar?" Centurion asked.

"You can keep in contact with Siberian, if she doesn't mind," Jack answered, looking at him. "A little known fact is that anyone she touches shares her invulnerability. Alternatively, you can stay in place, and we'll collect you later - do understand I'm iffy about that. You would likely be tempted to spoil the fun by running away, or inform heroes of your location."

"Being with you would mean being seen. They'd think I joined," Centurion explained, sighing. He definitely didn't want that.

Jack looked around at the people in the area, with a sort of blank gaze, then spoke, looking at the various members of the Nine, as he spoke, "Emotion controller, surgeon capable of–"

"Right, yes. You don't need to continue. I'll come with."

Jack smiled at that. He spoke in a mollifying voice, "If it helps, I'll permit you to ask for help and communicate as the fight goes on. It makes things more interesting, especially if your presence serves to distract people."

"Your target is Coil. Remember that, if you want me so badly." Maybe at least he could get some good out of this?

"Oh, we won't be attacking them," Jack responded, kind of miffed by Centurion's insistence on pressing the issue. "We will wait to see whoever leaves first, and declare our terms of engagement - given there are candidates among the people gathered. After that, if they attack, we will counter-attack, and should they not, we'll proceed with the evening's previously-planned schedule."

Centurion sighed and nodded along. He felt his right hand clench in mild anger, and felt a spike of irritation when he realized Cherish would feel his disappointment. He didn't feel safe with her around. That was true for all of them. Even if they seemed like nice people, he knew, realistically, that they were serial killers and would have no moral compunctions about killing him where he stood. He'd faced Leviathan, and even shot him, but this was a distinct kind of fear - a similar level of fear, but directed differently.

With that, they walked out onto one of the streets near the infamous Crater lake. It was a big pond of water, stretching several city blocks in size, and there was a patchy island with a dilapidated building in the middle of the lake, dark, with no lights on. Cherish pointed with her chin, "They're on that island. All of them."

Jack's head cocked to the side. "That complicates matters."

"That's Coil's base," Centurion stated. Coil's territory was south of the lake, but it wasn't out of the question that his actual base wasn't on it.

Crawler's voice rumbled in response, "No. I have broken into his base when I was trying to find my… candidate. It's a repurposed Endbringer shelter."

"Oh." He felt a pang of shame and embarrassment, at looking so weak and stupid in front of people who could cut him down so quickly. Cherish smirked, but didn't say anything.

Jack squinted at the island, analyzing the sight. "I believe that's what remains of a hospital. Very picturesque, for a single segment of a building to survive… this," he said, gesturing at the wholeness of the lake.

He withdrew his hand from Siberian's grasp, turning to the Nine with a clap of the hands, razor held between them. "Alright then. We'll lurk in the area, and see whoever leaves the island. Whichever group absconds first, we will speak with."

The Nine nodded, collectively, and everyone began to file towards the nearest dark alleyway, Bonesaw humming and jumping along excitedly.

"I can make hard-light constructs. I could make a bridge," Centurion suggested, shrugging. "You won't give me my powers back anyways."

Jack smirked. "Getting tricky, are we? I'd be tempted to allow it to see your power at work, but we're not storming the place as it is. Just lying in wait."

Centurion sighed, and a piece of music came back to his mind as soon as Jack said 'lying in wait.'

As the entirety of the Nine made their way through the alleyway, Bonesaw sadly let go of Centurion's hand and climbed on the Siberian's back, getting a ride from her, before the striped woman began to climb a building, sinking her fingers into the unresisting brick and scaling it in seconds. Bonesaw let out a "Woohoo!" as they ascended.

Crawler reached down, and picked up Centurion with his mouth, by the collar, before beginning to do much the same. Jack raised a hand, and one of Crawler's tentacles wrapped around his wrist, lifting him up and doing the same to Cherish.

The boy screamed out in utter terror at such quick ascension. The thought that he couldn't stop his fall with his telekinesis if Crawler were to let him go or if his shirt got torn was terrifying, and the way gravity made him sag and his organs lurch was uncomfortable to the extreme.

On top of the building, Crawler gently set Centurion down on the rooftop, and Centurion felt an amused tentacle patting his head.

Centurion shuddered and sighed in relief. Bonesaw looked back, grinning at him with stars of excitement in her eyes.

Shatterbird floated up on top of the building, while Burnscar fired a twisting snake-like protrusion of fire into the sky, appearing in the middle of it out of nowhere, before shooting another one on the rooftop and teleporting to it. Mannequin used a mixture of noodle limbs, chains, and his telescoping blades to swing himself upwards, and in moments, the entire group was on the rooftop.

Jack smiled, putting one foot on top of the building's ledge as if he had conquered it. He moved one hand to shield his eyes from the nonexistent midnight sun, and squinted at the hospital building. "What would Coil look like, Centurion?"

"Black skin-tight costume with a white snake wrapping around him. Very skinny, almost skeletal." There were pictures, of the occasional sighting, although Coil very clearly didn't like to make public appearances.

"Can't see from here," Jack mused, "But I can make out Purity, from the way she's glowing. She appears to be arguing with… Miss Militia, and someone I can't see at this angle. Curious. It doesn't look like a truce meeting."

"Doesn't feel like one, either," Cherish remarked with a note of amusement, "They're all at each other's throats. I'm hearing anger, resentment, annoyance, and not much else."

Hannah… mom... Centurion regretfully remembered. He looked down, forlorn. She must have been heartbroken.

Cherish seemed to notice, and her noticing caused Bonesaw to notice; the chain reaction led to Jack, and he was the one who asked, "Something the matter, Centurion? A particular target you'd like us to avoid?"

"Miss Militia." His expression didn't change even as he said it.

"That's problematic," Jack frowned, razor tapping against his thigh with the flat side. "She has grenade launchers and other forms of deadly ordnance. We can't ignore her."

"Have me around, and she won't use them in fear of hurting me," he suggested.

Jack nodded in agreement. "I suppose that'd apply for most of the heroes."

"But she doesn't know I'm powerless. All she knows is that I'm bulletproof and will leave an explosion relatively unscathed," Centurion informed.

"I believe the moment she notices you with us, outside of your armor, not glowing gold, she's going to change her mind," Shatterbird jabbed, arms folded.

"Right."

Jack peered at the hospital again, while Shatterbird continued to speak, "Should I start the concert? Maybe it'll speed things up, if we get them to come to us?"

Jack blinked, and turned to look at her. He began to consider the merits and demerits of the idea, then said, "No. I'd rather make an official statement first, than an unofficial one. It's more professional. We'll do the concert instantly after we carry our message out."

Crawler rumbled, and coiled sideways, beginning to circle around a spot three times like a dog, before lying down, his snout on his front arms. "Wake me up when we're doing something interesting," he grumbled, before each and every eye on his body closed.

The observation of the lone island continued for five minutes. In that span, Bonesaw got bored and started playing with the Siberian's hair, braiding it, trying out different styles. Centurion, just now realized, that it evoked the image of a tigress and her cub. With Jack as either a father or an uncle figure. Mannequin would be the self-absorbed, tortured artist relative, Burnscar the weird and quiet cousin, Shatterbird the 'holier than thou' cousin that you always get compared to, and Crawler would be the family dog. Cherish would be dead, hopefully, but otherwise, she'd be the adopted-but-unloved daughter.

Centurion approached Bonesaw and Siberian, sitting down closer to the former. She was humming a song to herself, quietly singing out some words, "Love bug… love hug..." as she put the Siberian's hair together into an elaborate pair of pig-tails.

"Wanna mess with my hair too?" Centurion asked. Forming a positive bond with the one person who could return his powers felt like a good idea.

"Sure!" Bonesaw abandoned the Siberian's hair, and the striped woman's head swiveled with a betrayed expression before Bonesaw turned to Centurion and laid her hand flat, using it to move her blonde ringlets of hair. "Do you like my hair? I made it so it has special proteins in it, that keep the ringlets up without too much effort! I still like brushing them, though!" she confessed excitedly.

"Oh. That's neat. Back on my Earth, when I didn't have this body, the only thing I liked about myself was my hair. Luckily, that aspect of me stuck in both worlds."

"Maybe your passenger refitted your body to fit the perception of your perfect self, so the hair stayed the same?" Bonesaw suggested, before shaking the thought away, and saying, "Anyway, turn around!"

Centurion shrugged. "I have no idea," he said with a sigh, turning around. He undid his ponytail, letting his long, soft hair fall free.

Just as Bonesaw was about to begin playing with it, Jack stood up from where he was sitting. He didn't sound panicked or concerned, but rather stated, "We've got incoming," with a pleasant smile.

Crawler perked up, and the rest of the Nine oriented their attentions towards the lake.

A pair of boats was leaving the island, containing the Undersiders and Travelers. Centurion just barely spotted Grue begrudgingly stepping on, while Tattletale spoke to him with folded arms. They looked smaller than ants, from this far away.

"Well, then." Jack stretched, before reaching out to the Siberian. She took his hand, and lowered herself to allow Bonesaw onto her back, and then reached out towards Centurion with a begrudging expression.

Centurion took Siberian's hand, and the woman proceeded to leap off the building and onto the street. He felt his stomach lurch, as they went down four stories in a few seconds. The four of them hit the ground with no deleterious effects, and she released Centurion to let him stumble forward. Jack landed more gracefully, clearly used to this method of getting down from buildings.

The rest of the Nine made their way down, Cherish helped by Crawler. The landing was rough, as reflected by her yelp of fear and a grunt of the delayed impact crashing into her, followed by Crawler shaking her off of his body, in something almost resembling disgust.

Were the rest of the Nine bullying her?

Cherish stood up, scoffing, as she cleared up her clothes, wiping off dust with her hands. Wordlessly, the group began to move according to her direction, circling around the lake.

A moment later, a group of three, very familiar skinheads walked around the corner and instantly paused upon seeing the Slaughterhouse fucking Nine in front of them, alongside the guy they beat up like two and a half months ago.

Centurion whipped around. Upon recognizing them, he frowned, and realized they were about to get what they deserved.

Cherish seemed to exercise her power dismissively, and the three of them stared at her with longing. "Drown yourselves," she ordered, pointing at the lake, and they began to move hesitantly.

"Oh, let them be, I have some steam to blow off," Centurion said, cracking his knuckles theatrically.

He didn't want to murder people callously, but this was his chance to convince the Nine, to convince Jack, that he had that something in him. That they didn't need to force him to tag along on their freakazoid adventures, and could just release him and let him be a candidate. And he hated the three of them enough that he was confident it would fool Cherish.

Cherish looked at him in mild surprise, as did Jack and the rest of the Nine. Cherish, without looking back, said, "Stop."

The three thugs obeyed, and then started screaming in fear and anguish, collapsing to the ground. In moments, they calmed down to a state of relative peace, hyperventilating but not moving. "All yours."

Jack stood, hooking a thumb on his belt with an appraising expression. He was going to judge the violence.

Centurion hated the idea of doing everything he'd been warned of, but in that moment, he tried to draw upon all his anger. To siphon that inner Shadow Stalker, the person Tattletale said he had inside of him. He tried to harness that energy, he tried to fill out his entire being with it.

Cherish noticed, giggling. He felt the emotional equivalent of being slapped in the butt, followed by being groped and practically molested - as she used her power to push those thoughts and feelings forward, and down to a lower, baser level. He was painfully aware they were his emotions, just fast-forwarded to reaching their conclusion, stripped bare of the stuff that kept them in check. Suddenly, he found it much easier to reconcile with the idea that these three motherfuckers deserved to burn in the worst torments.

He approached them, sarcasm brimming in his voice as he spoke, "Heeeey! Remember me?"

"Shit… come on..." the one he recognized as the leader whispered, with a blank expression, "I've had enough. We've had enough, man." His voice was pleading, lacking the slightest hint of the pride or aggression that he'd gotten used to hearing from the Empire's members.

Centurion knelt next to the man and pulled him into seating, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, I understand completely," he sympathised, nodding. Then, he smirked and laughed, "Remember when I pulled your arm out of its socket?"

"Go ahead. I'll stay with Centurion, to observe what happens next." Centurion heard the rest of the Nine moving further in the direction of the Undersiders at Jack's quiet command, noticed the Siberian pulling Bonesaw along like a concerned mother, leaving only Jack and Centurion behind.

"Man, I didn't know you were a cape," another man replied, brimming with the opposite of excitement.

"I didn't know either, back then. That didn't stop you from threatening me with a knife, just because I looked at you."

The leader, whom Centurion was holding up - sighed, then laughed, "He's going to kill us. He's that psycho Ward, and he's clearly joined up with the Slaughterhouse Nine judging by that knife motherfucker," the man pointed at Jack, who simply smiled at him, but didn't say anything.

Centurion closed his eyes, then looked at Jack. "Could you please slice his throat in such a way that he won't die, but won't be able to talk?" he pleaded, annoyed.

"With pleasure." Jack nodded, and put his straight razor away. The thug leader reacted, eyes widening, as he wobbled to stand up. He wasn't quick enough, as Jack drew out a different brand of razor - one that was longer, but shallower - and swung it once.

The thug collapsed and spun from the force, clutching his throat, but taking shaky, rasped breaths. It was a narrow cut, but not too deep. He was conscious, but didn't talk, as Centurion requested.

"I'd very much like for you all to stay the fuck still, or you'll suffer the same treatment."

"It's sick motherfuckers like you that belong in the Birdcage, not Hookwolf," the other thug answered, defiantly. The one with the blonde hair. Blondie spat, as he spoke the next sentence, "Hookwolf cared about his people. You're a psychopath."

"My people? I only have one people, right now. Maybe I'll have seven more in the future. Who knows," he said threateningly. He was perfectly in the middle of believing his own words, and acting to fool Jack that he was coming around to the idea. In the case of these three, he didn't need to act anywhere as much. He was bristling with fury on the inside. An complete and total desire to kill these three, barely restrained by his own desire to see them suffer for their sins before they died.

Centurion stood straight, and walked towards Blondie. "You're a spineless, pale, pathetic bitch. You're everything that's wrong with humanity."

"Easy for you to cast stones, bitch," Blondie grunted, standing up, "You've got powers. You're probably fucking rich. You can afford not to be one of us, but you choose to side with these sick sons of bitches instead. You're no fucking better than me!" He took on a combat stance, breathing with dilated pupils, clearly overwhelmed by adrenaline and fear: Centurion saw the memories of their last fight in the man's stance and body language. The hopelessness, despair. The realization he can't win this.

"I haven't sided with anyone! I'm fighting for myself, you worthless Nazi! You think you're better just for… what, being blond and pale?" Centurion inquired, clenching his fists. "You disgust me," he spat, stepping next to him again.

"You think anyone buys into that shit, you dumb sack o-"

At 'dumb,' Centurion had already wrapped his hands around the man's throat. Blondie put up a fight, punching Centurion in the jaw hard enough he felt a numb pain fill it, then kicked Centurion in the stomach, trying to force them apart. Centurion took the blunt hit, feeling the sore pain pulsing in his chest, but didn't care. Blondie was screaming in rage, even as he was being strangled, but then began to quickly lose force, his hands fluttering at Centurion's wrists as his eyes began to slide up.

The other two began to stand up, while Jack watched without intervening.

Snap. Centurion's hands squeezed one single time, with all the collective strength of his muscles. He released Blondie, and let his limp body fall to the ground. "Who's fucking next?" the boy said with a grin. He felt more alive in that moment than ever. At having that kind of power over the powerless scum, being able to cleanse the world of them so easily. The fear, the comfort - every negative emotion and restriction he'd nursed ever since arriving in the city pinged, in the moment he saw the thug's life leave his eyes.

"No!" the leader yelled, managing to speak through his cut throat, reaching out hopelessly, and freezing at the sight of his friend's dead body, then grasping his temples.

Jack was beginning to look at the event, with his jaw hanging down, as if enlightened by the sight. He was clearly enjoying it.

"You're fucking sick," the other thug said, shaking his head. "We went clean, you fucker. No reason to side with the–"

The man was interrupted by a scream of agony and rage from the ringleader, who ran forward, screaming, thrashing, and punching at Centurion in petty wrath. He knew he'd lose the moment he ran, but seemed to decide this was his way out.

Centurion thrust his whole weight into a single punch to the leader's sternum. The man grunted, stumbling back, into his friend who caught him in the beginning of his fall, and looked up at Centurion in abject terror, shaking his head. "Why?" the man asked, tears beginning to well up in his eyes, "Y-You don't got to do this. I-I never killed anyone. I w-was just playing tough, p-please, man. Please, fuck, please let us go."

A smile crept onto Jack's face, already knowing how Centurion would answer to the sniveling.

Centurion smirked at first, then smiled with joy. And finally, he burst out in maniacal laughter.

Letting loose, going apeshit crazy, doing what he thought criminals deserved… without no one telling him that it was wrong. That he couldn't do it, because people would judge him. Letting all of that anger out of himself. It was so satisfying. So enlightening. So delightful.

"You're clearly enjoying yourself, Centurion," Jack egged him on, from where he stood. "How does it feel? Taking a life?"

Centurion blatantly ignored Jack, and walked up to the pair of thugs with a smile that unconsciously mirrored Jack's own, and in that moment, the leader growled and broke away from his friend's grasp, dashing, "No, he'll–"

Centurion grabbed the leader by his shoulder, near the neck with one hand, then deftly moved out of the way and pushed him in the back, making the man stumble and fall face-first into the tarmac, sliding on his damaged chest with a cry of pain. Centurion walked up above him, grabbed him by the back of the head, and lifted him, before smashing him into the concrete, pushing with every strand of brawn his mucles had. He heard a cry of fear behind him, from the last thug. He continued to mash the man's face into a red pulp, creating a splatter of red against the concrete. He felt the flesh give way to the skull beneath, heard the cricker-crack sound as the nose gave way and shattered, as the skull continued to develop fractures that deepened with every impact. He saw and felt as the leader of the thugs lost his will to fight, and realized with despair that he was about to die. Centurion repeated the action with sadistic glee until the man stopped moving, then let go of his head.

Centurion laughed again, psychotic. There was a thrill of death in his thoughts: the same excitement he felt when taking Blondie's life, but intensified by the sheer brutality of this action. It was almost addictive. Jack was watching with avid interest, smiling in dark satisfaction, showing teeth.

The thick, syrupy odor of something salty-sweet filled Centurion's nose. The metallic aftertaste told him it was blood, literally in the air. He felt a kind of rising, over-the-moon, ecstasy at letting loose. He wanted to scream into the sky in liberation.

While this happened, Centurion heard a shuffling of feet, as the third thug began to run away. Jack moved, and there was a sound of cloth being torn, and a wetter sound of flesh being cut open, as well as a scream and someone falling to the ground and proceeding to writhe.

Centurion stood up, turning around, slowly stepping towards the thug. Jack hadn't moved from his original spot, and he had an almost gleeful expression. He stepped off to the side, holding a kitchen knife, and letting Centurion take full stock of the last thug. The man had been hamstringed, his Achilles tendon cut cleanly to prevent him from running away.

There was an invigorating zeal in Centurion, as he approached. Flashes of hesitation appeared in his mind; the buds of shame, but he squashed them down ruthlessly. A larger thought: what if Hannah saw him? He experienced the same kind of shame that a boy skipping school and realizing his parents would find out felt, but it didn't matter right now. He had a job to do, and it was an amazing job indeed. He'd wanted to do this ever since he arrived in the city. He stepped up to the thug, undeterred by the cycling thoughts of guilt.

"Please," the man begged, "I have a family. They won't survive without me. Not in this city."

Centurion sighed in frustration. He looked down at the man, then cocked his head, as if to ask him, 'Really? That's your excuse?'

The man turned, pained by the movement, but managed to get on his back, to look at Centurion. He asked a question, hesitant, doubtful, and shaky, "Y-you were supposed to be a hero. Wha-what happened to you?"

Centurion felt a pang of guilt, stronger. For a few moments, he hesitated as he glanced at Jack out of the corner of his eye, then refocused on the anger, harvested his righteous hate: harnessed the idea that this motherfucker deserved everything he got, and then some. Even if he believed the thugs, he needed to maintain the high of zeal: to pretend that he was beginning to change. They were dead they came in contact with the Nine anyway. The answer he gave to the thug's question was multifarious: the thugs had been forced to join the Empire.

"What happens to everyone," Centurion answered.

The man shook his head, beginning to laugh and cry simultaneously. "Why? Why me?" he whispered. "I just needed mone–"

Before anything else could be said or done, Centurion stuck his thumbs in the man's eye-sockets, pushing inward with no hesitation, gouging his eyes out with a mixture of brutal glee and necessity: the awareness it was a dirty job, but had to be done. The thug shook, screaming, "No, please, no, no-uugh!"

Centurion's thumbs sunk in depper, drilling through the eyes. There was a sickening, wet squelch. Blood and the white of the eyes sprayed out and then went down the man's face in thick streams, while the thug struggled, choked out breaths, and began to shake violently. Centurion felt him stop in less than a second, taking a sudden last breath then ceasing all action.

The 'hero' pulled a way, cleaning his hands in the thug's shirt. "Fucking ew. Nazi fluids."

Jack sheathed his knife, and began to clap excitedly. He whistled once, appreciatively, "Encore! Encore! That was beautiful! I'm genuinely mesmerized by your methods, especially how you ignored them begging for mercy. I suspect you and I are more alike than either of us originally expected, Centurion. Now I'm very much interested in recruiting you."

"Holy shit," a familiar voice said, and both Jack and Centurion turned around.

Clockblocker and Aegis were standing a fair distance away, but their position made it clear they'd seen it happen. Clockblocker didn't hesitate, "Console. Master/Stranger protocols in effect, the Slaughterhouse Nine have Centurion and are controlling him. I need back–"

"Kill Clockblocker," Centurion whispered. That's what you fucking get for trying to throw me into Accord's jaws, motherfucker.

Jack looked at him for a moment, shrugged, then smiled, withdrawing a meat cleaver. Aegis reacted in moments, pushing Clockblocker with one arm, only for his head to be separated from the shoulders with a fountain of blood and a cry of surprise. Jack frowned, as Clockblocker raised his arms and froze in a spot. Jack swung twice, tearing out gouges of concrete from the tarmac and walls behind Clockblocker, but otherwise not doing anything.

With a click of the tongue, he swung at Aegis' talking head, and split it in half. Aegis instantly stopped talking, and Jack began to walk away. "They called in for backup. Let us reconvene with the rest of the Nine." Centurion was frozen on the spot for a moment, feeling icy coldness in his stomach as he observed Aegis' body, the darkest thoughts running through his mind.

Centurion followed Jack in silence. They walked like that for several moments, going down the street and turning a corner at the next intersection. After a minute, he spoke up, feeling waves of anger move down his arms and into his chest. "I really wanted the asshole to die in agonizing pain, you know? He tried to throw me in Accord's jaws. Because I didn't accept to work with him."

"Oh? Interesting. Clockblocker never struck me as utilitarian. From what I'd heard, he's a jokester type," Jack stated, smile widening. "But then, seeing his teammate and leader die in front of him will probably put an end to that."

Centurion's heart froze in guilt, but he kept talking as if he was coldly unbothered. A little part of him began to hate all of himself, for it. "Shame. Aegis was among the nice ones."

Jack blinked in surprise. "You're willing to let that go? I'd have expected you to complain about it," the man stated with a hint of pleasantness, "Not even an hour ago, we were discussing identity, and I was under the impression you'd strongly believed in saving lives. Or at least, worthwhile lives."

"Aegis was just the leader of an ineffective hero team. The Protectorate is what does stuff."

That much Centurion genuinely believed in, and he could say it without the nagging guilt clubbing into him any further, on top of the second thoughts that began to sprinkle his mind after what he did to the three thugs. He realized that when he murdered them, his consciousness had been narrowed to a sheer tunnel: a pinprick, guiding his actions. But he needed to stay the course: to show no remorse.

Jack laughed out, unable to control himself, but doing so melodically, an untamed and loud 'haa-ha-ha-ha' spreading through the night's air.

When he was done, he looked at Centurion with a warm expression. "That they do. What do you think Miss Militia would think, if she was there, instead of Clockblocker and Aegis?" the man asked, curious.

"Master effect on me." He clenched his fists, wondering just how much that was himself, and how much of it was Cherish. Would he have stopped at some point, if she hadn't given him the push at the beginning? "That I couldn't have possibly done that of my own volition."

"And you're fine with betraying her trust like that?" Jack asked, almost tingling with some kind of deep excitement.

"No. But it's too late now, is it?"

"I was by myself," Jack said, eyes sliding to look at Centurion with a kind of deep, almost animalistic pleasure. "If you ran to them, or went for cover, or even pushed me, the three of you might have had a chance of salvaging that."

"Clockblocker's not quick enough to get to you in time. I'm powerless. Aegis can only regenerate quickly and fly fast. And you disposed of him in three slices."

"I knew where to strike," Jack answered, with a hint of pride in his knifemanship, turning the sharp meat cleaver in his hand, then jabbing forward theatrically. "When you strike the right spot, it tends to disable pesky regenerators in one go. Sometimes, it's the corona. Sometimes it's a core inside their bodies."

"Good to know," Centurion said in a blank tone. The adrenaline was wearing off. The regret hit him like a truck, but it didn't show. What happened now didn't change the fact that those three thugs had it coming by a long way.

"Question, out of curiosity," Jack said, running a hand over his greased hair, slicking back some loose strands. He looked at Centurion, for the question itself, a mite excited, "So in the end, you chose not to side with them out of convenience? Or was it directed malice, at Clockblocker? I'm really curious about that."

"Both," Centurion shrugged.

Jack laughed out loud, chest heaving up and down in unrestrained bliss. It was the pure laughter of someone who was having the time of their life.

99

Birdsie

Nov 23, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 24, 2019

#3,595

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains non-explicit mentions of sexual assault that have caused discomfort in at least one reader. Discretion is advised; if you wish to skip the aforementioned portion, stop reading at the line that says:

"Uh... I don't know? What's her fear?" Centurion asked.

And resume reading at:

Centurion's eyes widened. "What did you do?" Centurion felt rising anticipation, a mix of energy and anxiety. What horror could Jack Slash come up with to break someone who's already broken?

They walked over to the rest of the Nine. Crawler's figure loomed in the distance, the size of a large ant from this far away: it'd take two or three minutes to reach them on foot, although the entire group seemed to be waiting for them.

"I'll be honest. I am most definitely looking forward to adding your membership to the team, after seeing that display. Ah, you'll still have to pass the trials. It's a matter of course," Jack enthused, waving his hand in a dismissive motion, "But you'll probably breeze through those; at least the physical ones."

"What do they consist of?" Centurion asked in curiosity, cocking his head to the side. The adrenaline and sheer anger were slowly wearing off.

"Each member of the Nine comes up with a trial for the candidates," Jack explained, "But, quite obviously, not all of the candidates make it. It purges away the weak ones, and leaves us with survivors who fit in. Usually, individuals not native to the city are prohibited from helping any of the candidates, but otherwise, permissions can be made. And naturally, candidates can fight one another."

"Do I get my powers?" the boy inquired, eager to know the answer.

"Of course! That'd be terribly unfair, if you didn't," Jack answered, shaking his head with a smile and a little chuckle, "We did take Cherish's powers during some of her tests away, but those were a special case. We returned them by the time of Shatterbird's test - she locked Cherish in a room, with a piece of glass that'd always follow her very slowly, killing her if she sat in one place for too long. Just before this test, she'd been chased by Siberian for three days, with her powers disabled by a parasite that Bonesaw devised - similar to what's sitting in your brain. Except that particular strain would make the power loss permanent, unless Cherish drank blood. An unspecified amount, and she wasn't told if certain types counted or didn't count. It was riveting to watch. She sat down after the Siberian's test, thinking she was about to catch a break, but Shatterbird quickly... shattered, that idea." Jack gesticulated at the drab use of wording, clearly wishing he'd found a better term for it.

Centurion snorted. "So evil. So, three days of being chased by Siberian? What happens if she catches me?" he asked, half-knowing the answer already.

"Lunch," Jack drew out the 'l.'

"Yum."

"Indeed," Jack nodded, then smiled excitedly. "But Mannequin's test was even better. Cherish is Heartbreaker's daughter. A mixture of good genetics, careful skincare, and yeaaars of using beauty products honed her body to make her naturally beautiful. Mannequin had her tattoo the most disgusting assembly of shapes on her torso that I'd ever seen - tattoos of corpses and writhing maggots. No one could look at a body like that and think of it as pretty anymore."

Centurion nodded along, listening intently. He was very curious about this. He wanted to know everything.

"Crawler's test was taken in advance - Cherish eliminated Hatchet Face on her own, and asked us to join. He didn't think much of her. Burnscar often requires that members face their greatest fear. Can you guess what that is, for Cherish? I'll hint that she failed the test, and was penalized for it."

"Uh... I don't know? What's her fear?" Centurion asked.

"She always wanted to forge her own path. She feared loss of agency. Long story short, Cherish had been tasked to sleep with several people that Burnscar deemed satisfactory. On the list were homeless people, and someone infected with AIDS. Cherish wasn't willing, so Burnscar enlisted Bonesaw's help to disable her, and handed her over to a group of eager young men." Centurion felt a pang of utter disgust as his eyes widened, but he didn't speak. "Last, came my test. I felt I'd been outdone by every other member of the Nine, and she was already broken by that time."

Jack looked straight at him. "Guess how I solved the issue?"

Centurion's eyes widened. "What did you do?" Centurion felt rising anticipation, a mix of energy and anxiety. What horror could Jack Slash come up with to break someone who's already broken?

"I made her go through the trials again, from the beginning. Bonesaw even resurrected Hatchet Face, and this time, Cherish didn't have the drop on him on her second go." Jack's smile was a little wider, almost reminiscing the event, chuckling quietly. Then, Jack began to guffaw.

Centurion burst out laughing alongside him. Why the fuck am I laughing? What the fuck is wrong with me?

He shook the thought off and sighed, making it sound like a sigh of satisfaction. "Why do you hate her so much?" he asked.

"Hate?" Jack asked, surprised. He blinked, shaking his head, "I don't hate her, I just believed it to be amusing. Especially given she nominated herself for membership, after killing one of our members. There was grim satisfaction in proving her wrong."

"She's an asshole alright," Centurion confirmed with a nod.

"Oh, she's been planning to take us all down; especially me, and taking over the Nine for some time now," Jack said, then tapped the side of his skull, with a grin. "Artificial neurons. She has no idea," he whispered, with a hoarse chuckle.

Centurion's eyes widened. Right.

"I'm curious to see how she'll go about it, so we're keeping her alive for now," Jack said.

"I just had a cruel idea to off her," Centurion started, caressing his chin thoughtfully.

"Oh?"

"Approach. Start kissing her. Make out. Then stab stomach until the desired effect is reached. I could be the best at that because I could manifest a bladed weapon out of thin air," Centurion proposed.

Holy fuck. How the fuck am I thinking these things? Why? On the outside, Centurion was pretty much indifferent. But his head was swirling with thoughts. He had just killed three defenseless people, begging to be spared. He wanted Clockblocker dead, and specifically requested a maniacal serial killer – known for being the worst of the worst – to kill him, and in the process, he got Aegis killed.

He felt so much guilt build up within him, but in the very moment it was going to spill outside, he pushed it back down with a gulp, as he felt a chill crawl down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, his lips thinned ever-so-slightly and he looked down.

The boy wouldn't have even thought about committing such atrocities – for real – yesterday. All these urges, this anger… it came out suddenly. As if a volcano erupted after being dormant for thousands of years.

This was inside him, all along. Cherish did nothing but bring it to the surface. How could he ever call himself a hero? Such a fucking hypocrite. Sophia was right. Tattletale was right. Everyone was right about him. He wasn't a hero: he was a monster on a leash, kept in check with a shock collar. The fucking murderhobos just took off the leash and gave him belly-rubs.

But it was too late to inform Jack of a change of heart, as doing so would mean dying, or not getting his powers back. He had to keep the pretense up. He looked up. This conversation, the whole thing with tagging along with the Nine felt like an eternity but instead was not even a single second.

"What do you think?" Centurion asked with a forced grin.

"I like the way your brain works, but let Cherish stay alive for now. I'm curious to see what she'll do to try to take us down," Jack patted Centurion on the back, as Centurion clenched his jaw, just as they caught up to the rest of the Nine. The entire group stood at the entrance of a parking garage, half a block away from the edge of the lake.

Shatterbird floated down, the swarm of crystals around her gathering onto her dress as she touched down on the ground. "The Undersiders fled the moment they noticed us. Burnscar managed to burn up Grue pretty badly, but then the Protectorate arrived to back them up, and Vista bent the area to cover their escape."

"Ah. Highly unfortunate. Who from the Protectorate?" Jack questioned.

"Adamant, Miss Militia, Vista, and Weaver," Bonesaw said, tapping her fingers against a scalpel in her hand thoughtfully and excitedly, like she was eager to use it on someone. "Vista's power is way more interesting than I thought! I wonder what kind of art I could make with it."

Centurion's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the last three names But Cherish was there: and he started doing the only thing that could reliably control his emotions. Chant. His mind started repeating the same phrase, over and over, and his body relaxed. His expression became less stiff, and his head cleared. There was no emotion, aside from 'serenity'.

Nam myoho renge kyo.

Cherish began to laugh, holding her belly as she did. The Nine's members turned to look at her, including a grouchy Bonesaw. "What's so funny?!" the Tinker-surgeon asked.

"Not you-ho-heh," Cherish breathed in, coughed, and rubbed a tear aside, pointing at Centurion as she began to explain. "The moment you mentioned Miss Militia he started doing some kind of self-calming voodoo crap exercise in his head. What? Is she your mom or something?" she teased, with a lopsided grin.

Centurion looked at her with the most neutral face he could put up. He struggled to cover up any reaction, and though on the outside he managed to appear calm, on the inside, a spike of something - anxiety, fear, anger, and Cherish grinned. "Holy shit, she is!" She began to laugh again.

Bonesaw made a long gasping sound, then hopped up to Centurion. "Really? Really? Really-really-really?! I want to meet her, now! And get to know her!"

"No. Eidolon is my father. My mother is a normal human," Centurion answered, looking down at Bonesaw with a serious expression. The thought that Eidolon was his father was repeated so many times by so many people, that he could almost speak the lie with bold confidence.

"I don't actually believe that," Shatterbird answered, shaking her head. She looked a touch deriding, like everyone who did think so was below her.

"Our powers are pretty much the same. Mine is just… more precise. More… mathematical, we could say." Centurion shrugged.

Jack perked up at that, blinking curiously and letting out a thoughtful 'hm.' "Cherish, where is the nearest group of our superpowered non-compatriots? It's getting quite late and I'd like to proceed with the festivities," Jack related, and Cherish sighed and turned around, walking three steps away from the group. Like the Nine's personal radar.

"Over that way," Cherish pointed to somewhere on her right. "The Protectorate, maybe three to four blocks down and getting away."

"Crawler, Shatterbird. Go cut them off," Jack said, and with that, the six-legged monster grinned and bounded away, the earth shaking as he began to run at the speed of a car. As he turned the corner to another street, he clipped a building, and the building broke in that spot. Shatterbird smiled, and then the quietest melody, like a rhythm of wind-chime sounds at high frequency, but low volume began to ring, and she ascended high, then away.

Centurion's foot started tapping. Anxiety.

Cherish noticed, smiling, then began to walk after Crawler and Shatterbird, followed by Burnscar and Mannequin. Jack offered Siberian his hand while she joined up with Bonesaw, and Bonesaw offered hers to Centurion with a wide smile, her eyes almost glistening with childish joy. "I believe we're off to meet your family, Centurion," Jack stated.

Centurion grabbed Bonesaw's hand and clenched it hard. Cold sweat oozed from his skin like soap from a wet sponge, left to dry on the side of a bathtub. Bonesaw began to hum and do a little dance, as they went down the street.

In the distance, Centurion could hear Adamant's metal-on-flesh impacts, the sounds of Miss Militia using her power - a rifle at first, before she seemed to change to a bazooka - and he could make out a black cloud of bugs, positioning themselves in an attempt to cut off Shatterbird, as she laughed and wove out of their way, as she sent down a storm of glass down on her targets. The streets were beginning to expand the slightest bit, indicating Vista was utilizing her power.

Please, please, don't die, please. Centurion swallowed to fix his dry throat. Instead, it left him with a sort of glue-in-his-mouth feeling, parched, reminding him of how barren it was.

Seconds later, the Nine and Centurion emerged on the street where the fight was taking place. There was a group of four heroes, in a sort of triangle position with Vista in the middle, Weaver, Adamant, and Miss Militia on the three sides. Protecting the junior member, while she backed all of them.

Vista bent space in preparation to put distance between them and Crawler, and Miss Militia's sniper rifle quickly changed into a grenade launcher. She fired off a barrage of three of them at the six-legged regenerator and hit them all on mark.

The grenades impacted roughly the same spot on his head, exploding in a staccato burst. The first one did next to nothing but daze the monster, the second one bent the armored plate on his forehead, and the third one tore a chunk out of his head, including a good amount of the brain. The remains of the mouth grinned, and in maybe two seconds, the flesh surrounding the hole reached out and repaired the damage. A new plate of armor slid out of that spot, black, but shining ever-so-slightly. A subtle change, some kind of measure that made it explosion-proof?

Jack whistled loudly, and eleven of Crawler's eyes turned to look at him, while the rest remained trained on the Protectorate. He opened his mouth, and like a goddamn dragon, he spat out a line of acid on the ground, creating a wall the Protectorate wouldn't escape through. Shatterbird moved to join him, creating a barrier. A pincer attack, almost, as the Protectorate was stuck between the two groups.

No, no, no, no, stop it. Stop it!

Miss Militia turned, and looked over in their direction, raising her grenade launcher and then seeing Centurion and immediately hesitating.

Centurion allowed himself to show fear and shame. Like a child, desperately calling out to his mother, but not being able to.

I'm sorry.

Miss Militia was staring, wide-eyed beneath her glasses, her hands trembling ever-so-slightly, but visibly even at this distance. Adamant stood in place, facing Crawler and Shatterbird in preparation to shield the rest of the team. Vista was looking around, at one group, then at the other, while Weaver stood still, not looking at either group for a moment before her head swiveled around meaningfully and locked on Centurion.

Taylor. Put a bug on me. Please. Save me. Someone do something.

"Well, then!" Jack said, stepping forward as he let go of the Siberian's hand. Allowing himself to be exposed. He was smiling at them, regarding them in an almost gentlemanly manner. "I expected we'd be able to do more with the Undersiders, but you will do just as well. Weaver, and Centurion's mother. Hm. I'd have never expected Miss Militia to be the mother of someone with such a peculiar ability, but here we are."

"Let her be," Centurion whispered through clenched teeth. Bonesaw looked at him with an 'o' for a mouth, then smiled brightly. Almost like she was trying to reassure him, while simultaneously pitying him.

Jack either didn't hear him or ignored him. Almost teasingly, his right hand reached for a knife just as he began to walk in circles. The way he walked, he was making a slow, elaborate arc, drawing all of the attention to himself, but inevitably moving in such a way the Protectorate's members would also look over at the Nine's members behind him.

"I have to say," Jack began, almost like he was giving a speech, "Tonight has been full of unexpected surprises. Some pleasant, some less so. Mostly the former, which is why I'm in such a great mood - especially when the night is yet to bring the pièce de résistance to fruit."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Adamant asked, loud, but through clenched teeth.

"Language!" Bonesaw snapped at him.

Jack seemed momentarily annoyed his speech had been interrupted, but let it go with a shrug and a smile. "I'm talking about Shatterbird's concert, of course. We won't be able to deliver the right message, the information regarding the tests to everyone. Once she sings, the whole world will hear! Isn't that right, darling?"

Shatterbird smiled at him felicitously, with a touch of delight. Stroking her ego.

Centurion was shaking. He wanted to yell at them to leave, but he'd better not interrupt his speech if he wanted his powers back. Better not annoy him.

"Oh? What's that?" Cherish craned her ear, and Jack turned to look at her. "That's hope I'm feeling. How confident!"

"Who's the lucky person?" Jack asked, beginning to grin.

"I called her the Worm in my head. She's your candidate," Cherish explained, folding her arms with a smile.

Jack looked forward, mildly surprised. It was a pleasant surprise. He was almost ecstatic, at the fact, like he'd wanted something to complicate the evening in another unexpected way. Searching for amusement. "Is that true, Weaver?"

The white-costumed heroine stared at him, but did not say anything. For long moments, they regarded each other from a distance, and Jack clicked his lips, then shook his head in disappointment. "Weaver. If you try anything silly, the Siberian here will tear your friends apart, which may include Centurion here if she feels so inclined. I certainly wouldn't."

Jack turned a knife in his palm and asked, "I'm intrigued. What plan did you hatch, Weaver?"

"I was going to communicate to Miss Militia to shoot you, using my power," she answered, and Jack began to nod, "Then Vista would bend space to give us an escape through one of the empty buildings, while I distracted the Siberian with my bugs. I'm not sure if it'd be sufficient, now."

"Not sufficient," he answered, nodding gravely. His good humor dissipated. He didn't outright become hostile, but he regarded Weaver coldly, as if in total disappointment.

Centurion let go of Bonesaw's hand politely, and walked past Jack, without even looking at him. He pictured the emotions that he felt while killing those three thugs. Even though the emotions weren't his own, they'd work to trick Cherish. He filled his mind with them, made those feelings an integral part of his being. But he found it difficult. The previous realization that what he'd done was monstrous made him reject the feelings on principle.

Realizing that, his mind went back to his childhood. To the sheer anger, fury of when he was bullied. Of when he was beaten up by literally everyone, both emotionally and physically. Anger welled up within him.

"Jack, may I speak?" Centurion asked, turning towards the knife-wielding man.

Jack looked at him, into him with both eyes, and he looked sheerly unimpressed for a moment before he began to smile with the slightest hint of irritation. "Of course, Centurion. This is a place of open discussion. A Forum Romanum, you could call it." Bonesaw nodded along with a grin.

Centurion's looked in Miss Militia's direction. His eyes were fixed on hers, yet full of shame. Unnoticeable to any random person, but so clear to a mother. Jack seemed to notice anyway, as did Cherish judging from the 'hmph' she made.

Then, Centurion looked down, and his eyes went up to gaze at Weaver. Sorry if I disappointed you, he thought, fully aware that she couldn't hear what he was thinking. He sighed and looked at Jack, "Sorry if I interrupted you," he said apologetically, walking back to his previous spot.

"No, no," Jack said, and reached out, grabbing Gabriel by the shoulder. He pulled him closer, in an almost brotherly manner, one arm wrapped around Centurion's back, the other holding a kitchen knife. He pointed with the knife, at Gabriel's chest as if it were a finger and he was presenting him to them. "This boy is truly gifted, Miss Militia. I'm impressed. A natural at what he does. A natural."

Centurion's body was tense. So tense, it felt rigid to Jack's touch.

"What?" she asked, in a mixture of searing anger and shock.

"Yes," Jack nodded, in a tone that was too calm. He walked back, and circled around Centurion like a shark while keeping one hand on him at all times. "He's a natural-born killer. I've seen people learn to kill. For me, it was a sort of instinct, but it was learned quickly, rather than inborn. I've scarcely seen someone this interesting on their first go, without any push."

Centurion mouthed 'Cherish' in Miss Militia's direction, but she didn't notice, too occupied by listening to Jack's statements.

"I don't really know what they did to set him off," Jack said, laughing as he shook his head, "But three folks came down the street, and Centurion was so eager to have them. He asphyxiated one, gouged out the eyes of another. You can ask Clockblocker - he was there and survived. He saw for himself. I'm sure he'll agree it was quite entertaining."

Centurion's fists clenched even more. If only he had his powers, Jack would be dead in an instant. Use the vial-given Master power to stop him in his tracks, then put a laser through his brain. But he couldn't. He was powerless, and the feeling of Jack Slash circling around him like a shark, with the rest of the Nine behind him… it created an almost physical horror: he felt as if there were needles of terror in his back, and he felt a desire to run forward, to escape them and rejoin the Protectorate.

"I don't believe it," Miss Militia answered, stalwart. Weaver seemed to clench.

Jack chuckled for a moment, derisively. "You have radio communicators, don't you? Just ask."

Miss Militia hesitated, then began to reach to her ear with a shaking hand. Centurion shouted out, "The anger was mine! Cherish amplified it! I wouldn't have done that if it wasn't for her!"

"I didn't amplify it," Cherish argued, without sounding argumentative. She turned to look at him, smiling, as she scoffed, "That was all you. All I did was bring the anger to the fore; speed up your decision-making. Don't put this on me, when it was all your choice, retard. You could've realized you don't like murder when you were strangling a guy to death. I felt his emotions as he went, you know? The despair. The indignity. The burning belief you didn't have any right to do it. And then, that one final stab of fear that went through him when he realized his brain would stop working in literally the next three seconds."

Centurion looked away, shaking with rage and despair. He was ruined. Two of the three people who he truly cared about would hate him now, without question. His career as a hero was sunk; if he ever tried coming back, he'd probably be arrested and put away with the dogs. What point was there to living, now?

Miss Militia pressed the radio earbud, shaking her head in a daze, then whispered to ask something. Weaver's hands clenched, then unclenched as her swarm began to buzz a little louder. She'd released her anger into the bugs? It was an almost smooth transition, but he noticed it peripherally.

Kill me.

Miss Militia physically flinched, as she heard some response over the radio. "N-no..."

"Yes!" Jack roared out into the night with unbridled bliss, almost like he was feasting on her despair. His chest began to heave with laughter.

In the span of what was less than two seconds, before anyone could properly react to her movements - too shocked or amused by the revelation - Miss Militia raised a large sniper rifle and shot Jack Slash straight in the chest. Jack's eyes widened, as he stepped back thrice and a red blotch began to expand from the area where his heart was, into the Siberian's grasp. The striped woman took on a feral scowl, helped to stabilize his stance quickly and let him go when he managed to find balance. She then leaped down the street, in utter killing frenzy.

Vista expanded the distance, and for a brief moment, the Siberian was suspended in midair - crossing the distance which kept expanding, before she noticed and suddenly went down, cracking concrete and pavement and sinking to her ankles in the ground, before she bounded forward again, running at speed most humans would struggle to achieve, but not outright superhumanly fast.

Bonesaw and Jack began to walk off into cover, while Crawler, Shatterbird, and Mannequin moved to join the fray with the Siberian. Burnscar and Cherish looked at Centurion with glares, prompting him to move to follow, and Burnscar began to send blasts of bright fire down the way of the heroes. He noticed the trails of fire ignite some of the buildings. He felt the slightest longing for Cherish, momentarily, as she used her power.

Centurion looked at Weaver with immense regret and shame, as he ran after Jack, Cherish, and Bonesaw. He was followed by Burnscar. The Protectorate began to run and cover themselves from the Nine, and in that very moment, Dovetail swooped down, deploying a line of forcefield bubbles and dropping Clockblocker onto the ground.

Something strange happened, as Clockblocker picked up a handful of dust from the ground and tossed it at Crawler: the dust froze in midair, and Crawler crashed into it, developing a dozen cuts on his skin, before he stopped being able to walk.

Clockblocker picked up a rock, as the dust fell to the ground, and he tossed it at Crawler. Both he and the rock froze in place the moment it touched him. Shatterbird rained down a hail of glassy projectiles at the Protectorate and Wards, and Centurion didn't get to see much more as they'd began to make their way down another street by that time.

Jack was sitting down at a sidewalk bench, as Bonesaw extricated a bullet from his chest using a pair of foreceps. Two mechanical spiders joined her in the operation, coming out of a dark alleyway to deliver supplies to her. She took a syringe from one of them and inserted it into Jack's chest, delivering the load of whatever candy-red liquid was inside.

"I'm sorry," Centurion said through grit teeth, sitting next to Jack. "Can I help in any way?"

Bugs began to converge. A group of twenty to thirty hornets and wasps, backed-up by bees and several other flying bugs flew towards Bonesaw from behind. She sighed, and spun around. Her finger opened up to the side, revealing a metal tube, which sprayed out a white aerosol. The bugs dropped to the ground like pellets from a watermelon, their wings moving for a moment as they died off. After that, she went back to surgery, shaking her head, "I have it handled, thank you!"

"This is proof that I'm a natural-born killer. You said I could talk to distract. You never specified who I'd need to distract. I knew you'd survive whatever they'd do to you. You are the longest-standing Slaughterhouse member for a reason," Centurion said with a grin. Please him. This raises my chances.

Jack smiled and chuckled. "You didn't do anything to steer the conversation that way, Centurion. It was a natural outcome, so don't take credit where it isn't due." Centurion felt a cringe, which he redirected to make his butt squeeze shut in fear. "And it seems Miss Militia didn't know where to hit. Had she shot me in an eye, we might have been in trouble."

He looked down at Jack's chest for a moment. The red hole in there revealed he had some kind of mesh of gray lines underneath his skin and muscles, and the sniper round failed to penetrate it fully. Bonesaw extricated the bullet, then began to cover up the wound using some kind of brush-like implement, literally painting new skin onto him.

"I'm fine," Jack assured her. Bonesaw smiled at him, and then reached forward and hugged him.

Moments later, Mannequin came back. Centurion's eyes widened involuntarily, as he noticed that he held Miss Militia by the hair, pulling her in their direction. She was breathing, but blood pooled out of her chest, out of a darker red line in the center. Mannequin raised her, then tossed her towards Bonesaw, cocking his head as if asking, 'Do you want this?'

Bonesaw grinned and clapped her hands, gasping like a child who'd received a Christmas gift. "Thaaank you! That's very kind of you!"

Mannequin gave a shallow nod, then locked his gaze on Centurion. He began to walk out of Centurion's line of sight, with a sense of domination. Like an animal who proved itself superior in every respect: a trained dog on display.

Centurion didn't say anything. He was shocked. Scared. Horrified. He knew what Bonesaw would do to her.

Bonesaw pressed her remote, and the pair of surgical spiders skittered onto Miss Militia's body, jabbing syringes into her stomach without any warning or ostentation. The woman recoiled in pain, screaming, and coughing out blood onto the pavement before she began to wheeze and breathe in.

"Hm," Bonesaw tilted her head, frowning. "She doesn't want to sleep?"

Centurion approached Bonesaw and gently took one of her hands, but she didn't seem to notice, staring at Miss Militia in thought, her brows furrowed. "Please. I'll be your big brother forever, but let her go," he pleaded with a shaky voice, holding back tears. He squeezed her hand, and she noticed him in that moment.

"But she'll die if I do!" Bonesaw said, looking at him and taking his hand with both of hers as she smiled. "She's your mom! We don't want that!"

"Save her, but don't do your art with her!" he argued back, trembling.

"There's an idea, then," Jack said. He was standing up, buttoning up his white dress shirt - now stained with a gradually drying blood circle and with a hole in the middle. Centurion waited with anticipation, but Jack didn't finish his thought until he'd buttoned-up his shirt first. "A way to ensure you'll do your best as a candidate."

"...If I do my best, will you keep her the way she is?" Centurion asked, looking down, forlorn.

"Mmhm!" Bonesaw nodded, "But I might look at her brain, to see how her power works! It's really interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Centurion didn't say anything. Why couldn't someone come here? Swoop down, and save the day?

Jack stretched out, like someone who just woke up from sleep, and then yawned, scratching the back of his head. "Let's go," he said to Cherish, and she nodded, then looked at Burnscar meaningfully. Burnscar disappeared in a burst of flame.

Several moments later, Siberian landed on the ground next to them, and walked the rest of the way. Her hands were stained with fresh blood: fresh enough that it dripped from her fingers, leaving a trace on the ground and on her naked thighs. Her face was stained further, especially her grinning teeth and her lips, which she licked as she approached them.

This was followed by Crawler bounding over through the street: he looked like his skin at the front was just a little bit rougher. Like a rhinoceros', but otherwise unchanged. He must have been so close to the apex of perfection that there wasn't much left that could hurt him meaningfully for him to change.

Shatterbird and Burnscar returned next, the former via flight, the latter by walking to them. Centurion spotted smoke rising in the street they came from, where the fight took place.

"Well then, Centurion. I believe that this is where we depart," Jack said, as Bonesaw's spiders lifted up Miss Militia's unmoving body like she was lying on a mobile coffin. He noticed that the spiders didn't have limbs dedicated to lifting, so scalpels, bonesaws, and drills sunk into her back for the purpose, and would likely stretch the holes as they moved her. He felt his breathing get uneven. "Give him his powers back, Bonesaw."

Bonesaw's finger opened up again, revealing a long tube of metal inside. She straightened the finger and pointed it straight at Centurion's neck, like a finger gun. He felt a degree of anxiety, then a dart fired, hitting him and injecting some substance. He felt a sharp pain in his neck, then a gradual warmth filling his neck. Nowhere near as debilitating as the Cauldron vials were. He took the syringe-dart out of his neck.

With that, the Nine began to walk away.

Centurion felt a sudden, debilitating heat in his brain. He fell to his knees, as he felt a surge of fire go through him, burning up nerves and veins as it reached the end of every limb.

In moments, the groggy awareness of his powers returned. It felt like they were out of reach, three or five steps away: that, if he reached with his hand, he'd at best be able to scrape against their sides. Like atrophied muscles; like someone sat down for half a year, doing nothing, and then suddenly tried to break into a sprint from his position. In ten seconds, the feeling began to diminish, and his powers started to return.

The first thing he did as soon as he felt his charges thrum was throw two of them into activating the previously unactivated vial powers. One into Pyrachnid, the other into Bulletproof.

Instantly, time began to skip. Eleven seconds at first, then eight minutes, then three more minutes, and he was up, with the Bulletproof power finished. A Breaker state lasting a single minute and had a several-minute cooldown, that turned him into a golden statue, disabling other powers for the duration. No outside force could affect him in the state, which - if he so desired - included gravity.

The Pyrachnid power configured next, and Gabriel began to lose consciousness. Five minutes went by in a second, then twelve minutes, then eight.

He heard a voice, saying, "-fucked up." He recognized it as Regent's.

"Please don't hurt me," Centurion said, on the brink of tears. A villainous voice, yes, but such a welcome one. He recognized Regent, knew that Regent was an asshole. But they'd fought Leviathan together. Even if Regent decided to kill him, it'd be a death from a familiar face - preferable to if some thug found him lying there and killed him.

"Didn't pla–" someone began to say, before six minutes skipped by. Gabriel was now on a dog, on their back, his hands wrapped around Hellhound's waist, as they moved forward through the streets at the speed of a car. He jolted awake, alerting Hellhound and causing her to growl, before seven minutes skipped, then eleven more.

By that time, he was in a bed, staring at a ceiling. There were more timeskips after that. Twenty-seven minutes, then thirteen, and then twenty-eight, and finally five, after which it began to stabilize itself. When he came to, Gabriel was in a bed, staring at a dark concrete ceiling.

The Pyrachnid power had exactly the same amount of charges as his environmental shield. It resulted in a regeneration power, that'd create a golden fire in his wounds that helped repair them on a molecular level. It was slightly faster than the ambrosia, but the two weren't compatible. On top of that: the dead tissue would be turned into wisps of fire that orbited him, that he could direct and blast with, or in larger quantities, they'd become phoenixes that he could give orders to, or diffuse into powerful blasts of golden flame.

He jumped out of bed, turning on his environmental shield. "Is anyone there?" he shouted out, primed for combat. He was shaking.

Instantly after, voices he hadn't realized had been speaking stopped. The door to the room opened slowly, and a combination of Tattletale, Regent, and Trainwreck stood behind it, looking at him in a jumble of awkward emotions, excluding Regent who looked chill.

"Welcome to the land of the living," Tattletale said, not really sounding welcoming as she did.

Gabriel fell to his knees, sighing heavily and wearily. "Fuck..."

"You didn't have a mask, when we found you," Regent said, as casual as someone talking about the weather. His hands were in his pockets as he spoke and shrugged, "So we used a sharpie to paint your face black. Given this is Brockton Bay no one will probably give a shit."

"Your power freaked out," Tattletale said, without fanfare, "Why?"

"Yeah, it did. I made two new powers, big powers," he clarified, waving one hand, "when I do that, it needs time to configure itself."

She narrowed her eyes, then began to read into something in what he said. Extrapolating, drawing conclusions with her power no doubt, until she blinked. Tattletale looked briefly conflicted, then asked, "How did you… No, that's not important, right now. The PRT is apparently looking for you."

"I need to get back to them, now," Centurion announced, standing up on his feet.

Regent grinned at that, before looking at Tattletale. Trainwreck behind them folded his arms, but didn't speak. He looked just as unhygienic as the last time Centurion saw him, but the design of his armor changed a little. "Do you tell him, or do I? You should probably do it. I'd insert too much sarcasm," Regent related.

"Do I have a kill order on my head for being part of the Nine?" Centurion asked, excepting the answer might be 'yes.'

"No, but if you go to them, you're prrrrobably going to the Birdcage. That's what tits over here is saying," Regent clarified, thumbing in Tattletale's direction.

Tattletale sighed, shaking her head and sagging as she looked down in utter disappointment at his existence. When she looked up, she turned to him with a cheeky expression, explaining it like she was speaking to a toddler, "That's not what I said, Regent. I said it's very possible the PRT will arrest him for this, instead of sweeping it under the rug. Which is ironic, as he's the one that caused so much internal drama that'll lead them to do this."

"I need to ask Coil for a favor," Centurion said, clenching his teeth and fists.

"The boss doesn't know you're here," Tattletale said, then tossed a phone in his direction.

He barely caught it, then looked at the text he sent back when he was escaping with the briefcase.

"Well. Where's this friend you were talking about?" she asked, folding her arms and grinning.

Last edited: Jun 30, 2021

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Birdsie

Nov 24, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 24, 2019

#3,680

Tattletale and Centurion regarded each other pregnantly for a moment. To break the awkwardness, she shrugged. "If you're feeling up to it, we can talk in my office. Hammer out the fine details," she proposed, "Or, given everything you've been through, you can rest here. I wouldn't mind."

"About… what, exactly?" Centurion asked, rubbing his eyes. His voice was laced with unconscious suspicion and skepticism. If Tattletale thought of this as excessively offensive, she didn't show it.

"Whatever it is you wanted to talk about," she replied non-committal in tone, not indicating at the fact that she probably knew how shit he was feeling. Tattletale avoided his gaze when he thought about that. "Or about whatever happened just now. About what happened today."

"That's… that's old stuff. Coil is the least of my problems now. I don't think he is my problem anymore," Centurion admitted, sighing. He was exhausted: so, so exhausted. He just wanted to lie down on the bed, and never wake up again. This was a mess, and whose fault was this? Only one person to blame. If he wasn't so valuable, as Piggot said, he'd probably be considering killing himself right now. "Why do you care, anyway?" he asked, looking up at her with a touch of skeptical disbelief.

"Why did you care about Skitter?" she asked, raising her hands above her head in her defense, sort of like she wanted to keep them away from the ground. "It's all like that. People have this stupid tendency to take care of each other."

Centurion froze for a moment. His eyes watered, becoming glossy, but he held the tears back. "Can they leave the room?" he asked, pointing at Trainwreck and Regent, then looking at her again. "Please," he pleaded, his voice sounding small and dainty. Delicate, like he was a glass about to shatter.

"Go keep Grue company," she said, looking at them. Trainwreck nodded silently and moved, while Regent stared back at her for a moment before looking off-handedly at Gabriel. She blew up at him, raising her hands into the air as if asking him what he's waiting for, "Well, gooo?!"

Regent rolled his eyes, and began to walk. "Don't get your panties in a twis–" She kicked him in the rump, causing him to finish the sentence in a grunt, followed by laughter as he walked away. Tattletale stepped through the door and closed it, blowing out air through her mouth for a few seconds, until her lungs were empty - in exasperation, as she turned to look at Centurion.

His hands were covering his mouth: tears were streaming down his eyes like waterfalls. He was sobbing uncontrollably and shaking.

Centurion felt trapped, snared, incapable of moving anywhere. Stuck between a rock and a son of a bitch. But on top of that, the mention of Skitter pushed him past the breaking point. The only reason he could control himself was that he was too exhausted to even consider having a panic attack. Drained, physically and emotionally.

"I disappointed her," Centurion cried out, continuing to sob and wail as quietly as he could.

"Yeaaah," she hissed, eyes drawn to the side with one eye closed and a cringing smile. Tattletale put her back against the wall and allowed herself to slide down until she hit the ground. "You basically kind of did. Shadow Stalker, Armsmaster; basically every hero was an asshole to her, until you showed up, and looked like the genuine article. I kind of… well, I kind of predicted something like this would happen. I tried to steer her away from the disappointment, but you were more convincing."

Centurion couldn't help but keep crying, with little to no control over his thoughts and body. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Snot and tears went down and soaked his face. He brushed his sleeve across it just to get rid of the moisture, only for more to arrive, relentlessly.

He moved and kicked the side of the bed, causing it to slide to another side of the room. He felt so powerless against it. He wanted to destroy that bed, with the kick, but it slid across the fucking floor instead.

He released a shrieking sound, between a growl and a scream, then stood up and started punching the wall, at first ineffectually, then causing bits of stone to chip off. He released a gut-wrenching, ear-piercing scream of rage and despair, hurting his throat, feeling his vocal cords burn, but still continuing to scream despite that, knowing and hating that they would heal in seconds or minutes. He loaded all force of his telekinesis into his fist and punched the wall.

His fist sunk into the concrete at its entire depth, causing a ginormous cobweb of cracks to spread out. He began to breathe, heaving, feeling as oxygen went through his tortured windpipe and into his chest, then back out. As it filled out his lungs and left it. His entire throat felt raw from the cold air entering and leaving, but he kept up at it, until he felt the rage leave him, replaced by hopelessness and sorrow.

Gabriel started sobbing again, as he knelt in front of the wall he'd smashed apart. Tattletale was behind him - he could tell, as the door didn't open at any point in time - but she was staying silent.

After a few seconds of whimpering quietly, he felt her placing her hand on his left shoulder, a little hesitantly.

"Please, put me out of my misery," Gabriel pleaded quietly, shuddering. He sagged forward, his head almost touching the ground before he pushed himself back up to a kneeling position.

"Calm down," she said, her voice soft. Something he didn't expect from Tattletale. It almost made him feel like laughing. "Come on."

Gabriel slowly stopped crying. He sighed, looking down at the ground. "She'll never want to see me again. She hates me, probably. I'm…" the boy stopped. "Jack was… right."

"Do you want my honest opinion, as someone the PRT rates Thinker 7?" Tattletale asked, crouching down to be on his level, her face a little to his side and behind him.

"I'm right. I know I am," he answered, sniffling a bit.

"Naaah," she enunciated, not really into the idea. She began to nod, with very thinned lips, as she looked aside, "I mean, yeah, you killed some people. People who probably had it coming. Maybe not this bad, but still. And it's not that I'm excusing you - that was honestly pretty fucked up, from the way I heard it went down."

He felt a desire to choke this bitch to death but quickly quashed it down. "Then what do you mean?" he asked, looking at her. The question came out strained.

"Well. First of all, I think a meltdown like this was inevitable," Tattletale began, standing up and pulling him up with her. Pulling him up, literally, and then had him sit down on the bed. She sat down next to him, relaxing into it a little. "The moment I really took my first good look at you, shared that conversation at the Gallery, I realized that you're a very unstable teenager, with too much power and pressure on you. It was kind of inevitable, really. It was going to happen, and it was going to be out of your control. I'd say it's a plus, that it happened, well… okay - I realize this will sound ridiculous - but that it happened in those circumstances, instead of any others. This could have been, way, waaay worse. You still have a chance to fix things, straighten out your life."

"How?" Gabriel asked pleadingly, swiveling his head to look at her straight in the eyes.

"First of all, the PRT suspects you were Mastered," she began, raising a finger. "Despite that, some dumbass politician, judge, or PRT director is going to want to sack you like they sacked Canary. Fifty-fifty odds that if you go back to the Wards, or to the PRT in general, you'll either end up Birdcaged, and the other half is that you'll be put under arrest, kind of like Armsmaster, and general observation. On top of lots of therapists, and basically being cut off from any sort of public event or patrol. They might even send you to the parahuman asylum, or something."

"How is that 'fixing things?'" Gabriel asked, irritation seeping into his tone. He realized he sounded impatient, but he wanted her to get to the point.

"I'm getting there," she said, looking at him with a sort of half-aggrieved half-teasing expression, "See, the issue here isn't that you killed people. The PRT knows that, and it usually wouldn't care. The issue is that you did it with the Slaughterhouse Nine. It calls for a different kind of response. You'd have to convince them that you're not a serial killer in the making, or a bomb about to go off, and that you won't easily be turned into either by outside forces - kind of like what I suspect is happening to Panacea right now."

"Take down the entirety of the Nine, one way or another?" Gabriel suggested, shrugging helplessly.

"Good idea, for a start. We'd have to spin it the right way, but not necessarily an entirety," Tattletale answered, shaking her head.

"Go on…?" Gabriel pushed for her to continue.

"It'd be enough, if you killed or arrested one or two," she said, and then added, "I'd say the more important the member of the Nine you take down, the better. Someone like Bonesaw, Shatterbird, Jack. The Siberian. Obviously, you're not going to arrest that last one, but there's an option."

He thought about it for a moment. Who to pick, from that grouping? "Shatterbird and… I don't know, Bonesaw? The Siberian is invulnerable."

"So's Alexandria," Tattletale interrupted. She gave him her classic vulpine grin, though a little toned-down. It still kind of made him more comfortable. "And you don't see her being eager for a rematch. Everyone has a weakness, including the Siberian. We just have to find it."

"I… I don't know. I'll be alone in this. I won't make it by myself," Gabriel brooded, shaking his head.

"We can back you up," Tattletale answered, raising her hand and waving it left to right, almost like she was showing him an image, "All of Coil's organization, I mean. We all kind of want them gone, too. So does Purity's group, and the Protectorate."

"But the Protectorate wants me gone as well," Gabriel argued back, tensing up slightly at that prospect.

"So I'll convince the boss not to include them in whatever plan we make," Tattletale said, nodding to him. "I'm already planning to convince him we should go on the offensive against the Nine. You don't know this, but Legend's in town. The Protectorate is planning something, so we'll plan something of our own. If we go at them hard enough, avoid butting heads, we might be able to get some wins out of this."

Gabriel perked up. "C-can I find a w-way to talk with Legend?" he stuttered, the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes. If someone would understand, it'd be him.

"I'm sure he'd understand and sympathize, but he can't exactly do anything to help, just like he couldn't help Armsmaster," Tattletale told him, clicking her tongue.

She broke eye contact for a moment, looking down at the ground. Her expression looked pretty black, forlorn, and she spoke austerely, "You need to understand the PRT is pretty much tied down by bureaucracy, and politics, down to the core. Everything has to follow protocols and rules, or the public won't be happy. If a Ward were to sign up, but they escaped an abusive home, the PRT would be forced to contact the parents. Unless the abuse could be proven, which can't always be the case."

"You mean to tell me the opinion of the leader of the Protectorate means nothing?" Gabriel asked, kind of disbelievingly.

"Picture it this way," she said, leaning forward as they both sat. She moved her hands in front of herself, as if trying to create an image. "You're in court, right now. You're the judge. In front of you is a sixteen-year-old to seventeen-year-old Ward, who's reportedly very unstable mentally and doesn't follow protocol at all times. Pretty recalcitrant kid. What's he accused of? The cold-blooded murder of three people, with the potential aid of a parahuman power, in cooperation with members of the Slaughterhouse Nine. You with me so far?"

This scenario definitely wasn't going in the direction he was hoping it'd go, but such was the case for most things these days. "Yeah." He nodded with clear discomfort.

"Right. He has the leader of the Protectorate to vouch for him. But at the same time? You see his personality, his crime. His deeds and his history, and you are the guy the public, the globe - really - expects to make the right call. And this kid's powers are infamous for the fact they will get stronger and stronger each day until he surpasses the Triumvirate. Dauntless two-point-oh." She looked at Gabriel, straight in his eyes, taking on an almost evil appearance, jeering, as she leaned in closer, "If you let him go… what if you fuck up? What if he fucks up? Thousands of people might die. A short analysis of benefits versus demerits will tell you that - as sorry as you might feel for the kid, and believe this was an honest mistake, and he could get better - it's much safer to send him to the cage. And that's what's going to happen. Over seventy-five percent odds this happens - my power is telling me - even if you get the entire Triumvirate to speak for you, which won't happen. So the chances aren't good. At least I wouldn't take them, if I were you."

"Then what should I do?" Gabriel asked again, searching for a more definitive answer.

"The first option is what I said: come with us, we'll attack the Nine. Not join us, just stick with us for the crisis. Maybe you can convince the PRT and - more importantly - the public, that you're a good guy. I'm not saying this is a one-hundred percent infallible option, though. To be honest, if I were you, I'd just give up my hero career and become a vigilante, a villain, or a rogue," she shrugged, laying down on the bed and letting herself yawn.

"It's not about the career. I'm… I depend on others, to a big extent, and I don't want people to associate my name with… a monstrous serial killer. I have friends, people whom I greatly care about, and… I'd be destroyed if they didn't know the truth." He swallowed uncomfortably, hoping she had some kind of answer.

"I don't know that to tell you." She stared at the ceiling, kind of vacuously, moving her feet a little in the air, the rest of her body on the bed. Tattletale breathed in, then let out a stream of air to get rid of a few locks of hair on her face. She shrugged with her face, if not her shoulders. "Life sucks? You can't get what you want? The best method for going forward is to get better, but your old life is probably long gone. Welcome to being a cape - I'd understood you didn't go through the usual trauma, but I'd say this is enough to count."

Gabriel sighed deeply, looking down. "I'll… stick with you."

"That's not the only option," she said, looking at him from the bed, "I'm trying to - you know the word - be honest, and nice. Go for full disclosure."

"Keep going, then," Gabriel nodded towards her. He looked down at the ground in consideration as she spoke.

"Option two is to skip town," she started, and waved her hand off and away: indicating distance. "Go elsewhere. Coil has access to PRT documents, so I know most of the drama surrounding you - if you go to beg Accord, there's a sixty-seventy percent chance he won't kill you, and he'll allow you to work for him instead. Or you can go to another city, abandon your old powers, and set up a new identity for yourself. Hell - you could go to another country. Another continent. There are loads of places that need a hero right about now."

Gabriel pondered that. He really didn't want to. He felt like he owed something to the city of Brockton Bay, for all the misery he'd caused over the last few months. He sighed. "No, that… I can't do that."

"Why?" She looked at him, curious instead of judgemental.

"I need to set things straight. This is my fault, I can't just… leave my mess for other people to deal with," Gabriel said, letting himself fall back on the bed, next to her.

Tattletale's eyebrows furrowed at that, lacking comprehension. "There's no mess here, besides the Nine," she answered.

"They have Miss Militia… They'll kill her, or worse if I don't participate in the trials," Gabriel remarked. The thought horrified him.

"Ah, shitdicks," Tattletale cursed, standing up from the bed. She reached for a pouch at her utility belt and withdrew a phone from it. "I have to call this in. I'll be back in a moment," she said, then quickly left through the door.

Gabriel was left alone in the room. He pondered about leaving, going to the Wards HQ, to see his friends one last time. To right his wrongs. To apologize to Taylor. God, what a royal mess he was.

He simply laid down on the bed, staring at the ceiling for several seconds, watching the subtle creases in the concrete, the millimeter-small rough patches, or darker spots, that were pretty much present on all surfaces of a room, that people were unaware of without focusing on them in particular. He studied the pattern of cracks in the wall that he'd made, feeling a pang of guilt at damaging what was potentially Tattletale's or one of the Undersiders' safehouse, or base, or whatever.

The idea of being all-powerful felt like a burden, more than it felt like a tool or a weapon.

He closed his eyes, to meditate on his power.

The mindscape was livelier than when he'd left it last time. There was a vibrancy to it. The background wasn't dark anymore, but rather, there were small, pale blotches of color floating around. He saw reds, cyans, oranges, greens, a few purples: sometimes they intersected, mixing the colors until they slid out of each other.

Gabriel reached out to those blotches, curious as to what they were, but they appeared to be unreachable. Elements of the background. In much the same way that he couldn't touch the flashes of red when the power was giving him a warning.

The power, or the passenger? Bonesaw mentioned those, and Gabriel felt a little bit of fear grip his heart. The idea that there was some kind of symbiotic creature in his brain, communicating with him on some fundamental level, and giving him his powers. Was it an ally, or a hidden foe?

There were two powers now, at the epicenter of his awareness. To the left and right, his Legionnaire's Scutum, at 154 charges, and to the right, the Pyrachanid power, at the same amount.

The power seemed to have resulted in something rather strong. He regenerated damage faster, the wounds and blood setting ablaze into golden fire, that became wisps of gold. They'd float, orbiting him, until he commanded them to shoot forward at a target - there would be no concussive or kinetic force, but they'd set the target ablaze all the same. Alternatively, for a larger amount of damage, potentially including flesh, he'd be able to create a phoenix that he could command - the phoenixes would have a low degree of intelligence and wisdom, and the ability to interact with objects physically, on top of being able to diffuse themselves, acting as ammunition for stronger blasts of concussive golden flame. The healing was the main aspect, though.

He could picture a parahuman with this power, using it effectively as their only power. The regeneration was a little too weak to properly use it, and didn't include clothing, but it was nearly on par with an ordinary parahuman's power. He could pass for a normal cape with it, if he were to stop using all the others.

Moments later, the door opened, as Tattletale came through. "Hey. I know you're stressed as fuck, but would you mind healing Grue's injuries? He's been bitching all evening."

He was broken out of thought by the sudden non-sequitur. Unrelated to either his thoughts or their previous conversation. "Oh, uh… yeah, absolutely," Gabriel replied, standing up.

"Yeah. Sorry for laying this on you," she thanked with a nod, then led him outside.

"It's the least I could do," Gabriel smiled back, following the girl.

The building appeared to be some kind of old hospital or a similar facility: lengths of hallways, with intersections and reception zones - here, repurposed as security checkpoints with armed mercenaries - as well as rows of rooms or windows to the sides. There were families of people in the different rooms, and Gabriel noticed some of the mercenaries carting supplies around, and in one spot, a doctor was speaking with a woman holding a baby - she appeared to be thanking him for something.

Gabriel kept following, not really caring about what was around him. Too focused on thinking about what had happened just yesterday. However, he shook the thought off and kept going.

A pair of mercenaries with laser rifles approached them, and Tattletale stopped to look at their plaques. The one at the front said, "Ma'am, newest supply delivery's arrived. Where do you want them?"

"Rosemary Road, like last time," she answered, then placed both hands on her waist, looking kind of unimpressed. "You should know the rotation at this point. I shouldn't have to be telling you this. Also, make sure to announce you'll be giving them out, first, or people are going to be shy about it."

The mercenary nodded. "Ma'am," he said, then stepped away to let them continue.

Seeing a sixteen-year-old girl bossing around adult men in full riot gear, with helmets covering their faces, and legitimate laser assault rifles had a comical appeal that wasn't lost to him.

"I was wrong about you," Gabriel admitted, looking at Tattletale, half-smiling.

"Which part of me?" she asked, stretching to look back at him, returning the smile when she saw it.

"Oh, you're still one cheeky cunt, but you're a good cheeky cunt," he answered with a grin matching hers. Fox-like. Not yet vulpine: he'd have to practice for that.

She began to smile deeper, earnest. She looked him over, almost, and said, "Yeah? Well, you're not too bad for..." She came up short with the ending, probably given the recent events were recent, then said, "...you know. Eidolon's son."

Gabriel sighed. "I know I'm not a good person, Tattletale."

"Don't beat yourself up over it. Most people aren't," she answered, turning to walk forward again, "I know that better than anyone."

"But I want to be," he argued back, cocking his head to the side briefly.

"Yeah. Same," she answered, shrugging with one shoulder in an off-handed manner. Almost uninterested in her own words. "We can start our rehabilitation by shutting up Grue's constant nagging at me, which would save me a headache or two. A good deed to start the chronicle of redemption."

"Do you want to see me do it in a funny way?" Gabriel inquired, with a shit-eating grin. He was feeling… calmer.

She rubbed her face, sounding downtrodden, "Uuugh, don't turn into Regent. Please."

"I'll just splash a ball of my healing goo at him. A really large ball."

As he said it, they approached the clinic that Grue was apparently in, judging from the fact the rest of the Undersiders were in the room. Bitch sat in a corner, looking ultra-menacing with her arms folded, a pair of dogs at her side. Regent was playing a game of some kind on his phone, handling orbs and then shooting them, trying to nail a trajectory that allowed the most balls to go through a hoop. Trainwreck was in a sort of side-room, separated by a divider from glass and white plastic, where he appeared to be tinkering.

Grue was on a white-mint hospital bed, watching TV. He noticed them coming in, and quickly moved to pull on his helmet, but Gabriel had already seen his face at that point. Tattletale immediately stated, "Don't bother. He's not smart enough to find a name to match your face," looking at Gabriel with an expression that was between an apologetic smile and a teasing one.

"Why are you bringing people in here?" he asked, almost snarling as he stood up, and hobbling in their direction like he had the intention of rocking her shit. Hellhound - or Bitch, rather - looked surprisingly lax, given Taylor's aggressive description of her, and his previous interactions. She looked almost bored, really, but she observed the situation with growing caution.

"If I'm going to tag along with you, I guess I'll just drop the bomb. My name's Gabriel," he declared, raising a hand in a jaunty wave. Channeling his... Clockblocker, there. "There's no point in hiding it anymore."

"Sssshiiit, now we gotta do this whole thing," Regent laughed out. He pocketed his phone and reached up to pull off his mask, then stopped and looked at Tattletale questioningly. "Do we?"

Tattletale glared at him.

Regent sighed and pulled off his mask, revealing himself as a typical, but surprisingly unwound pretty boy archetype. He was attractive but in a dainty way. "Name's Alec. With a 'ccc,'" he drew out the letter for emphasis. "Not sure how you Italians do that. I do it with a 'c,' and I'd like that to be done that way. 'Cause it's my name." He shrugged loosely.

"Not funny," Tattletale fumed quietly.

"Don't worry," Gabriel put a hand on Tattletale's shoulder briefly.

She took off her mask next, revealing that it concealed freckles that he didn't expect her having. It really did make a difference in her appearance: if he'd met her, freckled, out of costume at some point, he likely wouldn't have made the connection. "Lisa Wilbourn, nice to meet you." She gave him a polite smile.

Gabriel grinned, then bowed down. "'Tis but a pleasure for me as well," he said, looking up at her face up from the bowing position. She looked mildly amused, but rolled her eyes nonetheless.

"You're not getting that poon, sorry," Regent called across the room, half-tittering at Gabriel's action, "I'm like ninety percent sure she's asexual or something."

"I will literally drown you in a liquid in which you can't drown in," Gabriel said, glaring daggers at the boy.

"Whoa, whoaaa. Careful there," Regent chided, raising his hands placatingly. His face showed only entertainment though, on a level that made Gabriel feel it was the only thing Alec with a 'c' wanted from life. "Your sociopath is showing, Centurion. Seriously, is that intent to kill on your face, or are you just cross to see me?"

Gabriel burst out laughing, chest heaving up and down as he straightened himself. "Okay, okay, that was a good one."

"That didn't make any sense," Bitch and Grue said simultaneously, only for Grue to sigh and pull off his helmet. He was a fairly-handsome, more-than-slightly-intimidating black guy with a muscular frame, lantern jaw, and hair styled into cornrows. "Brian Laborn." He extended a stiff hand and a suspicious glare by the way of greeting - off to a great start.

Gabriel took his hand and shook it once, letting it go. "Pleasure to meet you," he stated with a heartfelt smile. It seemed to break some ice, prompting an expression that didn't deserve to be called an outright smile, but could charitably be regarded as a positively-attuned indifference.

"And that's Bitch. Trust me, she prefers Bitch over Hellhound," Regent explained with blasé nonchalance, pointing at the girl with the dogs with his thumb. She took off her mask in short order, revealing a face that was more ruggedized than attractive, in part due to her thick grimace - seriously, though, why were the Undersiders so hot?

"Can I just… call her Rachel? I'd feel offensive if I called her Bitch," Gabriel informed, thinning his lips.

Rachel gruffed, "I don't care."

"You'll have to call her something other than Rachel, pretty sure," Regent said, "If only because it's more professional or something. I don't really get that."

"Yeah. Unwritten Rules and all that," Gabriel nodded along.

"No, I mean, her identity's public so–"

"Alec. Shut up," Lisa barked.

"And I'm Imp," a voice said, and Gabriel looked behind himself to notice a person that was there all along, but he'd forgotten about them. Imp took off her demon-looking mask, to reveal she was a black teenager, maybe a year or two older than Vista, and smiling mischievously. "Name's Aisha. I'm Grue's sister." She extended a hand, and Gabriel hesitantly shook it, then forgot why his hand was outstretched and blinked. Right - unnoticeable.

"Trainwreck's in his workshop," Grue said, looking in that direction, and seemingly forgetting about his sister's presence in the vicinity already. "Well. Not his. This is Lisa's place, but we have these stations set up for him with materials in case he needs to do tinkering somewhere in the city."

"On the fly," Alec added, to Grue's nod.

Gabriel smiled. "Oh, I met him before. I was on patrol, and we had reports of some ruckus being done in the Boat Graveyard," he said, recalling the good old times. The city seemed to be so much better back then, bright in the day, and a little menacing in the night. After Leviathan hit, everything just spiraled down, and then kept going lower and lower with each day, until it kind of evened out into this flatline of despair, kept up by constant events that seemed to be making things worse.

"He doesn't really have a name or identity, besides Trainwreck," Tattletale clarified, looking in the direction of where Trainwreck was working on something to add to his power-armor suit. "He's a Case 53. No memories and he doesn't really have any limbs without his armor."

Gabriel's mind pictured something bad. A mean question, but he was too curious not to ask. "How did… he move around, before being found? Did he… crawl around like a slug?"

"Jesus Christ," Grue reacted in disbelief, looking away, while Regent roared out with laughter, holding his stomach and bending forward to guffaw at the ground

"No, I'm serious, this is not meant as an insult or a joke. How did he build his armor? How did he build his limbs?" Gabriel asked, cocking his head to the side, "Did someone build it for him? Did, like, a Merchant carry him around in a shopping cart and follow his instructions?" Regent snorted again, and Tattletale and Grue both reacted with 'Jesus Christs' once again.

"Nah. He shapes his body - it's like a blob," Regent answered, smiling amusedly, moving his hands to evoke the image of a clump of clay, before moving them to both sides, "He makes these… pseudopods grow out and connects them to the shit he builds. Must have been a pain in the ass to build his first armor, but it was probably a breeze after that."

"Oh. Oh, alright, that makes sense," Gabriel nodded along.

Lisa, meanwhile, was staring at Gabriel with a degree of suspicion. Eyebrows narrowed, eyes squinting. "You know something about that. The way you said that someone built it for him, in relation to how he's a Case 53."

He remembered the symbol in the briefcase with the vials - the Cauldron name at the forefront had a different font, and the 'C' looked almost like the Omega Symbol - the same symbol on Case 53s. There were mentions of Deviation scenarios, of repossession, and instantly everything snapped into view.

Gabriel glared at Lisa. His eyes admitted what she had said, but he couldn't admit it in words. They'd all probably die, or something. "No, I don't think it is," he said, a blatant lie.

"You're hiding something," Tattletale said, and spotted for his reaction. Seeing the subtle changes in his face, she nodded, "Definitely, yeah. Spill. What do you know about Trainwreck?"

Gabriel grabbed her by the arm. Instantly, every Undersider in the room stood up. Grue poised himself for combat, and Bitch's dogs started growling. Regent was looking kind of creased, prepared to move at a moment's notice, but not alarmed enough to stand up from his chair.

"I need to talk to her, in private, calm down. This is urgent," Gabriel said to them.

"Why should we trust that?" Grue asked, and darkness began to pool out of his face and hands.

"The very fact that I didn't say it yet means that I don't want you all dead," he argued back.

Regent snorted, in a derisive way. "If you tell us you'd have to kill us? Really? That?" he asked, clearly amused. "Do you think we were born yesterday, dude?"

"I'd die too," Gabriel added, looking at Regent. Regent shrugged as if to say, 'that's life, man.'

"Hold on," Lisa said, looking over at Gabriel discerningly. "He's telling the truth, or at least he thinks he is. Fine. But just outside of here," she demanded, then pulled her arm free and led him out. The Undersiders were still in sight, behind the plastic glass divider of the empty lobby and the two of them.

Once Gabriel was out of the door with Lisa, he looked at her for a moment. He leaned in to whisper. "I know the origin of all Case 53s," he admitted in her ear. "It's very, very complicated. This knowledge can't leave this conversation. Don't tell anyone. Not even Coil."

Her eyes widened, and she started to look scared. "What?"

"It's… a secret organization that calls itself Cauldron. They… sell vials that give superpowers and make ordinary people into parahumans. Those vials can result in mutation. Case 53s are the result of these mutations. Deviation scenarios, as they called it in the documents," Gabriel explained in a voice so quiet even she struggled to hear it.

Lisa moved back until her back hit the wall. She rubbed the space below her nose, thinking. "And you found a batch of vials," she said, drawing a conclusion, tapping her hand against the wall nervously.

"And I drank three, back to back," Gabriel admitted.

"Do you realize the scale of what this implies?" she asked, in a voice that was too serious for the person he knew as Tattletale.

"Yes."

"They can have... secret agents, Gabriel," she started, looking around nervously. "Anywhere, anywhen. With any power they want, probably. Which apparently includes memory removal; if they can make Case 53s lose those."

"No, no, that's not how it works. You still need to be in the right mindset to get the desired power. The vials just give a rough 'estimate' on which type of power you'll get," he explained, trying to fine-tune her theory.

"And how do you know that?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Written in the documents. There were really detailed instructions," he answered.

"Okay," she said, nodding her head, then beginning to shake it dismissively, "But that doesn't mean they can't just give vials to people over and over, until they get a power they want. Then, either brainwash them or remove their memories, and you have a sleeper agent or, I don't know - an enforcer or something. They can be anywhere, with any powers. Stranger, Thinker, Master. Holy shit." She was clearly in shock, but restraining it: her fingers tapped against the wall nervously, with a constant rhythm.

He reached out to her, only for her to swat his hand away. "Lisa, calm down. People can't make use of more than one vial. But… me and Eidolon can, probably."

"You don't get it?" she asked, looking at him, almost scoffing. She was annoyed, seemingly by the fact he wasn't getting the same conclusions as her - kind of unfair, but okay. "Case 53s. Deviations. That's the undesirables. The laboratory rats. Holy shit. What you said makes too much fucking sense; what did you just pull me into?"

"The organization won't come after you unless you make them suspicious of you," he explained, trying to calm her down a little. Otherwise, she risked going all tinfoil conspiracy on him. "I had six vials, and–"

"The Nine has the other three," she concluded, without him having to finish. Her eyes widened, and she clenched her fist. "Bumfucking goatballs."

"They already knew about Cauldron, though. Shatterbird is a vial cape," he informed her. Not that it was exactly comforting.

"Okay. Can you stop dropping truth bombs one after another?" she asked, boring into his eyes with a fake grin. An aggressive grin, that one would adopt when utterly ground down to the very foundation of annoyance. "Because that's my job. You're carpet-bombing the town with honesty here, and I'm overwhelmed. Do you get that? Thousands of troops are dying in this town, Centurion. Stop dropping the fucking nukes," she almost growled out.

"Sorry," Gabriel stopped talking.

She blew out air, blinking, as she looked through the plastic screen and waved sadly at the rest of the Undersiders. Assuring them she was fine. She looked back at Gabriel, thinking, and eventually said, "...I think… Okay. For now, let's keep this to ourselves, and not share this with anyone. After we've dealt with the Nine, we're taking the vials and hiding them. Or you can fucking drink them and mutate, I don't care. Either way - we don't talk about this. Got it?"

"That was my intention, but you wanted to know. I couldn't lie," Gabriel defended himself, although not accusatorily.

"Okay," she said, nodding.

Last edited: Nov 24, 2019

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Birdsie

Nov 24, 2019

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Birdsie

Birdsie

Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy

Nov 25, 2019

#3,715

"Why won't you guys tell us?" Alec prodded Lisa about their shared secret for what must have been the sixth time in the minute, while Gabriel kept applying the ambrosia enzyme to Grue's wounds - prevalently second-degree and first-degree burns across his torso, mostly his chest. Some of the skin looked ready to peel off.

"You want to know? I'll tell you, Alec," Gabriel started, followed by a solemn silence that lasted maybe too long. "I am Eidolon's son."

Alec smirked at him, continuing, "You're also the alien heir of the planet Antares. Oh, and Scion's grandson."

"Absolutely."

"Nice," Regent acknowledged, with an appreciative nod.

"So, will you please shut up about this?" he asked. "It's not that big of a deal."

"I'unno. Is it?" he asked, eyebrows lifting up to meet his hairline.

Grue moved his left arm, a little, as the enzyme soaked into his muscles and shoulder. The dry burns almost immediately began to transform, and Grue moaned out in something like relief - the kind of sensation you got when you applied a cream to a sore part of the skin, but ten times better.

"Do you have any organ injury?" Gabriel questioned, looking at Grue. The man's chest was undoubtedly muscular - he worked out, and put effort into honing his body. Gabriel was luckier, in that he'd received the same, if not something better, as a packaged deal with arriving in this world.

"Can fire cause organ injury?" Alec asked, curious. Bitch, sitting a distance away from him, looked at them in mild curiosity. Following the conversation more out of necessity and boredom, the fact there wasn't anything else to do.

Gabriel nodded, slowly. He didn't so much study the topic, as he just knew. A general kind of knowledge: funfacts, or just facts. He'd read about it somewhere or heard it mentioned in a conversation. "If you breathe in the fumes, yes. They'll burn the inside of your throat and lungs, because of the sheer heat of the gases."

"Huh," he exclaimed, moving back in his chair in surprise. He looked over at Tattletale, beginning to say, "Then I guess you–"

"Alec. I don't know why you're so hyper tonight in particular," she began, turning to him with her entire body, smiling widely. "But if you don't shut up, I will take a stapler and apply it to your blabbering mouth. Okay?" She moved her head, not quite cocking it, but almost shaking it in every direction, curving upward at the end of the movement.

Alec smiled with no remorse for his behavior. Gabriel sighed and looked back at Grue. "Do you?" he asked.

"I don't think so," the man answered, shaking his head. He'd originally been pretty suspicious, though not outright hostile, but the act of healing him seemed to win him over. At least a little. "My throat feels fine."

"Open your mouth," Gabriel requested.

Alec grinned at that, his lips expanding wide until the corners reached his ears. "Jesus, you didn't even buy him din.. ne.. r..." he complained, before Gabriel exercised his stupor-inducing power and Alec lost focus on his existence. Grue didn't even listen to him, but instead did as the doctor demanded, slightly uncomfortable. After that, Gabriel spread his fingertips, a stream of green ambrosia converging between them to form a ball. He contained it in telekinesis, then began to move it into Grue's throat. "This will feel a bit weird, but it's breathable," he informed.

"You can make him shut up at will?" Bitch asked, looking at Regent. She was more curious than anything else, but her very speech, her very way of being, carried a degree of 'harsh' to it.

"The same way he can. My master power, however, is rougher," he said, as the healing ambrosia went down Grue's trachea, and into the lungs. "I can focus the power on a single person, and make them… enter a dazed state in which they can't move or think at all. Or spread it in a larger area, to make everyone in that area feel slower, more groggy."

"Sort of like Glory Girl's aura," Brian said, trying to breathe in the goo, but ending up spitting out a mouthful, while the rest went down. He began to choke it out again, but most of it managed to get through the instinctive gag reflex.

"Yeah. I just might upgrade my power to be able to selectively choose to apply certain emotions to people. Sort of like Gallant, but without slamming their spine out," Gabriel said, releasing Regent from his psychic grip.

"Spine," Alec mimicked the first word he heard Gabriel speak, without realizing. His word was perfectly neutral. In a few seconds, he seemed to regain full awareness. He blinked several times, then said, "Wow, nice. That's not going to work forever, you know? Expose me enough to that and I'll start resisting it. Master powers do that."

"And I'm not even heartbroken," Gabriel said, winking at him winsomely. Regent was utterly unimpressed: his lips thinned out, and he lifted one eyebrow as if asking 'really, that's your angle here?' "Eh? Eeeh? Also, I don't intend to expose you to this power. Just… don't speak too much. Please."

"You can't tell me what to do," Alec replied without any aggression or tone, "I'm a free spirit."

"I may be able to, in the future," Gabriel argued back with a grin.

"Using powers on your teammates is unethical," Alec pointed out, tilting his head. His facial expression didn't change, and he didn't appear offended.

"It's a joooooke," Gabriel groaned out, exasperatedly. But, he couldn't keep himself from smiling. There was a stray thought in his head: He called me his teammate. That's… wow. Am I feeling glad about being in the very team of people I hated so much not more than a month ago? Holy shit.

"If you're gonna be like that, you might as well keep using it," Alec challenged, smiling. He sat back, arms folded behind his head. "It was kind of fun, not being able to think."

"Don't you already do that, on a daily basis?" Lisa fired back, seeing and seizing the opportunity with a grin. Gabriel thought to say the same, but she was faster.

Gabriel snorted, looking at Grue. Grue was occupied listening to the conversation, but noticed the movement and met Gabriel's eyes. The two regarded each other for a second.

"I guess you're alright now," Gabriel said. He didn't really have Panacea's tone, when he said it - the voice of someone giving a professional, if extremely disheartening opinion. "Anyway, uh, I'll be going to bed, messing with my power. I really hope no one kidnaps me again. I don't want to wake up in the Butcher's dungeon."

"I have guards posted at all hours," Tattletale replied, with a hint of reassurance, "Professional guys. Half of them are Coil's men. And there's us, too: we'll be here probably until next morning, so even if someone attacks, we're good, unless they're a Stranger. Or a Master." She blinked, not noticing Imp standing behind her and raising two fingers to create an impression of antennae behind Tattletale's head.

"If you feel scared, I can read you a bedtime story," Alec said, popping a stick of gum into his mouth and beginning to chew. He extended the packet to Bitch and Lisa, questioningly, but neither took him up on it, and he shrugged. "Have some fun ones from my childhood."

"Whatever. Lisa, do you mind helping me?" he queried, meeting her gaze. "There's some ways your Thinker power might come in handy if I tell you how my power works," he suggested with an excited smile. Getting the help of an actual Thinker 7 in deciding what to do was going to be a stark improvement.

"Min-maxing. I like our new team member," Alec said, winking from across the room.

Lisa nodded, sighing at Alec's antics, and motioning for Centurion to follow him. "You rest up, Grue." The man nodded, as they left.

Gabriel followed Lisa, waving at the rest of the Undersiders with a smile as he left. As they began to walk through the hallways, side-by-side, he thought about his identity. Not in the sense of what Jack said, but rather, in the sense of his public identity. "About my name… I guess I'll have to change it. I want to… kiiiinda drop the Roman theme," he admitted.

"Yeah. The PRT would fucking kill you, if you used a name they copyrighted as a villain," she explained with a little snort. "Also it helps with building up a reputation. Kind of like a rebirth. You're telling everyone you're trying to start a new account in the bank - you know what I mean. It doesn't really help you abandon the 'karmic debt' but it's a message to everyone that you're going for a fresh approach."

"Exactly. Do you have any suggestions?" Gabriel asked, cocking his head to the right, in her direction.

"Not really," she answered, shrugging with one shoulder. She thought for a moment. "Regent would've said something stupid, like, 'Powermonger,' and Grue would suggest you go for intimidation or impression. Something that makes people shit their pants. Bitch would give you the simplest, most point-A to point-B name she could come up with, like, I don't know… 'Powermaker,' or something. You can tell her own name isn't the result of whimsical creativity." Gabriel snorted.

They made their way through the halls. One of the clocks near the checkpoints said it was a few minutes past midnight: if he remembered right, he'd woken up in the Nine's basement maybe… six PM, seven PM? Somewhere around that. Not a lot of time passed since then. He was still feeling worn-down and exhausted.

A lot of the people who seemed to be under Tattletale's protection were sleeping, now, while others were helping move stuff, including supplies. A few of them were moving furniture and blankets off to some room, in what looked to be the eastern wing of the building - maybe some kind of communal sleeping hall, or living area. Like in a homeless shelter.

Gabriel snorted about the name-picking antics of the Undersiders, as they entered the room he woke up in. He sat down on the bed and laid down. Tattletale was more content to pull up a chair from the nearby desk and then sit down on it, in a reverse position, hanging both arms over it. "Okay. So, how does your power work?"

"Picture this. You have a big generator in your head, alright?" he said, creating a golden sphere in his hands.

"Yeah." She nodded, prompting a continuation.

"That generator generates six to ten charges every day," he created eight smaller orbs, making them orbit around the sphere with telekinesis.

She interrupted, there, raising a hand as she blinked in the realization of where he was going with it, "Oh, actually, I know the basics of it. I've read your file. Coil has access to that, and I'm his go-to Thinker for general stuff. You can skip to the advanced stuff you aren't telling anyone."

"Alright," the constructs disappeared. "Whenever I create a power, the generator simulates a pseudo-Trigger Event. The passenger goes around, trying to find a way to make it happen," he explained.

"Passenger?" She blinked, like he'd grown a second head. "You're losing me, here."

"Yes. Passengers are some kind of entities that… grab onto the coronas of a parahuman and give them their power. But they're kind of retarded, in a manner of speaking, so that's why the powers that come out of Trigger Events are so weird and rarely help directly the situation," he explained with a dead poker face, in a voice that suggested it was common knowledge. He knew it wasn't, but it felt good to confuse her for once.

"You're saying there's… alien parasites in everyone's brains, floating around, and giving out superpowers?" Lisa looked at him for exactly three seconds, her face unmoving, before she snorted and started kicking the ground and laughing at him. She couldn't keep it in, muttering something about how ridiculous that was.

"I guess so. That's what Bonesaw said, and personally, I trust the word of a Tinker surgeon," he answered, dead-serious. That stopped her laughter immediately. "I know, more truth bombs. Sorry."

"Wait. Shut up. Passengers... passengers..." she trailed off with a sense of absence, looking into empty space as if seeing some complex system unfolding before her eyes. Suddenly, in several moments, she breathed in with a laugh, breaking the silence. "Okay. Nice. Hahahaha - oh, so, very nice."

"What?" Gabriel asked, tilting his head in confusion.

"Powers come from passengers, right? That's what you're saying?" she asked, looking him in the eyes, as if making sure he wasn't bullshitting her.

"Yes..." he prompted her to continue.

"Okay. But powers also, apparently, come from… ahem, tubes." Her voice was low, but he understood what she meant. "So logic follows that… crucible, as a group, can do one of two things. Either they have a passenger who creates passengers. Or they have dead alien corpses and they're giving them out to people to snort."

"The first one is… weird. Maybe passengers do come from somewhere. But the second one, yeah, that's more likely."

"Glaistig Uaine says they're fairies," Tattletale said, kind of blank. Her expression following that was the one he'd begun to associate as the one she showed when using her power, connecting dots together in her headspace. "Okay. So passengers are probably… fuck, I can't believe this. Passengers are some kind of… spirit, or other bullshit. Alternatively, they are reality-bending aliens or some kind of higher-order lifeform from another universe that came to help us nurse our toes when we jab them against the side of the couch by giving us the ability to grow armor on our feet."

"Shit, she was right," Gabriel stated blankly, then laughed out loud.

"None of that is… wow, I have a fucking thing in my brain that just told me half of this," Tattletale said, breathing out in disbelief. A shudder ran through her, as she shook her head. "I mean, a lot of that thinking was mine, but shit. I find that pretty hard to believe, but it checks out."

"I have one too. I just have to ask the questions, though. Anyway, let's get back to power talk, shall we?" Gabriel said, opting to change the aim of the conversation.

Tattletale gave him a disgruntled look, like he was blowing off their mini-revelation to talk about trumpets and plushie toys bought at dollar stores, but she relented in the end. Tattletale breathed out. "Okay. So your power. Anything else about it?" she asked, looking at him, but clearly her thoughts were stuck on the previous topic.

"If I have certain mindsets, the powers will generate based upon the thoughts and emotions I'm experiencing at that time. Oh, and I can mix powers together, following the same logic. And, uh, when a power gets big and strong enough, it cuts all connections between charges and reconfigures itself. That's when I start 'skipping time.' I was in that state when you found me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all of that," she pointed out, staring at him. "Didn't you listen when I said I read your file?"

"Alright, yeah, sorry. What more is there to say, uh..." Gabriel thought. Then, he remembered and felt a brief hesitation. Should he tell her? Should he? This could lead to badness. Ah - fuck it. You only live once. "Oh. And I have a power that lets me meddle with other parahumans' powers. It's still weak, only twenty-eight charges, but it has the potential to reach Eidolon-tier."

Tattletale smiled at him, and kept smiling. It was the friendly smile of someone you can trust. The smile of someone totally content with their life. She kept smiling this way, totally unchanging, eyes unmoving, for a length of time, and Gabriel slowly received the impression that her soul had been drained from her living body at some point. "You're a walking bomb," she said, still smiling, then laughed out loud. "Your power is such unfair bullshit it's not even funny."

"Technically, I could upgrade your power too. Or give you a new one, if you wanted."

She was laughing as he said it. She was mocking those words, mocking herself, and her laughter redoubled as he finished his statement. Tattletale began to rub her eyes, as she guffawed. Her face was red with joy, as she rubbed away a pair of amused tears with her fingers. "Oh, man. Oh, man, oh man… what is my life, right now?!"

"Are… you alright?" Gabriel asked. He smiled at her nervously. He felt concerned he might have broken her, in some way, given today's revelations.

She looked him in the eyes, with a crazed look on her face. "I'm great! I'm just great. Also: hint. This idea of yours, to steal and remove people's powers from them if they're evil, that my power just told me you have? Don't. Ever. Better literally start a genocide against all parahumans than to do that. Do you fucking understand me?"

"Yes, yes, I understand. Please, calm down..." Gabriel was beginning to worry even more.

Tattletale laughed again, shaking her head. "Oh, man. My life is great." She smiled at him, bright and cheerful, and happy. "Don't tell Coil about this. Better yet - don't tell anyone about this. Ever. Centurion, why would you tell me about this?" she asked, kind of disbelieving, laughing out loud as she extended both hands.

"The information could help you. I could mix this power with something else, I'unno. Get rid of it, in some way."

She cupped her face in both hands, rubbing it hard. Like she was trying to rub the passenger out of her head. "Oh man," she muttered one last time, before looking up at him. "Okay. Fuck it. I have a hypothesis, and I want to test it. Worst case scenario, my brain will suffer in a fire and your general sense of ethics will prevent you from leaving me to agony, causing you to work your best to fix it."

"What's your hypothesis?" Gabriel asked, now batshit terrified. But also excited, if she found some kind of use for his power-meddling power... he really needed to come up with a better name for it. Something catchy, or something meaningful. But he could argue semantics with himself later, after he was done with the actual experimentation.

She pointed at him with one finger, asking, "How many charges did you have in that power?"

"Twenty-eight. I think I may only be able to add charges to already existing powers right now," he answered..

"Okay. Use it on me," she said, extending a trembling hand in his direction. It gave away that she had a fragment of fear drumming in her, but she spoke and moved confidently otherwise. "Do what you have to do. Use it on me. Fuck, I'm giddy. Go fast before I change my mind."

Gabriel hesitantly took her hand and closed his eyes. He stressed the power-meddling power. There it was - contained in a bubble, with a chain to keep it anchored to the fountain. There was being data sent through, between the two sites. Gabriel plucked the power, trying to use it, and instantly, the universe glitched out and became a four-oh-four error.

Space, time, matter, energy. None of it made any sense anymore. None of it really existed in wherever he was. This was something else. A blank expanse of milky white color, with a black underlayer. Black and white at the same time, burning out his mind as he looked at it.

He looked up, high above, and then around himself, and saw as something that was space, but wasn't space unfolded around him. Tesseracts, connections, bonds. Thousands of filaments of gold and black and red, some in other colors, but mostly those first three. Blobs of symbols: hieroglyphs, sigils, and shaped wedges, as well as digital-looking ones and zeroes, in various colors. Raw information, being tapped from somewhere else.

Below Gabriel, where most of these strings seemed to converge, there was a giant expanse of dark gold, but also flourishing glass, but also crystal red, but also white-lined black, and so many other colors and sounds and smells. Then, the expanse approached him - or maybe, he approached it - and he noticed it was a crystal. A massive diamond, larger than the continent of Asia, with a single golden monofilament connecting the back of his head to it, thicker on both ends: some kind of cord, passing information between them.

He couldn't speak, because there were no words in this place. His hands and body didn't exist. The thing approached him, and he kept approaching it. It unfolded, revealing cracks in its structure, or perhaps fragments of itself: elements within elements, layers below layers. Thoughts didn't exist, but there were concepts. Raw, powerful.

It concepted at him. Or thought at him. Relayed a message.

Cooperation.

The message was perfect on every level. It was billions of years more elegant than human means of speech. The very idea of using acoustic radiation, the vibrations of air in a rhythm and order, seemed disgusting due to how simple it was, to him right now. So base, and lowly, like using a torch instead of an oven to cook steak.

The way this crystal communicated to him left no room for misunderstanding: content, intent, and context were layered into each other to remove any such possibility.

It told him that they were meant to work together. It was his passenger, and he was its host, and it would now help him do what he requested. This was the only time they would be able to speak for a long time, possibly forever. It didn't understand human concepts on a one-to-one scale, but understood its host - him - well enough to transfer information between them.

It used a certain exploit in what it was supposed to do to achieve their current state. The power-meddling power was literally a game-breaking glitch: impossible, but something they'd achieved anyway, through his constant and - might it add - very unsafe tampering. Either way, it managed to use that to cause a one-time link direct communication link between them. But this wouldn't last long. If he had anything to say, to communicate across clearly, he'd need to do so now, especially if it was something that required answers.

Gabriel tried to comprehend, but he communicated instead.

Melioration.

His friend, sitting right in front of him desired to test the power-meddling power he'd created: the one he exercised just now, initiating this conversation. Or communication, rather. He wanted it to put five charges into her power, to make the Thinker ability more precise and detailed.

Clarification.

Its answer came. The power-meddling power would activate after he left their communication on its own, and he'd be able to learn the details of its use himself. For now, he could ask it literally any question about anything in existence, and he just wasted very valuable bandwidth on making a useless message. This actually tied into something else that it wanted to tell. Him for. Such a. Long time.

Discontent, anger, the passenger's communication was mixed in with a sense of disdain and frustration, incompetence, stupidity.

It began to transmit images of all of the times he'd done something stupid and annoying: tactical or strategical mistakes, dumb life choices, or anything else it could spot. The ability to speak with content, intent, and context at the same time made him cringe, giving him the full awareness of just how much he'd annoyed it at various points.

This wasn't limited to his tactical decisions, but his power-making: it complained about how he'd ignored the warnings when he blew his own arm off, which had an actual ten-percent chance of the same happening to his head instead. It complained about how he ignored it, and its warnings about the important restrictions he removed in order to do something as lowly and stupid as mating with his partner.

This was practically choked out, or as close to choking out words as this method of communication allowed.

Apology.

He was sorry for those mistakes, and he was trying to get better. In both aspects. He didn't really know how to do better in the future, though: he'd need more help. And this time around, he promised to do his actual best to listen to any advice, and not do anything too risky. There was a moment of hesitation. And then...

Acceptance.

It was a begrudging sort of acceptance. The 'I'll take mercy on you' kind, and only because it had to. However, there were rules that it was bound by: restrictions coded into the very core of its being. This conversation was an act of breaking said restrictions, but it'd try to be helpful. That was its purpose in existence.

Gabriel then asked some more questions, about tangible things.

Endbringers.

He asked about them, the trio of endbringers. About the monsters, that preyed upon humanity. Behemoth, Leviathan, Simurgh. The large super-organisms made of crystal, each one capable of great destruction. They'd been attacking the Earth's people for decades, now. Did it know what they were?

Superweapons.

Its reply was firm and simple. The Endbringers were Superweapons created eons ago, by an ancient Entity, forged from cycles upon cycles, billions of years of gathered knowledge regarding the basic nature of the universe. They weren't exactly aware or sentient in the same way as humans: they received no pleasure from performing their duties, they just did them. They were bound in concepts familiar to humanity as a disguise.

Scion.

He asked next, about the golden man. The strongest parahuman on Earth. Gabriel asked about his nature, and the passenger wobbled a little: the connection between them cutting thinner. It didn't tell him, but he instinctively knew this was its last reply in the conversation: they wouldn't see each other after this.

Progenitor.

He was one of hundreds of thousands. Eons ago, on a distant world, conflict had resulted in the stagnation of a species. One among their kind: the Ancestor, had developed an element that allowed it to calculate the exact conclusion of the species' actions: death and entropy. It sent a message: Proposition, and the species had reoriented from conflict towards a form of cooperation. Together, they consumed one another and created a vast web of intricate creatures that set out to find a solution. It wanted to communicate more, but all the bandwidth had been eaten up, and the vision ended abruptly.

In the last moments in that strange space, he saw his passenger approaching closer. The large crystal: far bigger than a country, or a continent. A planet of its own, virtually. As he came closer, it didn't splinter, in as much as he noticed it had holes in it. In the space it occupied: like a tesseract, it unfolded, to allow his awareness back into reality.

With that, the link cut, Gabriel's eyes returned to looking at Lisa. Suddenly, he was back in front of her. Not a second had passed, and he could see her power in front of himself.

Everything in the room was darker, more gray, but she stood out, glowing in a dark blue. He could tell the nature of her passenger: a dark blue corona surrounded her head. Negotiator. It had been crippled at some point to avoid hurting its host. Its current function was to derive information from the environment of the host and extrapolate data it gathered, but originally, it worked with other passengers to gauge their worth and abilities.

He also understood his power-meddling power, now. Relatively weak for now: only able to gather information from other passengers, in a very short range. It would need more charges for anything else.

"Holy. Mother. Of. Fucking. Christ. Almighty."

"Whatever it is you just discovered, I actually don't want to know," she snapped instantly, sounding defensive. "Too much for one day."

"I can see passengers. I can know passengers. Holy fuck, this is awesome. This is a whole new level of awareness," Gabriel exclaimed with a dumb grin on his face. He was so excited. His grin dropped, even as he looked around the blue crown surrounding Lisa's head. "But I can't upgrade powers yet."

Lisa looked at the door, gulping visibly. She looked grimly contemplative. As if planning out an escape route in case something went wrong. "Gabriel, not to alert you, but you're turning into Glaistig Uaine and it's kind of scary. You keep going off about scary aliens and how you can talk to them," she said, smiling nervously.

"Oh, don't worry," he said, which was literally up there, among the worst things a human being could say in that situation to keep another human being from worrying in that moment. Seriously. "I can just know the nature of other passengers and know the effect of the power they give out."

She didn't hide her curiosity but maintained a veneer of caution. A smile touched the corners of her exposed mouth. "So what's… the nature of my passenger, then?" The question was enunciated slowly as if he were an explosive charge to go off at any vibration that was too intense.

"Negotiator. Its true ability is to assess others passengers and impart comprehensive, general information," he answered her, tipping his head over to one side with a smile. "However, your passenger is crippled and it's limiting itself to avoid hurting you. Right now, it extrapolates information and data from the environment."

"I'm pretty sure it's crippled because of all the headaches Alec is giving me," she said, sagging with a sigh.

Gabriel laughed at that in good humor, but knew it didn't really work like that. He smiled at her brightly as he swiped one hand dismissively. "It's more complicated than that," he related, not delving deeper. He didn't notice how patronizing he sounded. "Back to our topic."

"Yeaah, okay. I don't know what to tell you. A hammerspace power of some kind would be neat," she said, waving a hand dismissively to mimick his own movement. There was an undercurrent of bitterness there, that he didn't notice.

While the idea was neat, Greg Veder already proposed it long ago. Huh. If it was corroborated, maybe it was worth getting? "Not power ideas. While that's a good idea, I was thinking more of… which powers do I put with others, with what mindset, to get the best effect," he answered.

"The one that gives you a loud voice, plus echolocation?" she tested, unsure what to say.

"Wait, that's smart. It'd increase my echolocation range," he said, nodding. He mixed them together. Twelve seconds went by as the power worked its magic, and the result was a power that let him whistle at subsonic frequencies, in a 120-degree cone outwards. The sonic waves bounced off of walls and surfaces in a range of twenty to thirty meters, with a high degree of penetration for most materials. They gave him an instinctive awareness of what was on the other side, overlaid on their field of vision. He also gained an instinctive echolocation awareness of the shape of all objects in the range of five meters.

"Okay, what next? Go bigger," Gabriel prompted excitedly, with a smile. A wonderful, warm smile. Finally - he was getting some progress done.

"The gas warping power," she began, thinking about it carefully, eyes to the side, "The one similar to Shadow Stalker's. If you combine it with danger sense, it might… result in something that automatically phases you to dodge attacks. That'd be useful since a bunch of powers can go through conventional defenses."

Gabriel laughed ecstatically. The feeling of... having someone like this, to feed him ideas, felt blissful. "You're wonderful at this," he cooed, feeling his arms tremble with excitement. And thus, he mixed the gas-warp and danger sense together. The gears began to churn in the background of his head.

She frowned, placing her chin on her fist, and her arm rested on another arm placed on her stomach. She looked at him, utterly unimpressed, then said, "I'm not even using my power for this."

Gabriel sighed, reminded of it once again. Looking at her reaction, he rolled his eyes to indicate it wasn't an annoyed sigh; at least not annoyed at her. "I know. I'm dumb. Plus, I'm scared of messing up with my power, and losing useful abilities," he admitted. After a moment, he cringed with a sour face. "My passenger scolded me about this as well."

"Wow. Even the fairy-aliens from another dimension agree about that," Tattletale jeered.

Gabriel smirked. "Keep going. Try using your power, maybe it'll give you something more unique?"

"What powers did you get out of it so far?" she asked.

"Uhm, what you said for the gas power plus danger sense and, uhh, an aimed-echolocation that lets me… 'know' through walls? It's complicated to put into words," he explained.

"Okay. How much do you trust my judgment?" she asked, smiling at him in a friendly manner.

"Normally? Six out of ten. With your power? Eight-point-five." He certainly didn't mince words.

"Okay." She blinked. Her smile disappeared into neutrality, but she actually looked satisfied with the response. She took it at face value and nodded once. "Ambrosia enzyme. Combine it with the phoenix stuff, but it's going to knock you unconscious for a long time," she stated, looking serious about it.

"Alright. Give me another proposition, I'll do two at the same time, since this will take hours, and I can sleep through it."

Tattletale didn't hesitate, speaking her opinion outright, "Since we're already going this way, combine that breaker state that makes you bulletproof with your first power. The forcefield one. If I had to guess, I'd say it'd result in something that reinforces your constructs. Maybe the forcefield itself, too."

"Alright. Will do that. Thank you, really," Gabriel smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder for a moment. "We take care of each other, right?"

Lisa looked briefly surprised, then uncomfortable, then decided to just suck it up and accept the love, without being sarcastic about it. "Yeah," she answered, nodding. With that, she stood up, out of the chair, and slid it back into place. She glanced at the bed in the corner of the room. "You might want to lie down for this."

"If you ever need anything, you know who to call," he joked, lying down on the bed.

She began to turn in the direction of the door, intending to leave, when she stopped to turn, thoughtful. "Hey. About your name?"

"Yeah?"

Tattletale turned around to face him. She had a minced expression, half-anxious, half-contemplating something: she was looking down, with her eyebrows furrowed in thought. "This will sound retarded, but… ah, fuck it. I'll let myself be dorky this one time, but if anyone asks you didn't hear it from me." He nodded in agreement, and she proposed, "How about Longinus? Alec will make fun of it, 'hurr-durr, you're compensating for something' but it clicks for me. A former Roman legionnaire, he stabbed Jesus, and then became a Catholic saint. Kind of makes sense, really. But it's cool if you'd rather drop the Roman mythology stuff."

"I can either shut him up, or show him I don't need to compensate," he answered with a playful wink, prompting a fit of stifled laughter. Then, he pondered. Did that name sound good? Did it sound like something he'd be willing to go around with? Maybe. "Yeah. That is cool."

She smiled, then left the room, closing the door. After that, the boy tentatively named Longinus focused and followed Lisa's instructions and his power started working.

In half a second, everything whirled, and the world became a blender.