Heieienej

by Kahlil Johnson

Aka lei

13. Hh

"I have to give you credit. Everyone in this city sees you as either the wildcard, the dark horse, or a lit match in the middle of a lot of dry wood. But this...," Faultline said as I stepped into her office. Already I could hear Gregor stomping behind me through the enlarged doorway, with Newter and Spitfire close behind. "I did not see this coming."

I patted out a small patch of flame still lit on my shoulder before giving a smirk and a shrug. Spitfire had surprising range, and an even more surprising degree of precision. She had probably woken up by now, although with the headache she would be nursing I knew it wasn't smart to stick around for long. I gave a neat little bow to Faultline. "It's what I do."

A quick glance showed Gregor giving me an impassive look with his arms crossed. Newter had squeezed between him and the wall to occupy what little space was left in the room, and no doubt Spitfire had been held in reserve. After a few seconds of squirming against Gregor, Newter gave a quick huff before scurrying up to cling to the ceiling.

Faultline sat down behind a heavy oak desk, propping up both feet clad in heavy combat boots with a heavy thunk. She was the only one wearing a mask, which probably wasn't accidental. It forced me to focus on her teammates in order to gauge a reaction. "I thought what you do was kill with impunity and destroy with immunity."

"Said the living earthquake," I muttered under my breath, turning away from Faultline's thugs to lean forward and splay both hands on her desk, trying to establish my presence by crossing into her personal space. Newter laughed, which meant they all heard my snide little remark. "Although I hope you don't mind if I make that my catchphrase. Kill with impunity and destroy with immunity. Really rolls off the tongue."

Faultline ignored both of us.

That air of indifference she had adopted had been meant to unsettle me, and it was working to some degree. Nothing sets off alarms more than having half the city regard you as a pretty major threat, only to have someone get comfortable in their armchair as you stride right into their base of operations. "My hands were tied on this one," I said. "It was either come to you, or hold one of your crew hostage until you agreed to come out and meet with me. This seemed easier."

"Telling us that you refrained from kidnapping and extortion only because of convenience is hardly putting the best foot forward," Gregor rumbled behind me.

"But it does tell you that I mean business, and might I remind you that we're villains," I shot back, a little more forcefully than I would have liked. "Convenience is one of the few reasons why this game of cops and robbers has gone on for so long."

"So is respect," Faultline's voice echoed from behind her metal mask. "Saying you can just up and take one of us to do with as you want carries the implication that we couldn't stop you if you tried, which implies that you're stronger than us, which is an implied threat in itself when dealing with capes." She drew her feet back under her to sit up straight. She mimicked my forward lean so that the blank slate of her welding mask was only a few inches from my nose. "Are you threatening me, Taylor?"

Faultline gave a brief pause, following with another question before I could reply. "Or do you prefer Butcher?"

Seems like everyone's asking the same question.

I didn't break eye contact with the visor portion. Hopefully the hood drawn up around my features helped to obscure my age a little, try and lend an air of seniority instead of a teenager in way over her head. "Quite the opposite, actually. I'm here with an offer. A job offer."

If any of them were at all surprised, they didn't show it. Faultline just cocked her head slightly. Gregor crossed his arms. Newter actually laughed. She replied after a moment of tense silence. "Try again."

I maintained that same level stare with Faultline. Even when the silence became awkward, when Newter began nervously glancing between his boss and the exit, and when Gregor's meaty hands curled into fists, I kept that stare going.

Finally after about half a minute, I spoke up. "I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. No money, no influence, and half the city wants me dead. Siding with me, a very known and very unstable villain bordering on psychopath, would make you so many enemies it might not even be too far-fetched to say that you and your team will find their way onto bounty lists of their own."

Ah, but you blinked. They'll capitalize on that, pretty girl.

"I'm supposed to be impressed with such a firm grasp on the obvious?"

I pushed off the desk, drawing both arms beneath my ragged cloak that had been stitched out of whatever leftover blankets I could fish out of the Goodwill bin. "I'm here, and your speaking with me in a relatively civil manner. That means you want something from me. Something only I could give and which is worth risking the wrath of the entire villain community."

"I do."

"Well because you-" I gave a quick double take. "Wait what?"

Faultline began inspecting her nails, a move so nonchalant it almost screamed the opposite. It mattered to her that I knew that it didn't matter to her. Which was such an obvious gesture in itself that it meant that she knew that I knew that she wanted me to know that she didn't care…

Careful, keep trying to stay three steps ahead without watching where you're stepping now and all you'll accomplish is walking straight off a cliff.

Or maybe she had dirty nails and I was lapsing back into tunnel vision. Fuck it, Four had a point. Faultline had already outmaneuvered me, might as well roll with it.

"So you've been seeing this coming for a while," I said.

"Three ways boss lady saw this going down," Newter said, uncoiling himself from the ceiling to settle down next to Faultline's desk. "One, which I had considerable faith in," he leaped behind me to shove a messy wad of bills into Gregor's now outstretched hand. "was that you'd be dead in a week. Suicide by cop, suicide by cape, whatever, but the odds were stacked against you. Yet here you are, and I'm down twenty."

"Two was me heading back to Boston," I said, beginning to fill in the blanks. "And Three, I start reaching out to anyone not actively working against me."

I shot Newter a somewhat irritated look. "Kinda demoralizing to find out that people have been betting on my life." I drolly added.

He laughed. "Then I probably shouldn't tell you the exact odds Spitfire worked out."

"If it's any consolation," Gregor said. "My money was on Option Three. Spitfire went for Option Two, although she always does like to play it safe."

"At least my imminent death wasn't the safer bet."

Gregor gave a thin smile at that. "But not by a fair margin."

Dropping from the ceiling to land on the desk, Newter began to nudge his boss in the side with a scaly elbow. Faultline ignored him. He persisted. Adopting an irritated look, Newter loudly thumped his tail twice against the oaken desk. After a few more moments of this little tantrum, Faultline idly tossed some money his way, which Newter snatched up eagerly.

I gaped a little at that. "Seriously?"

Faultline shrugged. "Builds camaraderie."

A small frown was about the best I could do to hide my disappointment. It was a small understatement to say that it was a small understatement that things weren't going to plan. One of the downsides to thinking in the long term was that it gave you far less flexibility to compensate for any complications down the line. Go even the slightest bit off script, and you're left on the stage staring blankly into space.

So, might as well follow my original gut instincts and play along as best I could. And might as well ask as bluntly as possible. "What do you want?"

"Make your offer before we get to discussing price."

And in just a few short moments, she had put me on the defensive. In her own goddamn home. I all but fell into the chair sitting opposite Faultline's in exasperation. "In retrospect, maybe this wasn't the best idea…"

"It was spontaneous, I'll give you that."

"But you were expecting me."

"They're not mutually exclusive. You can expect a keg of gunpowder to go off if you leave it near an open flame, but you can't predict when it'll go off. I was expecting you to come to us, what with us being one of the few somewhat neutral parties left in Brockton, I just wasn't expecting this meeting to occur a day after you hold an entire mall hostage."

Ah, memories, Two said with a nasty laugh.

I rubbed at my eyes. That was going to be hanging over my head for a while. "In my defense," I began. "To say I was having a bad day doesn't describe the half of it."

"I suppose having your identity exposed to your closest friends and family only to watch your own father get paraded around the media circus as the parent of a murderous psychopath must have been a hell of a way to wake up in the morning."

It stung to hear it that condensed, but she had nailed the gist of it. Back at the mall, hearing Vanessa already reacting with fear bordering on terror just at the sound of Taylor Hebert only a few hours after the news broadcast was enough to drive me into a dazed stupor. A stupor the other Butchers could easily capitalize on.

God, it had been so hard to resist them then. What changed?

Careful bratan, maybe is not the right time or place for that, Seven warned. These people respect power, yes? Then perhaps is best they not know vhat really happened.

In other words, Two added. Until you're ready to start getting your hands dirty again, don't just freely give away that the new Butcher is all bark and no bite.

I could give a shit about protecting your reputation, I replied.

Reputation is everything, Eight flatly stated. You're an idiot if you believe otherwise. The only reason there are seventeen Butchers, and not seven thousand, is because we have built a carefully cultivated image of fear and respect stretching across much of the eastern seaboard. Should that image be forgotten, it won't just be your enemies in Brockton Bay you'll need to worry about, but all of our contenders and rivals in Boston as well.

Metal teeth sing to Mother. Bring us back the metal teeth.

So lesson one, alienate any potential ally that comes my way for the sake of preserving an image that no one can even believe? I'm wearing rags and talking to myself and eating out of the garbage. They're hunting me in the streets like a fucking animal, Eight. I think that ship hasn't just sailed. It's fucking circumnavigated.

But does Faultline really need to know that? Seven asked.

Desperation might breed sympathy.

Never among mercenaries, Six supplied.

Point taken, I conceded. I swallowed my spirited justification behind the heavy lump in my throat before pressing on.

"On second thought," I softly added, "Best not to bore you with the details." Faultline might have taken note of the few seconds pause, but she would probably chalk that up to me being at an utter loss of words on how to rationalize a young girl at knifepoint.

Or maybe she thought I was actually crazy. Still left me in the same boat as when I walked in.

Faultline's reply came back a bit more muted than before, albeit still cold as ice. "Then get to the point."

I couldn't help but feel like she had dropped the condescending tone, despite keeping the Queen Bitch demeanor, and felt a small swell of success as she took her feet off the desk. Respect? No. More like recognition.

Maybe this plan wasn't so hopeless after all. At least at some point she had decided to hear me out instead of sicking the fire breathing bitch on me.

"My offer is two-fold. First, I'm willing to hire you and your team for the express purpose of drawing out the Protectorate." I said, trying to appear as earnest as possible.

"Unacceptable."

"Would it help if I said your role in this would be as a relatively small part in a much larger plan to ensure my own survival?"

"Not even remotely."

"Would it help if I said that small part was little more than a general clamor that could only get you chalked up for disturbing the peace at best, and a minor altercation with law enforcement at worst?"

"In other words, you want us to be bait," Faultline crossed her arms. She was constantly shifting limbs. Changing position. It bothered her to sit still for such an extended period of time. "I would think you're bait enough. Walk in front of a news camera and you'll have heroes swarming on you in minutes."

"A public appearance by Butcher wouldn't draw out the specific people I want at a very specific time and at a very specific place. These capes would most likely only be sent out in the very unique circumstance that it isn't me they were dealing with."

I could almost imagine Faultline's brow rise beneath her helmet. "Sounds exceedingly risky for us with very little guarantee of a payoff."

"But this is where it gets good. The distraction? Your target will be Kaiser."

"We're not your personal team of hitmen."

I gave a quick scoff. "Bait, remember?" Me, a skinny little zit-faced, frazzly-haired, gangly-limbed, sixteen-year-old awkward little teenage fuck, scoffing at one of the most powerful supervillains of Brockton Bay. "Which means that I don't want you to kill him…" I said, folding out a hastily sketched picture from the inner folds of my cloak. Newter took one look at it before howling with laughter. Even Gregor couldn't help but crack a smile.

"...I just want you to piss him off."

Last edited: Oct 7, 2014

249

TheManWithaPlan

May 30, 2014

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Jun 5, 2014

#434

Prelacy 2.3

Often the best recipes are the simplest ones.

One guerilla war.

For the honey glaze:

-1/2 cup honey

-1/2 cup Dijon mustard

-1-1/2 teaspoons dried rosemary, crushed

-1 teaspoon onion powder

-1/2 teaspoon salt

-1/4 teaspoon garlic powder

-1/4 teaspoon pepper

For the plan of attack:

-1 gestalt of sixteen undead notorious supervillains residing in your subconscious, each carrying a small fraction of an individual superpower. These powers should include: matter reformation, enhanced healing factor, teleportation, pain-inducing projected field, reality-bending or outright reality-breaking degree of accuracy with any projectile weapon. Other powers optional.

-Noted enemy strategic locations within a wide area of operations. Such locations can include: business fronts, weapon dumps, storage warehouses, connected drug dens or manufacturers, and any other assorted hangouts, meetups, dead drops, or otherwise. Possible targets can also include any friends or family of identified capes.

-Tenuous alliance with local mercenaries to provide logistical support, ignoring the very real possibility that while fighting very powerful and very wealthy individuals said mercenaries might very well might turn on you for the highest bidder.

-1 compound bow. Maximum range irrelevant.

-Aspirin (optional).

For the salad:

-20 ounces mixed spinach and lettuce, rinsed, dried and torn into bite-sized pieces.

-1 cup of broccoli. Cut the little trees at the top into slices or chunks, although as a personal preference you can keep the stems.

-A carrot or two. Coins, sticks or squares, all of even thickness. Sizes should be equivalent to the broccoli bits.

Teleport into selected location, then repeat to disorient opposing force. Draw finely toothed knife, slip between eleventh and twelfth rib, teleport away. Repeat until opposing force can no longer oppose. No protracted cuts, slices should be clean and definite to maintain precision. Should initial perimeter defense be intimidating, draw bow and pick off individual targets. Teleport between shots to disorient enemy. Activate and maintain pain aura on to deal with any stragglers, teleport all casualties to safe distance, then convert a small portion of the air inside to hydrogen. Light match, teleport, enjoy fireworks display.

Repeat until I kill them all.

Then enjoy a delicious salad topped with homemade honey glaze. Goes well with both red or white wine.

Sounds easy, doesn't it?

That's the greatest burden of bearing the Butcher mantle. Not the voices, or the reputation, or even the status of social pariah forced on me simply for being at the wrong place at the right time. It's the sheer power I wield, and forcing to restrain it even when repeatedly thrown into another fight to the death almost by the hour.

In a single week, the length of time I promised Lisa, I could have brought this city to its knees. I could leave the heads of five Wards impaled on the iron gates of Arcadia High. I could core Aegis out like a fucking apple and leave nothing more than a quivering mass of meat constantly trying to reform itself against a cage of bent steel girders.

It wouldn't end there. I could tear out Triumph's throat and wear it as a necklace. I could send Velocity into an infinite loop of hyperseizures through induced cardiac arrest. I could blow Miss Militia's brains out from a hundred yards away. I could spear Armsmaster through the gut with his own halberd.

I could become the apex predator of Brockton Bay. I could carve out this entire city as my territory, with any gang or criminal or cape forced to pay homage to their carnivore god.I could defeat any enemy that came my way. Because not even death was enough to kill me. I would simply swap mind and body as easily as a change of clothes. All would live and die in fear of my shadow. And in that, maybe I could exact a small fraction of the pain and humiliation inflicted on me on the helpless masses.

I could...I could…

No more fighting. No more running. I could finally be free.

I could, but then I'd let them win.

If there was one thing I had learned through the tortuous rhythm of sanity and insanity, repeating endlessly in an Ouroboros pattern until the mouth of the snake overtook the tail only to cycle back, through the observation of power and those who wielded it, and through the transmission of the few memories of previous lives the other Butchers allowed to trickle through, I had learned that even a god can be a slave.

I stared out through the window, a warm breeze blowing in. It was late spring, and the weather was beginning to warm up. I was sweating underneath my hood and heavy cloak, although the heat was pretty welcome after living out on the street for an extended period of time. Maybe the added layers provided some subconscious measure of security. Or maybe I still considered it a bit of a faux pas when dealing with capes to operate while openly displaying my face.

Something tapped on a closed window behind me, and I almost jumped out my skin with the shock. A quick glance back followed by an immediate double take showed Newter waving outside. He wore the same idiot smile on his face as when I first met with Faultline. I gave a quick sigh of relief, then let him inside my impromptu vantage point.

"All set up?" I asked Newter, not even bothering to acknowledge him before turning back to the window to survey the target. I would normally have made an effort to pay a little more respect to one of my few sort-of/not really allies, but I suspected that Faultline had paired me up with Newter for a reason. His particular personality became pretty grating after a while. She probably thought it hilarious to leave me with the walking migraine.

Case in point where he very nearly just gave me a heart attack.

"Not quite."

I raised an eyebrow beneath my hood. I wasn't sure if Newter saw. "Then shouldn't you be out helping whoever hasn't finished instead of in here continuing to bug the crap out of me?"

"Oh ho ho, easy there Herr Commandant," Newter raised his hands in a meek gesture of surrender. "Spitfire's been delayed. Nothing major, just a guard patrol that veered a little far off the assigned schedule. They're stopping for a smoke break, and she's hiding close by."

Seems a bit too convenient, Eleven suggested. Guards taking a smoke break in the late hours of the night? Just a few days after the villain community marks us as a primary target? Kaiser would be sure to keep his guards on edge.

Bait? I asked.

It would make the most sense, Thirteen supplied.

Three murmured. Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider, who sat down beside her, and frightened Miss Muffet away.

I suppressed a mental shudder. So today's theme was shaping up to be nursery rhymes delivered in an eerie falsetto. Maybe tomorrow he would start chanting in tongues. Nowadays, the only time I'm ever scared is when you begin to make sense, Three.

Oh, how Mother laughs with our song.

"It would be simple enough to take them out," I focused back on Newter. "Drop down and with a quick tap on the shoulder send them spinning into synesthesia."

He shrugged. "And then I'd have to hide two more bodies, which would change the plan even more. I say we be patient and let the two fags enjoy their fags. Worse comes to worst, Spitfire's trained in nonlethal hand-to-hand."

"But that'll make noise and cause a situation. She can't drop them both as quickly or as quietly as you can."

Newter bared his pointed lizard teeth in a parody of a grin. "Trust me, there's nothing quiet about my method. Use my power on a low dose and you have to deal with two moaning security guards slowly stripping naked and screaming for the walls to stop staring at them. High dose? They might go blind."

If zat vere true, then vhy not bring zat up in ze first place? Seven wondered.

Now I fully turned to look him in the eye. "You keep trying to make excuses. First it's dealing with the bodies, now it's about the limitations of your powers. I saw the girls you had wrapped around you back at the club. They seemed quiet enough to me."

I cut Newter off before he had a chance to reply. "This job isn't compartmentalized. If you've done your share, you don't come back up here to engage small talk with your client, you go back out and help your teammates finish their share. Understood?"

Newter's fanged smile vanished and his expression darkened. "I'm beginning to understand why you don't have many friends in this city."

I ignored the barb. "I think Faultline would agree with me on this one. Do your job. Go watch over Spitfire and see if she needs anymore help."

With a sound that sounded unnervingly close to a snake's hiss, he slinked back out the window to climb back down to ground level.

I sighed. Playing hardass wasn't likely to get any easier. I would do it myself if I could carry any kind of subtlety through my powerset, but discretion was one particular set of skills I had let slip by. In the beginning there wasn't much need for it, if I wanted to work quietly I would do something like send a few bugs in through the cracks in the walls. Now, my teleports were as loud as a grenade going off.

He has a point, Four said. Probably best to keep good relations with whoever we can if we want to count on their support in the future.

Ve paid zem to do a job, Seven retorted. Better zat zey do it to ze best of zheir ability zhan ve try to stay friends viz ze whores villing to take anyone's money.

Four grumbled. Every business transaction relies as much on relations as it does on physical currency. Didn't we agree on maintaining our reputation?

A reputation based on strength.

And how far can that carry us? We need-

The rest of his sentence was harshly cut off by a mental stranglehold. The other Butchers had silenced him, and I couldn't help but notice how One had remained quiet for hours now. What had they wanted to keep from me? And why was Four suddenly willing to cooperate so openly?

Another sign that the tides were turning in my favor. More and more in the collective were beginning to understand that I was worth more alive as a host than dead. The only question now was whether if it was a total democracy, or if seniority lent a larger or louder voice.

Hopefully I didn't ask myself that too "loudly", else the others would pick up on it. With a practised mental exercise, I filed that question along with a thousand others at the back of my mind. Something to consider for another time.

Five minutes passed. The Butchers were silent, and I didn't dare let my mind wander down any dangerous lines of thought. Instead I distracted myself by focusing intently on any passerby were out even at such a late hour.

This close to the docks it was mostly homeless and drunk, with a few gangs of obnoxiously loud teenagers passing by to make as much noise as possible. None of them looked familiar though, nothing like the Empire capes I faced a few weeks ago. I still occupied my twitching hands by opening and closing my balisong in a clicking rhythm. It paid to be paranoid in this situation.

My bow was unfolded and leaning against a wall within arms reach, an arrow held in my other hand and waiting to be knocked to the string. My danger sense was pretty vague when it came to potential threats, which made it impossible to sniff out traps ahead of time. The only time it kicked in was when the danger was clear, present, and coming right at me. For now I had to rely on my enhanced senses to keep an eye on Newter and Spitfire.

Finding them both with heartsight (veinsight?) was easy enough. Newter was the pulsing mass sticking to the building wall directly above and behind the two others I assumed were the security guards. A few feet away Spitfire was waiting crouched behind a nearby dumpster.

A few more minutes, and the guards still hadn't moved. Newter dropped down, and my heart leapt into my throat just from the sheer drop and the ensuing noise it must have made. Surprisingly though, the guards just kept talking. Was Newter hiding some stealth-based power? Noise dampening, or maybe some kind of chameleon-like camouflage?

Newter spring leaped to cling onto the back of one guard before whipping the second across the face with his tail. Both men collapsed to the ground, convulsing for a few seconds, before growing still. I breathed a sigh of relief that they still registered on my heartsight. No civilian casualties yet.

Spitfire walked out her hiding place to join Newter. I smiled as she gave him a lazy swat across the back of the head, which Newter awkwardly tried and failed to dodge. She then dropped her pack and began taking out and tossing several somethings to Newter, who snatched them up and scurried away. Spitfire then shouldered her pack again and began moving to the opposite side of the warehouse.

The camaraderie of a team. Something more than friendship but less than family. It stung a little to see that displayed so openly. I missed that. I reached into my inner coat pocket to pull out a wallet-sized photograph. Me and Emma at the beach, three years ago. God, I looked like a completely different person then. Fuller cheeks, bright eyes, relatively manageable hair, the first awkward stages of puberty beginning to set in around the arms and upper body. I looked like a person back then.

I missed that. I missed a lot of things.

The first bullet tore through my right shoulder, boring a perfect hole through my face in the picture. The force from the impact spun me around and slammed me to the floor. Another shot ricocheted against the opposite wall, and I had a strong feeling that had been the exact space my head had been occupying just a second ago. The Butchers exploded into meaningless noise.

What the hell, Danger Sense?

I teleported down to ground level away from any windows, waiting for my healing factor to push the bullet out and get my back to fighting shape. It was lodged squarely in the shoulder joint, which caused an ungodly amount of pain from just moving it. Focus. Now, the shot had come from behind me but couldn't have been fired from inside the building, else I would have heard it. Yet the second shot had come from the front, with the shooter probably hiding in one of taller warehouses for a better vantage point.

Two shooters then, at least. I couldn't see anyone moving on heartsight. Newter and Spitfire had vanished at the sound of gunfire. Maybe I could start blinking out in the opening, hope one of them takes a shot and gives away their position? It was hasty and desperate, but it had worked before. People usually mistook my teleports for-

This entire thought process was probably carried in about fifteen seconds. I know this because sixteen seconds after I blinked down, I was tackled mid-thought by a sentient mass of whirling blades.

Slamming me into the wall first, Hookwolf speared me through the stomach with tapered steel claws before shredding a good portion of my face with a makeshift chainsaw erupting from what I could only have guessed to be his mouth. My skin was hard enough that my face wasn't turned into hamburger meat, and I used that brief moment while Hookwolf was trying to flay me alive to blink as far away as I could visualize.

At which point I turned, only to be hit by a flying taxi.

Seriously, Danger Sense?

214

TheManWithaPlan

Jun 5, 2014

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Jun 12, 2014

#454

Prelacy 2.4

The car didn't just hit me, it slammed into me with enough force that the impact drove me almost a full inch into the ground. I lay there sprawled on the cracked concrete, an arm dislocated, most likely a leg broken, and spat out a phlegmy wad of blood. Before I could draw my knives, teleport, rise to my feet, or even so much as force another tortured breath into my crushed lungs the taxi was brought down on me again with an equal or greater force. Something then dragged it back up, and it came down again. And again. And again.

I first thought of the car as the hammer and me as the anvil, but the action wasn't nearly so deliberate. A blacksmith repeatedly hits the steel to hammer it into a chosen shape. There's a purpose there. A deliberate action. But this was more like a terrified housewife trying to stamp out a spider. Hate dampened by fear. You shut your eyes and swing blindly at the monster, hoping it can't get back up again. This was someone whose boiling hatred of me was matched only by the paralyzing terror that I might get back up again to retaliate.

"Hey Rune," I muttered weakly. I would have even tried giving a little wave with the mangled ruin of my hand, but the taxi began coming down with increased speed, with a little more force behind each strike.

Even with burst eardrums I could hear a deep voice, his voice, give the command from the shadows. Bastard was probably standing far enough away so that any stray dust wouldn't have touched his armor. "Enough."

One final blow, and this time Rune drove the car as far down as she could before twisting it to try and reduce me to a fine smear on the pavement.

"Enough."

I felt Rune draw up what I could only assume to be a mangled pile of scrap that at one point might have resembled a taxi, yet she held it in place just from the brief longer than the usual three second gap between impacts.

Then I could hear the earsore of gnashing gears and the whine of tortured metal slowly begin to recede. Hookwolf had reverted back to flesh and blood just a few feet from me. Sucker punch a girl and lord it over her like some kind of gladiatorial victory. Arrogant bastard. If he had any brains at all he'd keep as much of his body metallic as possible, just to make it a little harder for me to pull the bike chains out of his bladed asshole.

I took the opportunity to crane my head up, which sent hot, screaming agony down my neck and upper body as my torn muscles slowly began knitting themselves back together. Rune was glaring down at me from the shallow crater, the taxi hovering a few feet above her head. Hookwolf was standing at Kaiser's side like a good little lapdog, and Der Fuhrer himself observing the whole scene, his hands clasped at the small of his back like a proper little egomaniac.

Flanking him and in the shadows was Faultline, who was lazily pointing a pistol at me with an outstretched arm. Heartsight confirmed Newter was flanking her, I guessed he was armed just from looking at his posture. Spitfire was sitting on an elevated shipping container for a wider angle of attack. Fenja was behind me, grown to fifteen feet tall. I couldn't see Menja, but she was probably being kept in reserve.

Eight spoke up with a strained voice, as if in a great deal of pain. Probably, maybe, should have. Too much speculation can be dangerous.

Oh goody, you guys are still here… I drolly replied.

Hey, don't get pissy with us for Three's fuckup, Four said.

So he was the one screwing with the Danger Sense. What set him off?

Who really knows? Four gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. Loopy as he is, even Three can't fully block out what we did to him. Takes a lot to drive a man insane after all, and that kind of sick shit sticks with you no matter how broken you might seem. So while all you'll ever hear from him are catchy little songs or teen goth prose, at the end of the day Three still hates Butcher infinitely more than you or any of us.

Shouldn't that hate be reserved solely for One and Two?

Two laughed. Like the poor bastard can even tell the difference. His sanity comes and goes like the tides, and when it comes in, Three tries to cause as much damage as possible before we can pull him apart again. Oh, if only you could hear his screams right now.

So in addition to having to deal with you assholes, I have to deal with a madman randomly regaining just enough lucidity to try and kill me? Exactly how many time bombs do I have stuffed into my head?

Focus, One's voice boomed out, reverberating through my skull. All you need to know is that Three has been contained. For now. Eight has been assigned to manage his skillset. Deal with the situation at hand.

Another tidbit about the collective offered at the worst possible time: Butchers held on to their grudges against one another even into the afterlife. That unity they had shown in the first couple of weeks was proving to be nothing but a facade.

I was snapped back to reality as coils of something blacker than smoke began drifting out from further down the alley before revealing Grue turning the corner. Living darkness floated out from beneath his skull helmet as a tangible aura of malice following him. The field of darkness expanded to black out the left half of the alley, with Kaiser and his lackeys standing on the right. Grue was slowly stalked towards me with clenched fists. His power nullified heartsight. For all I knew he was hiding the rest of the Undersiders and Coil's men to boot.

Christ, the people in this city hated me so much that it was enough to drive a black man to work side by side with Neo fucking Nazis.

Surrounded, outnumbered, and mashed into a fine paste by a flying taxi by a psychotic teenager, Two whimsically noted. Ah, this brings back memories of my honeymoon.

The long silence was broken by Kaiser. "We have your father."

I spat out a molar only to feel a new one already beginning to grow in its place. "Yeah, I figured after our first meetup that you'd go there."

His level tone didn't change. To the both of us, this was simple. We were merely laying out the rules of the game. "He is alive. He is unharmed. He is currently in the kitchen reheating a bowl of canned soup. There is a picture of you wearing a hideous homemade sweater sitting on the windowsill. I have a pair of crosshairs trained on him and ready to fire should you attempt another teleport."

"Threatening my loved ones? Not too original or even clever on that count."

"It doesn't need to be, so long as it keeps you contained."

"Contained?" I arched a brow, as best as I could. "Not trapped?"

"Yes, contained. Contained in the sense that one might cage a rabid animal to protect the wider community. Contained in the sense that one might quarantine Patient Zero of a virulent disease. I am very particular in my choice of words."

"There hasn't been a kill order yet. The Protectorate couldn't legally allow this."

Hookwolf chuckled darkly. "You'd be surprised by what they allow."

I could feel my legs and lower body again, regaining enough motor function that I dragged myself off the pavement to flop onto my back. Pathetic enough, but at least I got a more comfortable view of Kaiser. "Seems awfully altruistic of you, doing the heroes' work for them and all."

"This is hardly about charity. There's not much profit to be had in letting you run rampant across the city."

"I swear, it's like you villains have a set list of canned phrases. It's all Butcher or Taylor? this and not much profit that and maybe you're too crazy to live if we're craving a bit of a power trip. Faultline said the same thing when I offered her a job."

Metal sparked against metal as Kaiser turned his armored head to Faultline. Her stance changed from relaxed to combatant, legs spread apart and gun held steady with both hands. Spitfire and Newter edged closer to her. The edges of Grue's darkness began to waver slightly. Hookwolf's hand erupted into a tangled mess of spearpoints, and Rune's taxi twitched slightly in her invisible grip.

I cracked a bloody smile directly at Kaiser, exposing my missing teeth. "Oh, so you didn't know?"

"Is this true?" Kaiser asked, hands no longer behind his back.

Faultline only nodded.

"You had her in your fucking home and you didn't tell us?" Hookwolf snarled.

Faultline shifted her welding mask helmet to Hookwolf without moving her pistol off me. "She came as a client with a prospective offer. I heard her out. I agreed. I promised her I wouldn't report her to either you or the Protectorate, and my line of work requires that I uphold a set of basic principles no matter the clientele."

"You were going to help her? Them? It?" Grue seethed. "For money?"

She turned to Grue now. "I was, until Coil and Kaiser collectively made a better offer. Again, I agreed, after which Coil privately instructed me to continue working for Butcher in order to set bait for the trap."

"I was never informed of this," Kaiser said.

"Coil believed the less people knew, the fewer targets Butcher could potentially interrogate. He was the one bankrolling us, so it was his call."

"You're fired, by the way," I mumbled.

Faultline shrugged. "I can live with that."

"Not you. Him."

The left wall exploded at Trainwreck came stomping through. Rune was far enough away that she wasn't too stunned from the blast, so she hurled her taxi as one giant spinning bullet. Trainwreck simply braced his left shoulder to absorb the blow and let the impact wash over him. The taxi glanced off his side to bury itself in the nearby warehouse, and Trainwreck took that as an opportunity to charge forward at Kaiser.

Sparks flew as a mass of blades erupted from the ground to bounce off wrought iron skin, some even managed to pierce Trainwreck's armor, but ultimately it was like a wall of pikeman standing against a tank. Kaiser rolled out of the way before Trainwreck could take a swing at him with a mammoth fist.

A quick glance to my right showed Rune on one knee while gingerly touching the small knife embedded in the other. Hopefully she would understand that it wasn't one of mine this time. Grue was already on his feet, the darkness around him shrinking back to reveal Menja, Crusader, and even Purity hovering a few feet above the ground.

Hookwolf had already sprung into his signature combat form, and with a revving car engine of a snarl leapt onto Trainwreck's back to start slashing with the seven bladed limbs he had now sprouted. Hookwolf was only able to hold on for a few seconds before Trainwreck tore him off. I could see deep, hollow gouges cut into Trainwreck's back, and couldn't help but notice that he was now moving infinitesimally slower than before. I didn't know if he could feel pain, but I did know he couldn't keep this level of punishment up for long.

Trainwreck gripped Hookwolf by the vague midsection to slam him against the warehouse a few more times. Errant shot from the unseen sniper above occasionally peppered him to no effect, focusing mostly on the helm or eyeholes. After half a minute, Trainwreck dropped Hookwolf and rushed to me. He tenderly opened his hand as if to hold me, and with a weary sigh I flopped into his palm.

"You're late," I told him, giving him a light swat on the tombstone shoulder. My extremities had healed enough that had regained some motor function again. Trainwreck only grunted, a hollow sound emanating from deep within his chest cavity.

"I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER!" I yelled out across the battlefield, two Nordic supergiants only a few feet away from spearing me with a javelin the size of a small plane.

Everyone from the Empire froze in place, and even Grue hesitated for a moment. Kaiser drew himself up to his feet. Purity was now blazing with the light of a newborn star. Hookwolf was putting himself back together, and Rune had tapped two nearby shipping containers that were now flanking her on opposite sides.

The following silence almost convinced me I had gone deaf.

"Aster is alive. Aster is unharmed. She is within my reach, and I have a lot more than just a pair of crosshairs trained on her little, bald, Aryan head," I stared Kaiser directly into his helmet. "Understood?"

He stayed silent. That was unnerving enough, although it was Purity who really terrified me. I had never seen another human being project such an expression of unmitigated rancor at me before, and I had gone up against Shadow Stalker.

I nudged Trainwreck, who was now cradling me in both arms. "Let's go."

Together we walked out of the shipyard, one thunking footstep after another. After a few minutes my legs had healed enough for me to start walking on my own two feet again, although I did so right at Trainwreck's side until the docks were long out of view.

We walked for the better part of an hour, sticking to the darker alleyways and lesser known side streets. Trainwreck eventually led me to an abandoned subway tunnel, at which point he merely grunted again before lumbering inside to leave me shivering alone in the cold.

Almost immediately after Trainwreck left, Coil emerged from the shadows. "How did it go?"

I rifled through my pockets for a moment before withdrawing the detonator. It paid to have contingencies, after all. So while the plan might have been for Faultline and her crew to set demolition charges on the right side of Empire territory in the Docks, I took the liberty of paying a second group to set charges on the left.

Thumbing the trigger, I could hear the blast echoing off from a mile away.

I shrugged. "Could'a gone better."

Last edited: Oct 7, 2014

245

TheManWithaPlan

Jun 12, 2014

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Jun 24, 2014

#559

Prelacy 2.5

"No, see all those special effects were the problem. They detracted from the story in a lazy attempt to create spectacle at the expense of a meaningful plot or memorable characters."

Trainwreck gave a low grunt of agreement that vaguely sounded like a car engine misfiring.

"It's not like the first movies didn't have any special effects," Circus remarked. "Kind of a prerequisite when dealing with sci-fi."

"Yeah but those were all practical effects," I paused to take a sip of my smoothie. "Every alien was a guy in a costume. Every set design was a matte painting or a physical location. Hell, they even got actual dwarves to play the part of the tiny bear people. The rusty spaceships and dusty locales all felt worn out and lived in. It all gave the movies an air of authenticity that pulled you into the world they built."

Circus rolled her (his?) eyes. "So the older films were a product of those times were practical effects were all the director had to work with. Shouldn't it make sense that the newer films would have evolved with the technology now available to them?"

"There's a big difference between evolving and outright abusing. By the third movie in the new trilogy almost everything was computer generated except for the actors!" Another sip. Damn this was good. "They had them fighting on swinging towers atop an erupting volcano with laser swords, and they still somehow managed to make it look boring. And don't even get me started on the writing..."

"Maybe you're just blinded a little too much by nostalgia."

"I'm not saying the originals didn't have flaws, far frome it," I conceded. The tunnel echoed with the clicks of my spinning balisong. "Eh, whatever. Most of what I'm saying has been said before and said much better. I bet If Leet or Uber were here they'd be able to give a much better argument."

Circus chuckled. "They'd be able to give a much louder argument, at least. Those two lovers absolutely adore getting worked up over crap like this." She shoveled a handful of fries into her mouth. "What's your take on this, big guy?"

I was distinctly reminded of Kaiser and the harsh screech of his condescending steel nod as Trainwreck's indifferent shrug ground metal against metal. I couldn't imagine having to wear anything more than my multiple layers in this stifling spring heat.

We had stuck close to the tunnel entrance to avoid being suffocated from the smog constantly belching from Trainwreck. The smoke only became bothersome if he began exerting himself, like in the fight from a few nights ago, but even while the mechanical monstrosity was at rest there was always the risk of asphyxiation when in an enclosed space.

For a brief second I wondered if he still needed to breathe oxygen, or if his power was shitty enough that he was as much at risk as the rest of us. His lower face was the only exposed part of him, wouldn't he wear a respirator, just as a precaution, if that was the case?

"Can you breathe in that? Your smoke, I mean." I asked. Trainwreck gave me a careful stare through his metal mask before nodding. A bit of heat rose to my cheeks after realizing I had asked a rather personal question rather directly. "Sorry, just curious."

Circus laughed again, then took a long swig of whatever cheap booze she had secreted away in her pocket space. "Don't worry, he's not mad or anything, just surprised. Trainwreck doesn't talk with other people much, so it's always a bit of a shock to him when they ask him something outright."

Yeah, I could understand that. For a few days after I became Butcher and started living the homeless life, silence became the ever present backdrop of my life. Raised voices set my heart racing. Loud noises had me fighting off the urge to teleport half a kilometer away. The other Butchers didn't help, of course. With them tormenting me and with my self-imposed isolation, I began to forget how to talk to people without coming off as slightly unhinged. I had only been alone for a few weeks, Trainwreck had likely been on his own for months or years.

"Can he talk? Oh shit-" I winced as I realized I was talking over Trainwreck again. "Sorry, old habits. Can you talk, or does your power-?"

"I can talk," Trainwreck blurted. As if ashamed simply for speaking aloud, he dropped his head to stare at his folded metal hands.

Excellent job Taylor, you just implied that the giant metal robot was an invalid. Next you can ask Circus about her precise gender, and maybe later question Coil's sexual preferences based on his unnatural fondness for bodysuits.

Yeah, pretty much took the words right out of my mouth, Four murmured. You have a real talent for self-deprecation, Sixteen, one that sometimes can be hard to match.

You'd think she wouldn't even need our help! Two laughed.

I ignored them both and tried to salvage the conversation. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply…"

Trainwreck held up a massive, armored hand. "You're not the first to ask. Just don't really feel like talking most of the time is all."

Finally, someone who didn't pick my every word apart to try and gauge some hidden threat or insult or provocation of insanity. Faultline would have let me squirm for a few minutes. Coil would have ended the meeting right there. Kaiser would have flayed me living.

"We're cool then?" I asked

He seemed genuinely taken aback by that, with blank goggles continuing to stare at me in what I hoped to be a new light. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper, "Yeah, we're cool."

I smiled, holding out a comparatively tiny fist compared to Trainwreck's. He hesitated for a moment before slowly curling that open steel palm into a fist that almost seemed to dwarf my entire body. Needing no further prompting, I quickly banged my fist against his.

Circus was deathly quiet, and it wasn't hard to understand why. We were the outcasts of this city, dejected loners either by choice or circumstance while the larger teams could rely on one another for support. All three of us shared a moment where we remembered, just for a moment, what it was like to be part of something more than just yourself.

The moment ended when Circus took another drink and belched loudly. Trainwreck and I were both startled by the sudden noise, with the metal man scooting at least a foot away to create some distance between us. I shot Circus a withering glare. She only gave that nasal laugh again.

"We have a complication," said a voice just beginning to come up the tunnel. From the darkness, the white snake twisting up the pale shadow of a man named Coil came forward. He was drumming the fingers of his right hand on his left arm, probably a show to demonstrate impatience. Giving me a glance of acknowledgement, Coil first turned to Trainwreck. "Do the Merchants know you're missing?"

Trainwreck nodded. "Told Skidmark I was going to the docks for a quick hit of our newest shipment. I took Mush as a witness, then let him take the first hit of a dose mixed with something a little stronger than he could handle. He shouldn't be waking up for another few hours."

"The Empire will know it was Trainwreck last night, no other Bruisers fit that description," I remarked. "That might invite retaliation on the Merchants."

"The Merchants have a notorious reputation for interfering in large-scale villain affairs, a side effect of Skidmark's colossal ego constantly seeking to drag him and his gang of base degenerates up from the bottom rung of the social ladder" Coil replied. "And should Skidmark find out about this, Trainwreck can merely claim he attacked the Empire while under the influence of a particularly strong psychedelic."

"He'll buy that? That one of his crew attacked a rival gang during the attempted capture and suppression of a marked enemy of the entire villain community, all because of a bad acid trip?" I asked incredulously. "Oh wait," I lightly slapped my hand to my forehead. "Of course he will. We're talking about Skidmark."

"I'd be surprised if he even found out about it," Circus said with a chuckle. "He's probably busy enough trying to shoot himself up with enough dope to knock out an elephant."

"Don't underestimate him," Coil flatly stated. "Kaiser had the backing of Gesellschaft. Lung is rumored to have a network of support ranging from the Los Angeles Yakuza to a southern Chinese snakehead. Even I had my connections. But Skidmark had nothing. He scratched together a team of parahumans, fostered a city-wide narcotics distribution network, and recruited a decently sized gang that, while maybe not loyal to him, are at the very least dependent on him."

"He's right," Trainwreck agreed. "Seen him tear one of his top sellers in half just on the impulse that the guy might have been on the take. Without his powers."

"That just makes him paranoid," I countered. But somehow, even I didn't believe it. I filed that little tidbit away for later. Even if he was the most pathetic of the leading villains in the city, Skidmark was still a leading villain in this city. That was already higher than my place on the totem pole.

"As for retaliation on the Merchants, they and their operations are largely seen as unsanctioned by the villain community. Their standing in this city can hardly sink any lower when they are already considered fair game by both sides."

I flicked a thumb behind me to point at Circus. "The Empire might also know she was there, if their sniper got a good enough look at her."

Circus distractedly picked at something caught in her teeth. "Then I leave town for a few weeks, then come back and set up shop when all of this is settled. It's no skin off my ass so long as Coil keeps footing the bill."

I raised a brow. "Kaiser will still be here."

She smiled and flicked something foul off the tip of her finger. A conspiratory look entered her eyes, and I suddenly felt like I was missing out on the joke. "You'd be surprised…"

"Circus," Circus was flatly cut off by Coil, which only caused her smile to widen."You are dismissed. Lay low for now and await further instructions."

I suddenly became acutely aware of the two armed mercenaries flanking Coil from a few dozen feet away. I doubted they were there in case of a double cross, unless they were packing a trump card, there was little assault rifles could do against me and Trainwreck.

Then again, I was dealing with Coil. With him, a trump card was virtually guaranteed.

Circus leapt off the empty oil drum she was sitting on and walked off further into the trainyard. Small flickers of dull orange light followed her, a stark contrast to the early morning darkness. The flames were patterned in a sequence much like constantly flipping a match.

I was distinctly reminded of my balisong, and how I toyed with it whenever I would get nervous and my hands would grow twitchy. She was nervous. Coil had spooked Circus with a simple command.

An implied threat?

Did he need to threaten his employees to ensure secrecy? Could he even afford to exert that kind of leverage?

Coil turned to Trainwreck. "Return to your post. Do I have your absolute assurance that you can maintain your cover even while under the influence of Skidmark's product?"

Trainwreck slowly rose to his feet. He shot me a lingering look, that same expression of curiosity, before moving to face Coil. "I'm a living furnace. I take in any of that shit, and it burns itself out in seconds."

"Skidmark is unaware?"

"Yeah."

"Then go," Coil accompanied the command with a flippant wave of his hand. Trainwreck complied, departing in the opposite direction as Circus.

I spoke up after I was sure both Circus and Trainwreck were out of earshot. "You're keeping secrets," I said, staring Coil right in his snake-face.

I expected a long silence to follow after that, but Coil replied instantly. "Do you trust me?" he asked. His expression was unreadable from both his mask and body language.

I was a bit taken aback by that. I considered redirected the question back to him, or at the very least give a measured response like to a degree. But something told me, inner voices notwithstanding, that lying to Coil was an extremely stupid and extremely dangerous idea. "No, I can't honestly say that I do."

"Yet you accepted my aid when offered almost without hesitation." Not a question, merely stating facts.

"I did, yeah."

"So would it be fair to say our partnership-" Coil put a deliberate emphasis on the word. "-is not one based on trust, but on necessity?"

"That implies that this is an equitable exchange," I made a brief gesture of pointing to me and then him to illustrate the point, then crossed my arms. "Specifically that you need me as much as I needed you back at the warehouse."

"Precisely."

"So you want a favor somewhere down the line," We had gone over this before. I had set my guidelines. No killing, no torture, no kidnapping, the favor had to be vetted by me beforehand and I still retained the power to refuse. Not carte blanche by any stretch of the imagination, but apparently still enough for Coil to stick his neck out for me. "Okay, I can accept that. When most people offer a service, they expect fair recompense. You helped get me out of a tight spot, and it's only fair that I pay you back. But what does this have to do with you hiding something from me?"

"What I mean is this: we don't trust each other. We need each other."

I flicked the balisong closed. "You just referred to this as a partnership."

"Inasmuch as a remora is partnered with a shark. To continue the analogy, the shark need not tell the remora his every kill in order for the remora to remain latched on."

"Isn't a remora just a parasite?"

"Hardly. It is a symbiotic relationship." Coil unclasped his hands, spreading his palms outward in a conciliatory gesture. "The shark provides sustenance for the remora to feed on. The remora, in turn, keeps the shark clean and groomed. Both prosper, if in slightly inequitable terms."

I couldn't help but grind my teeth at that. Coil was beginning to set me on edge, every carefully chosen word, every ponderous movement, even that skeletal physique flanked by the faceless soldiers further in the tunnel had my hairs raised. But for the sake of our partnership, I kept a straight face. "I suppose the real question, then, would be who is the shark, and who is the remora?"

Coil only cocked his head at that, studying me as if I was a pinned butterfly that had suddenly twitched behind the glass. He held up a clenched fist, and his men snapped to attention. Clasping his hands in front of him again, he was already turning away from me to conclude the meeting.

That...sounded a lot cooler in my head.

No it didn't.

Shut up.

"I'll be in touch," Coil finished, not even deigning to look me in the eye one more time before retreating into the tunnels. His guards gave me a lingering stare, one which I held until they too joined their boss in the darkness.

I let out a breath I wasn't even aware I was holding.

Keep a close eye on that one.

Once again, I agreed with a Butcher.

Serpents within serpents. Eden is lost. Fractal paradise returns to base singularity to shatter into a thousand twisted panes of red shaded glass. Mother? Mother? I can't see the way through the fog!

Well, nice to see Three back again. Hopefully he would give me some kind of warning before continuing in some beyond-the-grave suicide/revenge pact deal he had going on.

When I flashed back to the ruined hovel I was beginning to reluctantly call my interim home. I had scavenged half a large pizza that had been left sitting on a park bench yesterday, and I had been looking forward to it for most of the late night and early morning. This place didn't have any running water, maybe I could wash it down with some flat soda I was decently sure I still had lying around?

I expected to find another message from Coil as I walked in. Maybe a cryptic note signed with a stylized C, maybe Kaiser and his crew in yet another twist in the labyrinthine web of loyalty I had spun in the past few days, maybe even a severed horse head placed in the tangled mass of dirty blankets I used as a bed, just to complete the image.

Instead I found Oni Lee, my unconscious father, and a very, very long knife.

227

TheManWithaPlan

Jun 24, 2014

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Jun 30, 2014

#615

Prelacy 2.6

This was different from Kaiser and Aegis, where I could just ride the impulse and let my powers compensate for any shortcomings. Here, there were a thousand ways Oni Lee could trick me, and although my every instinct was screaming not to hesitate and fling a a throwing knife into his eye, like at the mall, I stayed my hand and let the element of surprise pass me by.

Oni had the kukri at his side, away from Dad's throat, but the threat was obvious enough. I was dealing with one of the few people who wanted to kill me before I became Butcher. A fanatic follower with his one agenda to follow, who had been killing and kidnapping probably before I had even entered middle school. If I so much as twitched the wrong way, his clones could draw and quarter my dad right in front of me.

My dad was trying his hardest to put on a brave face, trying to maintain that aura of invincibility that every parent tries to project to their child. But I could see the sweat kneading on his brow. He was completely out of his depth here, and I didn't blame him.

Despite all my family had lost, all the pain and sadness and soul-shattering despair we had suffered, before this we were still, at our core, normal people. Normal people aren't taken hostage. Normal people don't trigger superpowers. Normal people aren't branded fugitives of the state. So as much as I wanted to believe my dad could keep it together, I knew that he was absolutely terrified out of his mind.

Oni Lee knew that. As I took a tentative step forward to shorten the space between us, he drew a thin line of blood across my father's throat. "Ah ta ta ta," he whispered, flicking the kukri tip upward at the ceiling. My eyes followed the motion, only to see a big, blocky device that looked halfway between a suitcase and a vacuum cleaner stuck to the upper wall with crude rolls of duct tape. There was a small red light blinking near the base, a telltale indicator that was more for my benefit than Oni's.

"Bakuda sends her regards," he finished.

"Are you here to kill me?" I asked.

"Hardly," Oni Lee said. He delivered a savage kick to the back of my dad's leg, driving him to his knees with a shout of pain. I couldn't help but notice that Dad's left arm was hanging at a very unnatural angle, his shirt had been bloodied, and there was a bruise just beginning to turn a sickly shade of purple on his brow. "I am here to unleash you."

Aaaaaaaand here comes another crazy.

Mother please spare us the rod and spoil the child Hail Mary full of Grace...

I couldn't guess if that meant he wanted to fight or if he wanted to work together. Although the former was far more likely, the latter wasn't impossible, considering the alliances I had made in the past couple of days.

But this wasn't Coil. I couldn't play it safe here. Instead, I went on the offensive. "This crosses every line, Oni." I already had the balisong in my hand, making certain to hide the blade within my long sleeve. If I could time this right, catch him at just the right microsecond, I could snatch my dad and be on the other side of the room in two teleports. I had just had to keep Oni Lee talking, try to catch him off guard. "Lung's, Coil's, the Protectorate's, mine."

"Take him then..." Oni gripped the back of my dad's shirt and in an instant was just a hair's breadth away. My dad collapsed into my arms before I had a chance to react, with the Oni Lee facing me collapsing into a neat little pile of dust, revealing another Oni standing in the exact same position as before.

"He was merely the means to an end," he finished, carrying out the entire motion before I could blink.

My dad weakly raised his head, only just barely able to look at me through an eye already swollen shut. His mouth weakly gaped open, then closed. There was something there. Words trapped in a cage of a ruined throat. What could my dad possibly be trying to tell me? That he was in pain? That this was a trap? That he was afraid for me? That he was afraid of me?

Then I noticed how he was twitching the corners of his lips, and then I understood. He was trying to smile. Even after being kidnapped, beaten, tortured, and god knows what fucking else, my dad was still trying his hardest to reassure his daughter that it's all gonna be okay.

Goddammit and fuck me, I could almost hear him say it.

A tear sprang unbidden to my eye. Let Oni Lee take that as a sign of weakness and fuck him up the ass with a rusty pike, I could tear him apart for it later. I gave a small little smile back, but a choked sob manage to escape out the back of my throat. Gently laying a hand on his forehead, I ran a dozen potential applications of my powers to try and so much as remove the mind-numbing pain. All far too risky to attempt of course.

Fourteen powers, and none of them could heal. I could necrotize flesh, but I couldn't mend it. I could see heartbeats, stop heartbeats, end heartbeats, but I couldn't restart them. I could know when danger was about to strike me, but not when it was about to strike my loved ones. I could cross miles in minutes, but as I held my dad in my arms as his eyes rolled back into merciful unconsciousness, I couldn't move a muscle.

"If he dies-" I said through gritted teeth, though I cut myself off, absolutely no pun intended, by flinging a knife at Oni Lee. He sidestepped it easily, with the clone standing in his previous position of a second earlier taking the throw in the skull.

I let my frustration get the better of me. Ignoring whatever the Butchers were trying to scream into my subconscious, I forwent a teleport and leapt at Oni Lee with something that sounded halfway between an angry roar and a strangled sob.

"Finally!"

Oni Lee ducked under my raised punch to plunge a kukri deep into my gut. I could feel the knife bend with the force of striking my concrete-like skin, but I wasn't invulnerable. Oni twisted the bent blade and I twisted with it, forcing the knife out of his grip. "A little fire!" he shouted excitedly. "A little vigor!"

I fired another volley of flung knives in response, only to be intercepted by a suicide clone. Oni drew a pistol, and in a blink he and five clones were raising their guns in an impromptu firing squad. I quickly rolled back and encased my dad in a tight hug to shield him. The bullets pattered off me like rain. I could Oni Lee talking from behind. "Don't you get it? You're father isn't dying, not after what you've done. No, Butcher, he's dead."

"Shut the fuck up!" I screamed. A teleport in his general direction scattered the clones, and I grabbed the nearest solid body by the throat and heaved the little Asian man to eye level. Oni Lee smiled for a moment, before he crumbled to dust in my hands.

"It hurts, doesn't it?." Oni Lee was behind me again. Behind my dad again, holding his head up by his hair. "To feel helpless." A clone gave a quick slice across my legs while my back was turned. "To feel useless." Another speared me through the shoulder with a length of rebar as I spun around to face Oni again. "It's only a matter of minutes before someone dies. You. Him. Both. Your choice. Choose quickly."

I popped the iron out with a wet sucking sound and sprinted forward. Oni Lee knew that by keeping himself within the left half of the room, I would limit my teleports to avoid hurting my dad. So with no mobility and a lot of rage, I threw myself at the wall of grinning masks and hoped I could hurt something that mattered.

"You have the power to save him," an Oni Lee said, somewhere. "He could already be a mile away in the time it takes for me to finish this sentence. But you won't help him, will you? Not after I've slighted you, after I've reminded Butcher Sixteen of who she really is."

"You're just trying to bait me into leaving and setting off the bomb!" I screamed.

"He will bleed out soon. I'll kill him if he doesn't." Oni Lee was facing me again. His expression turned pleading, almost pitiful, with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. "Isn't saving him worth the risk? Isn't the slim hope of salvation preferable to a guarantee of damnation? You have faced worse odds. Bested greater foes. How is this any different?" A crude slash was made across my throat, but it only just barely managed to pierce the skin. An underhanded punch drove the wind out of me, and that same bloody piece of rebar struck me at the base of the skull. "Are you afraid for your father?"

"Or maybe..." Now standing above me in the rafters. He spread his arms wide, a kukri in each hand with the points held downward. "Are you afraid to hope?"

A knife sprouted from his forehead, but then clattered to the ground in a neat pile of carbon dust. I was drawing another when a sudden kick drove me to my knees. They were surrounding me now. More than a dozen clones forming a circle tight enough that they they were almost dogpiling me. My head was twisted up in a savage armlock, and I came so close to Oni Lee that I could smell the curry on his breath.

"Do you see what they do to you?" Another Oni was kneeling down to face me while the other held me tight. "They don't help you. They don't tie you to your humanity. They don't keep you sane. They limit you. They are nothing. They will eat you alive like a cancer, until the only thing that's left is a putrid little puddle of misery and regret. But if you would only dare, Butcher! Dare to imagine what you could be without them! Dare to imagine what you could become when you are finally, totally, free!"

I flashed out of his grip to a foot behind him. The detonation radius was close enough to slam my dad against the wall and I could only hope I hadn't done him any more damage. The phalanx of Oni collapsed into a dust cloud that was thrown up and across the room, obscuring visibility enough that I switched to heartsight to compensate.

"Is that what all this is about?" I asked. "Losing my dad will somehow make me a better Butcher?" He was a shifting mass that seemed to extend everywhere. A human spore that saturated the room almost as much as the dust, until all I saw was a writing mass of pulsating light. I bore with it in the hope that the clones would expire despite him keeping a steady number.

"If only," a voice said from the shadows. "You must do more than simply live with loss, you must lose everything. Consider it as a kind of trigger event. I am merely forcing you against a mental wall in the hopes that something manifests within you, a power of a different sort."

He twisted underneath me to dodge the oncoming knife, but I still managed to grab a fistful of the shirt worn under his combat vest. More out of instinct than any actual forethought, Oni Lee teleported and swept the both of us outside the building. I could see my father through a grimy window across the street. The bomb hadn't gone off, and Oni Lee hadn't left a clone with him. Either it had all been a bluff, or he was having too much fun to care.

"You and me then," I managed to grunt. Speaking became a chore. Words had to be dragged out through the hot tar of my seething hate. "Leave him out of it."

"Yesss…" Oni Lee said with an insidious glee. He had already provoked me, which successfully put himself on the offensive and forced me to take a reactionary stance. For now Oni Lee dictated the course of the fight in an almost perfect reversal of my battle with Shadow Stalker. Escape wasn't an option, not for any of us.

First rule to fighting a teleporter: Wear them down, Six said. This one carries his injuries with his teleports, it's why he's always on the move and trying to keep you off balance. But if you can pin down the real Oni Lee, make him bleed, then he keeps on bleeding. Strange thoughts and memories filtered past me. Somebody weeping. A shattered window. A man laughing with three mouths. A flash of lightning and the crack of thunder. Red rain. This was how Six died. Bleeding in a back alley from a dozen separate cuts.

I rose to my feet, adopting a wide-set stance. I had my legs slightly crouched and spread apart, my shoulders slightly hunched to present a smaller target. I held the balisong close to me, using a reverse grip with my thumb placed parallel to the blade. Oni Lee had his right foot in front of his left, kukri pointed in an outstretched arm.

Kali, Escrima, Arnis, FMA, all of them have the aura and mystery of being weapons based arts. Deadly, savage arts of the Filipino warriors. Lurid stories about guerrilla actions against Japanese invaders, duels and death matches that the founder of the style was involved in abound.

Quite honestly what these maestros survived is incredible and is more than worthy of praise. These older gentlemen survived a totally different culture, socio-economic environment, time and, in some cases, a World War and foreign invasion of their homeland. That having been said however, just because the founder of the system or lineage was a walking piece of bad-assed real-estate doesn't make you one.

They weren't knife fighters, those people were survivors. It's what comes from living a hellishly hard life. While they had physical skill that helped them, what kept them alive, what allowed them to strike fast enough, hard enough and brutally enough wasn't their art -- it was the commitment to their own survival instinct. It was that grim savagery to do whatever is necessary and to do it faster and harder than the other person that kept them alive. In the lexicon, they had "heart."

Their art just allowed them to do that faster.

What Butcher Seven learned in the burning ruin of her homeland was that knowing an art doesn't give you that kind of commitment, that kind of ruthlessness, that kind of grim endurance or that willingness to descend into savagery to stay alive. Just knowing the art doesn't make you a knife fighter. You have to have "heart" as well -- that willingness to wade through hell and come out the other side. There is barely any "fight" to a knife fight. There is only a messy and brutal sort of brawl, more of a base kind of assassination than anything else.

There was no time for tactics or contingencies. This was a fight that began and would be dictated entirely by instinct. I expanded One's pain aura to it's maximum range. Oni Lee flinched for a moment, and that moment was all I needed. A moment of weakness, because for all the vaunted invincibility we capes like to project we are still, at our core, only human. No matter how much we tell ourselves otherwise.

No matter how much we might want to forget.

Every power has its own loopholes, inadequacies, and vulnerabilities. Blind a man who can see through walls. Blow out a speedster's kneecaps. Catch a teleporter off guard by screwing with his extrasensory perception.

I wrapped my arms around what I hoped to be Oni Lee, and I hurled us both out of the open window. The adrenaline begins to fade. A new kind of pain creeps in, something raw and red and burrowing a hole straight through my heart. Maybe it had something to do with the fine trail of pink mist coming out from the actual hole in my heart.

We hit earth at a speed just below terminal velocity.

200

TheManWithaPlan

Jun 30, 2014

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Threadmarks Interlude- Mayfly (Oni Lee)

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Apr 20, 2016

#631

Interlude- Mayfly

"Where have you been?"

"Scouting Empire territory. Saw the fires, wanted to take a closer look."

Kenta's eyebrow went up. "And?"

"Heroes. Empire." Oni Lee said, and left his appearance to fill in the rest. He'd come back with blood staining his clothes, his face, right down to his skin. Even now he could taste what felt like her blood on his teeth. It rolled on his tongue like syrup, heavy and leaden.

"Turned messy," he added.

Lying carried no guilt for him. Oni Lee was loyal to the dragon, not the man.

Kenta grunted, moving back into the warehouse. The others followed him. He could still see some fingers on triggers, backward glances thrown his way. These were the inner guard, the few who had been with the gang since before even Lung. Not old, no, but still veterans with old loyalties. They were slow to trust and slower still to forget. Some hadn't believed him. They would likely never take a cape at their word.

Noise echoed from inside, the squeal and whine of saws working metal against the shifts and grunts of heavy lifting. Voices mingled, one stood out louder than the rest.

"Eh, eh, eh! Careful you ham-handed dipshits! Drop that and you turn this whole place into a fucking chandelier!"

Hearing her shout at brothers Oni Lee had fought, bled, and died for, with a voice high and shrill yet full of that self-assured confidence, hearing that stirred something violent in him. Oni Lee clenched his teeth and fantasized as he turned his rage inward.

She had never even been to Japan, borne witness to the unmaking of a nation in a single night . She had never carried the rage of impotence, forced to watch from dirty television screens as her homeland was reduced to a swamp, partitioned between heroes turned warlords while Chinese and American opportunists flooded the coasts to strip the ruins bare. She had never eaten her dinner out of a rusted tin, her home had never been a shipping container, she had never needed to fight for her life with a blunt knife and shaking hands slowly crumbling to ash.

Perhaps he was projecting, wishing ill on a girl who had never known his hardship. But Oni Lee knew that her gifts had instilled the petty rage of a coward and a bully. Like most parahumans, she thought herself weak and despised the strong, yet as soon as she was given an inch of power she chose to emulate what she she hated. That anger limited her, and it wouldn't be long before she thought herself too tall to be knocked down, only to realize just how high her enemies stood.

Lung had been the same, once, before Leviathan.

He followed Kenta inside, favoring his right leg as he walked. The girl had delivered an ugly blow there, right between the joints, twisting the knife so that the leg might never heal properly. It hardly mattered, space was no longer a physical limitation to him. He would just need to get closer to his targets, maybe use ordinance with less explosive and more fragmentation. Make his suicides to maim or injure, not necessarily kill.

There were new scorch marks on the walls from where Kenta had vented his frustration. He had never harmed a fellow Bad Boy, but Oni Lee knew better than most that Kenta's lethal calm was too easily broken. Something had provoked Lung, something that had driven Bakuda and the others into overdrive in just a few short hours.

They walked past Bakuda and her work, hundreds of mechanical components of varying shape and size layed out on a wide tarp. Other members were busy carving stolen cars and trucks apart, erasing any identifying marks.

Bombmaking had always held a certain appeal for him. He appreciated the simplicity of each individual piece, and the complexity of how each piece fit together. It was why they were his weapon of choice. It gave him a small thrill just at the moment of detonation, a glorious transient moment when Oni Lee transformed himself into a boiling cloud of shrapnel and dust.

"You will not see her again," Kenta said, in English, barely heard above the cacophony.

A tiny smile came to Oni Lee then, hidden behind his mask. He replied in English too, trying to awkwardly work his way around ugly and misshapen words. "Might not give me the choice."

"She is weak." It was phrased more like a question. Oni Lee knew he was inscrutable to Kenta, who elected to see his subordinates as tools than people. More than that, Kenta had a problem with empathy, with determining motive and intent from those who saw more out of the world than the fight punctuated by absences.

"We can make her strong," Oni Lee said, the pain in his leg forgotten.

Kenta's eyes turned cold. His face rippled in a wave of gray scales, and his slanted eyes briefly turned slit. "She would never join us."

Both that she would never accept them, and Lung would never accept her. That was how both Kenta and Lung saw the world. Very little foresight, with everyone categorized as either threats or tools, sometimes one and the same. Oni Lee had never been a threat to him, only a tool. He remembered, years ago, Lung tossing his former leader's severed head at him, the look of contempt seen through dragon's eyes. Lung had earned Oni Lee's loyalty then, in those first stirrings of conquest as a dozen gangs were united under one clawed hand.

Kneel or die, Lung had bellowed.

Oni Lee glanced at the half-breed as she slotted together another blinking discus, another bomb meant to freeze or eviscerate or shatter the laws of reality.

"A bomb does not need to be loyal," he said.

Kenta saw the sideways look and snorted.

They walked past more cannibalized cars, stripped of everything but the base framework. Twenty, total, with enough scavenged parts and materials to maintain ten more. Oni Lee knew they would need more, maybe twice that number, but for once Kenta had shown some restraint and approached this carefully. A spree of automobile theft over one or two weeks would draw attention. One or two cars vanished near the waterfront, less so.

Oni Lee understand the need for caution, even if it annoyed him. His power forced him to be a dynamic creature, always in the motion of an immediate choice. He would never be sure who remained after a teleport, if it was truly a transferal of consciousness or if another man wearing his face would walk away while he had the horrifying realization of the truth. It loomed over him, both an important choice and a constant one, always taking the risk that he would be given just a few seconds to accept his death before he was dust.

"But will she fight us?" Kenta asked, still in English.

"Won't have the chance," Oni Lee said. "Will be on the defensive now, reacting to the Empire."

"Did the Empire provoke her?"

"No." Oni Lee already saw how he contradicted himself. He pressed on regardless. "Attacked them. No deaths, just damages."

"I say we keep letting the crazy bitch do her own thing."

The half-breed stood up from their work to join them. She had not been invited to the conversation, and Oni Lee would not forget the discourtesy.

Kenta didn't break pace. "She might interfere, in the days ahead."

"That doesn't make her a liability," Bakuda said. Look boss, I know explosives, and this one has a short fuse and a wide blast zone. The plan's simple: We let her keep fucking up our enemies, let her keep serving as flashy distraction, then when the others get desperate enough to come to us for help, we just hand the trigger off to some idiot hero with a martyr complex."

"And then?"

"Who cares at that point? Newborn Butchers are helpless. Dig a hole fifty feet deep and fill it with cement. Only reason this one is even a problem is because her old team was too chickenshit to do her the favor."

A potential this half-breed bitch was so eager to steal. He could recognize the mad glint in Bakuda's eyes. There would be no trigger handoff if she had her way. Tinkers always carried an envy for more physical gifts, for a more tangible presence in the world, to be something more than an empty receptacle filled with alien thoughts and designs.

Oni Lee's hands twitched to his knives. Knife. He had lost the other one, left it buried in the shoulder of his prey. She might take it for her own, whetting his steel in the crimson of his foes. It was a comforting thought, to have even that much influence on a child so desperate to escape her own potential. He so dearly wished to pit this half-breed against a Butcher's might. He wanted to see Bakuda's dawning realization that she was a weak thing, in a world built for the strong.

Another time, perhaps. His power forced him to heal at a regular rate.

"Too indirect," Oni Lee said. He turned to Kenta, hoping to catch some small sign of Lung. "Made a decision?"

"Yes," Kenta said, leaving it at that.

For maybe the first time, Oni Lee couldn't properly read his response. Did Lung still want to grow stronger? Or was he afraid? Dragon or man, the mind was still equally as vulnerable. Butchers had broken strong capes before.

"Leave me," Kenta said. Bakuda and Oni Lee stopped. Kenta entered his private quarters and slammed the heavy metal door shut. A faint scent of incense reached Oni Lee from inside the room. Kenta had been meditating, honing his focus and calm. Not to center his mind, but to build his power. Communing with Lung.

"He doesn't seem pissed you went behind his back," Bakuda said. "Well, we both did, I guess. You end up using my little present?"

"Yes," he lied. Oni Lee had never even brought it. All he needed was a small LED light, a few rolls of duct tape, a suitcase, and a vacuum cleaner. He knew the girl would never risk her father, not with that level of control over herself. She was unstable, yes, but she could still be predicted. Empathy offered a level of control. Put her loved ones in danger and it was clear that this Butcher would move mountains to protect them.

"Missed," he added.

But why hadn't he brought the bomb? Oni Lee didn't trust the future versions of himself to show that same restraint if their lives were in danger. He wasn't sure of anything after each teleport, if he was the same person, if he had still had the same goals or drives. Maybe he would be a coward in the next life, or a sadist, or something less...centered.

Bakuda sucked air through her teeth. "Not surprising. I guess that's for the best, though. If she was caught up in that beauty, fuck, there'd be no way either of you would walk out of that clean."

She gave him the same glance Kenta did, at the blood still on his clothes. "Who's blood even is that?"

Oni Lee shrugged. "Mine. Hers. Her father's."

"That was you?" Bakuda whistled. "I caught some Protectorate comm chatter about a Daniel Hebert, picked up half-dead near a local Butcher sighting. Figured it was retaliation from the Empire. Never figured you'd be that stupid."

Bakuda pulled what had to be a small explosive from her pocket. "If even half the shit that was brought up in this guy's med report is true, then she's going to be coming for you, no matter what Kenta thinks. You're a fucking priority now, more than the Empire, more than those upstart little shits trying to carve out a piece at the table. I always hated my parents, but even I'd make you a fine paste if you did to them what you did to this poor bastard."

She tossed the bomb to him in a lazy underhanded throw. Oni Lee caught it with one hand. He ran his tongue over his teeth again. The blood was gone, but the taste remained. Maybe it would never leave.

"There's gonna be blowback on this like you wouldn't believe. It's gonna make a hell of a show."

"Yes," Oni Lee said. The corners of his mouth turned upward in a rictus grin. It had been so long since he had smiled, happiness being such a fleeting emotion. It was only the feelings that left deep scars, like grief, rage, and pain that seemed to stay with him.

"Yesss," he repeated, hissing out the word.

Bakuda visibly flinched. She left him then, to return to her work. It gave him a degree of satisfaction to unnerve her.

He wasn't sure if he was the same Oni Lee that he was this morning, or an hour ago, or even five seconds ago. He wasn't sure if he was alive or dead, or if this time he would become dust as another man walked away with his face. Everything he was, everything that was Oni Lee, was temporary. The only way prove that he was real, that he mattered, was in the consequences of his choices. On the day he woke and realized he had forgotten his name, his true name and not this mask he wore in service to a monster, it was then he understood.

Oni Lee was the mayfly, born at dawn to die at dusk, tracking footsteps in the ashes of himself. The only thing of permanence was in the wounds he left carved into his victims, the kiss of a cloned knife on iron skin, the anguished cry of a daughter's love for her father. From behind a half-breed and a half-beast, he would build a legacy of substance, small that it was.

This girl, this Butcher, would be his gift and his curse on the world.

244

TheManWithaPlan

Apr 20, 2016

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Threadmarks Memory Three - Roger

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

Apr 28, 2016

#654

Memory Three - Roger

Concussive and Geas both walked in, flanking a man Roger couldn't recognize. He didn't have the outfit or bearing of a bureaucrat, so he wasn't with the PRT. Middle-aged, casual jacket over worn jeans. The walk of someone unfamiliar not just to this place, but to this life. A civilian, probably the closest he had ever been to a cape, much less the second-most popular hero in Boston.

Or was there something more? Both heroes stopped at a healthy distance from Roger, a guarded caution that everyone seemed to put on around him. But not the man. The man walked uncomfortably close to Roger and began to reach out his hand. Geas gently shook her head, and the man pulled back his hand like he had been stung.

Whoever this was, he was uncertain around capes, but not around Roger?

He left his mouth gaping half-open, like he was trying to say something. Roger raised an eyebrow, and the man choked back a sob. Concussive took him by the shoulder and led him out of the room.

Curious.

Roger kneaded his fingers into his neck, still sore from the first few nights of sleeping on the floor. It barely gave him sleep, but the bed they had left him was somehow even worse, all hard angles and metal edges on what felt like a cloth tarp stretched over a wire frame a few inches too short for a teenager just hitting the high mark of puberty. All the floors here were at least carpeted. At least on the floor he didn't have to nearly break his back just to get in a good position.

Oh, and the floor would offer so much more room for him and Carol if they kept him here long enough she would need to make a visit. A small side benefit. Roger made a mental note to call her, after this was over with. She had probably already arrived in New York, and she was the type to appreciate the sentiment.

Alright, he would start. Break the silence with common topics centered on the other party's area of interest. Roger was good at facilitating conversation, and extended to the team's social aspect. Good with people seemed like such a cliche. Instead, Roger just took it upon himself to smooth out the hardest part of human interaction.

"Wish I could have seen the look on Hypertension's face when we bagged him," Roger said, smiling to himself. "Just to see how much shit he was still talking after getting his ass laid out by a girl half his size."

Good with his words, good with his friends, a natural extrovert since high school who knew it would pay off in his career. He was right too. Roger had heard from a few friends higher up in command that he was being eyed for a leadership position. Rebecca had overheard him talking about it with Sam, and even from the hallway Roger could hear her storming off and muttering something about fucking popularity contests.

He tried not to peg her as the jealous type.

Geas swallowed. Was she nervous? Maybe she was still a bit in shock after the fight. Maybe he had a stronger impression on the other members of his team than he initially thought. Younger girls had crushed on him before, usually fans. Roger usually found it best to leave those things be, that kind of unrequited affection usually burned itself out by puberty.

"We did catch him, right?" Roger asked, leaning against the wall in a casual pose. "I haven't gotten the official debrief yet but man we really kicked-"

Concussive cut him off. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Roger shook his head. "I'm sure it's already in the field report…"

"I'd like to hear the account in your own words," Concussive said. "Please."

"Alright," Roger said. "We responded to reports of a jewelry heist at Watertown Central and found Voracity with the rest of the Teeth. Frontline was our chaperone for the patrol, and he ordered us to hang back while he radioed for support. But then Whirl spotted us, and the Teeth responded, like they always do, by taking nearby hostages. I and the rest of my team thought it necessary to take preemptive action before the situation escalated, so we engaged."

"In direct violation of your orders," Concussive said. Not accusatory, just in agreement.

Roger nodded. He had better odds in keeping the truth as blunt as possible. He'd promised his team that he'd take the fall for insubordination, which was probably why the adults had stuck him in "quarantine" for the past few days. It was obviously a subtle punishment meant to keep him on the sidelines without hurting team morale. A win so early in the team's history would really help to boost confidence, and it would do more harm than good to follow that up with a slap on the wrist. That would just taint the victory, make an already cautious group second guess themselves.

"And this was your idea. I'm not shifting blame here, just establishing a context."

"Yeah," Roger said. "Frontline put us on perimeter to keep watch, but I felt like the hostages' safety took priority over ours."

"Did you consult your teammates before this?"

Roger shrugged. "There wasn't time to take a vote, so I took the initiative to engage while Storm Surge secured the hostages."

"I see," Concussive said, finding an answer in a question she hadn't explicitly asked.

Come to think of it, Concussive was keeping her distance too. Feet spread apart, armored shoulder turned to him. Full costume, her gauntlets were on even if her helmet wasn't. He had seen that stance before. She was expecting a fight.

Weak point is at the stomach. She leaves it unarmored to give her more mobility in the upper body. Feint blow to the chest, then strike at her kidneys.

Roger rubbed his eyes. Four days solid of nonstop patrol duty had taken a toll. Exhaustion combined with danger sense had left him seeing threats everywhere. He needed sleep, and in a proper bed.

A glance at Geas. She looked ready to bolt at any sudden move.

She's new, soft. Pliable. Apply enough pain in a sensitive area and the girl would fold like glass.

Sleep. Right. He'd ask for a bed as soon as he could.

Concussive took a seat on the chair facing opposite the bed.

"If it's alright to ask-" Roger said, glancing around his room to leave the implication clear.

"Just a precautionary measure," Concussive said. "There have been reports that Hypertension might have carried an unknown Thinker-type power with residual effects.

"Thinker?' Roger asked, the word dripping with sarcasm. "That's a word I never thought would be used to describe someone from the Teeth. After all the dumbass had his gang rob a jewelry store in broad daylight."

"Powers rarely match up to the person," Concussive said. "He was assigned a Thinker rating some time after his last breakout. That means we're operating on a different level of protocol, just to be safe."

"So are you keeping us all in separate rooms or something?" Roger asked. "Has Geas already been cleared?"

Concussive shared a look with Geas, who was trying to hide her expression behind her hood.

After a long moment, Concussive asked, "Do you remember fighting Hypertension?"

They ignored his question. Was it part of Thinker protocol to control their responses? He couldn't remember. "No, like I wrote in the report, I was engaged with Tread before Whirl tagged me from behind. I was too busy throwing up from vertigo to do much else before passing out, but I can remember Geas standing over an unconscious Hypertension. She must have had time to work her power while I served as a distraction."

He glanced down at his feet, throwing an indirect question of his own while he had control over the conversation.

"No one's given me an update on the rest of the team yet," Roger said.

"I can't share specifics, as per protocol," Concussive said. "But they're fine for the most part. Nothing that would put anyone off the streets for longer than a week or two."

While Roger knew Thinker and Stranger protocol front and back, all Wards needed to, it still felt shitty to leave him without answers. They didn't trust him, that was understandable, but was it really so dangerous to at least reassure Roger that his team wasn't in critical condition? Hypertension might have been down, but from what he last remembered Whirl and Tread were still up, circling their leader's body like jackals.

Even in humiliating defeat, they had been smiling. Roger would never forget that. The intel report suggested that the Teeth had initially deferred to their leader on a level almost like worship. It had been so with the Butcher, which clearly hadn't carried over to the new boss. Hypertension struggled to keep his crew in line throughout the fight at the mall, and it had only been Frontline's intervention that forced them to work together with a pathetic kind of synergy.

"So just to make a cursory check," Concussive began, bringing up a small dataslate on her wrist, probably to monitor his vitals. "How are you feeling today, Roger?"

The intent of the question clashed with the flat, clinical tone in which it was delivered.

He shrugged. "Fine, I suppose. A bit sore."

"From the fight?"

"From the bed." Roger rapped the metal frame for emphasis. "Speaking of, I could really use a new one."

Raising the implication that if they said yes, he was going to be here for a while longer.

"I'll speak with Saunders as soon as we're done," Concussive said, her impassive expression speaking to the contrary. "Have you felt any different since your fight with the Teeth? Any strange habits, thoughts, impulses, anything particularly notable you want to bring up?"

For some reason, Roger was reminded of the small blind spot on Concussive's right side, blocked out by eye damage she received some time ago.

"Not really," he said. The job sometimes required him to channel his power for literally days at a time. It was hardly out of the ordinary that Roger would have some difficulty filtering it out after such a long stretch of relative inactivity.

"Did you recognize the man we walked in with?"

"Should I?"

That drew a reaction from Concussive, albeit a small one. Suddenly her posture straightened, and the glance to her dataslate was a second longer. Then that small flash of emotion was gone, so quickly that Roger wondered if he was just second guessing himself, his power forcing him to look for context in meaningless gestures.

"Okay then. This was just a preliminary checkup to note the most obvious effects," Concussive got up, folding her dataslate away. Geas hadn't moved or made a sound the entire time. She just sunk deeper into the folds of her hood, ever the timid mouse. "I've seen all I can. A PRT specialist will come by soon to give you a full psych eval."

An implication hung heavy there, even if Roger couldn't see it.

He didn't bother asking how much longer he'd have to stay in here. Concussive would just dance more around the point, and all that would do was set his teeth on edge.

Concussive left the room, almost stomping out with her heavy metal boots. Geas didn't budge. She just stood there, staring at a section of the wall just above Roger.

"What bullshit," Roger muttered. "Apparently it's too much to slap me with a month's worth of console duty. They have to stick me in a padded cell just for doing my fucking job."

Geas visibly flinched. He might have put a little too much inflection on that last word.

"You really don't remember Roger?" Geas said, almost whispering.

"Remember what?"

"I didn't stop Hypertension. You did. He was holding Carol with a knife, and then I heard you yell like an animal before y-you hit him, hard, and then his neck...bent. And then…"

Geas choked back whatever she meant to say, before ducking out of the room.

"Mary?" Roger called out, his voice small.

And then he was alone.

A sound echoed across the hall. It carried an odd inflection to it, near yet far away, like a recording of a distant noise playing right in Roger's ear. He suddenly realized he had been hearing it for a while now, blending seamlessly into the background. It took him a moment to place it.

Laughter.

Last edited: Apr 28, 2016

174

TheManWithaPlan

Apr 28, 2016

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Threadmarks Locavore 3.1

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

May 2, 2016

#665

Locavore 3.1

"I never really met anyone else in my family. I don't really know much about them either. I know my mom had a brother, but she never talked about him, and he never showed up at her funeral, so I guess he's either dead or just about. It never bothered me though. An extended family always felt unnecessary to me. I had all the family I ever needed. Who could ask for more?"

There was no sound save for the tide, and my whittling.

"It's fine," I said. "One's here, one isn't. It makes for awkward word choice."

I shook my hand out and a series of dull pops sounded as the joints reset.

"But to answer your question," I said. "Yeah, I'm close to my dad, especially after all the shit we've been through."

There was an ugly squelching noise as my shoulder shoved itself back into place.

"Which kind of backfired, in a way," I said. "I kept seeing my dad as the broken bird, something I have to guard and protect. It's why I hid the bullying from him, then later my powers. I just couldn't shake the feeling that if I exposed him to that side of me, that side so alien to the Taylor he knew, then it would feel like he failed as a father on some level. It led me to coddle him. But I'm sure he could've handled it, in retrospect. My dad's an adult, I should have seen that."

My arm had healed wrong, I had to break the bone three more times before it could reset itself at a proper angle. There was pain, but it didn't carry much weight. Regeneration took away the sting of injury, made it temporary. I'd have to carry deeper hurts with me, to keep the lessons that failure taught.

My new eye teared horribly as it began to sprout. I considered leaving in my old one, despite it being little more than a burst bloody sack, but tore it out after a moment's hesitation. The eye might heal, given enough time, but like the arm it would come back wrong. I didn't have time to repeatedly destroy my eye and repair the damage. Better to start from nothing and work my way back up to baseline.

Vision came back as a blur that resolved from farsightedness to near, a mess of lines and angles gradually forming distinct shapes again. The eye formed nearly falling out of the socket, past my eyelids so that blinking felt like I was trying to squeeze my eye out. With a sharp push, I shoved the eye back in. I could literally feel my cornea shifting back into alignment. Blood filled my vision, but I managed to save the more sensitive areas that would take longer to properly heal, at the expense of connective tissue.

"Grey," I said. "Make it grey, if you can."

I turned my head to the side, listening.

"Have to keep track of what's new and what isn't," I said. "Or else how am I supposed to know how much of me is still…"

I looked up, squinting hard against the light with my new eye. I wiped more tears away, smearing on my hand and face with the still wet blood. My sight adjusted quickly. It was nearing sunset. I was facing the ocean.

"Me."

After Mom died, I remembered that the first morning after the funeral, my dad and I had taken a long walk on the pier just before sunrise. Neither of us could sleep, so we decided to get some air, get out of a house where everything carried a reminder that settled like a live coal in the gut. I remember there was a thunderstorm that morning, off in the distance, and I remember watching bolts of lightning racing up mile high clouds just as night turned to dawn.

That had been the first time I actually cried after her death, when I let the walls crumble as I collapsed into my father's shoulder, sobbing so hard I thought I might crack a rib. He had stroked my hair, saying nothing because he knew he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice.

When was the last time I had gone to the beach?

"I know they're right," I hissed, snapping away from the horizon. "That's not the point."

New skin was weaving itself over my shredded back, yet couldn't push out the old layer like stone grinding on stone. It bunched up at the small of my back and near my shoulder blades, sagging down like a lizard about to shed. I reached behind me and tore, enough skin coming away to make a sweater.

It didn't come away in one clean piece, but I got enough of the old layer for my back to start healing again. I probably looked like something out of a cheap horror film, patches of discolored skin, mismatched eyes, hanging scraps of flesh peeling away.

Something was wrong with my regeneration, and I didn't have time to let my power compensate for it. Maybe interference from the others, like when Three had blocked his danger-sense, it didn't matter. They would be coming again, either someone new or someone old, and I couldn't afford to hang on to sentimentality. For now I had to pick and choose what to keep, discarding the waste in a crude refining process. Thoughts of the Slaughterhouse member called Crawler came to mind and I suddenly felt ill.

I donned my costume. I had shed a few layers of sweaters and jackets, discarding the cloak while keeping the army jacket. A few more holes had been cut through it, more scars left by Oni Lee. I made my mask from driftwood I found on the night I fell. It was a beautiful piece, smooth to the touch. I had reshaped the wood slightly, keeping the jagged edges while still fitting the contours of my face so that it looked more like a proper mask than a stray bit of trash. A hole had been worn through it, I shaped that to my right eye and left the other side blank. Peripheral vision would be fucked for a while now, and my heartsight could see through the mask anyway.

"Because that's how it starts," I said. "Agreeing on the obvious. They'll keep doing that, thinking along similar lines, trying to keep in step with me until the moment when I'm out of ideas and they aren't. When I'm desperate enough to listen to them, because they're reasonable and I can afford to trust them just this once, and that's how they get in. How it starts. Once. So I'll stay here, waiting for the rest."

Most of my knives were gone. The balisong had its blade bent, and most of the throwing daggers had either been left behind in the warehouse or scattered about as I fell. I could have gone back to get them, and I could have straightened the balisong, but it felt wrong in a way. Like repeating the same mistake twice, or taking a step backward.

I pulled the kukri out from the pile. I could see why Oni Lee had chosen it. Sharp, straight, a good weight and length, and the handle fit my hand decently enough. No more trick weapons and flashy gimmicks. All I needed was a weapon. This would do for now.

"Yeah." I sighed, releasing a long, drawn out breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Yeah, I know."

I ran shaky fingers through my tangled mess of hair. I'd had to tear a lot of it out as my scalp grew back in, leaving ragged knots and exposing too much skin. Mental patients probably looked better kept than I did. "Everything around me keeps fucking failing, and the worst part is that it's not even my fault. If it were, I could learn from it, do something different. There's just too much against me, too much..."

Words were choked back as I began dry heaving again. Probably my stomach trying to dislodge something that didn't belong, either too much swallowed gravel or sand, or maybe some piece of shrapnel wedged deep. Maybe my body could break it down, I wasn't sure, but it was still foreign enough that it provoked a physical reaction.

It stopped after a couple of minutes. The taste of hot bile rose to the back of my throat, and I spat out a gob of blood and discarded meat. I might have vomited, if there was any food left in my stomach.

"Okay," I finally said. "By ear, then."

"Miss...Ma'am...please..."

"What?" I replied, looking up from my carving.

He approached me cautiously, like he would a sleeping bear. News probably didn't reach this far in, at least nothing current, so while I wasn't known by name I was still disruptive, alien, which always meant some kind of trouble for these people. I made it well known I was a cape, and dangerous too.

"Food, miss. My kids are hungry."

Right. He wasn't hungry. His kids were hungry. His kids needed money. His kids needed one more drink or hit or smoke. I had been here a week, I hadn't seen any children here. This environment was too hostile for younger homeless, who would make their way closer to downtown where there were long stoplights and tall buildings which cast long shadows. But the people here still used them as a convenient excuse, trained to instinctively fish for pity or sympathy.

"I don't have food," I said.

"But…"

"I don't need food. I don't need to eat."

"But…"

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Robert," he said.

I cocked my head to the side, trying to show a curious look under my mask.

"Would you like me to steal for you, Robert?"

"No…"

I glanced back at him. "Because asking me to steal carries the same punishment as stealing."

"Of course not!"

He wrung his hands, withered hands that looked of a man twice his age.

"I would never refuse a request," I said. "So long as you carry its consequences."

I enforced a very crude kind of justice here. The locals picked up on it quickly. Pickpockets had their wrists broken. Thieves had their arms broken. Muggers had their legs broken. People who touched children in an unkind way had their knees bent. Murderers, if I caught any, would have all four limbs broken, after which I would leave them at the shoreline an hour before high tide.

I never gave out food or money. The homeless would rely on me then, and the Boardwalks would swell with more vagrants looking for a handout. It was like training animals, shaping them through reactive suggestion. I was conditioning them not to ask for handouts, or to at least understand that everything carried a price. Almost a moot point among people who knew just how much a week's food was worth, and exactly how much a handful of spare change could buy you. They learned fast.

"We're starving," he said, bluntly. "People are too scared to go out which means less coin on the streets. Even the shelters and kitchens have closed down because they're afraid of the bomb threat. Heroes don't give a shit, and the cops are worse. Asking politely ma'am…"

"Don't call me that," I said. "Makes me feel like an egotist, like I'm setting up shop here as Queen. Rat Queen of the Vermin."

I chuckled a little bit at that. My expression quickly soured.

"Keep stating the fucking obvious," I spat. My voice rose. "Like I don't fucking know, like I somehow didn't fucking know I was living in garbage!"

"Miss…" Robert began.

"Yeah, I know," I said, to him this time. "I fucking know."

I rose up from my pile of whittled driftwood.

"I don't have food, but I have a way for you to get food," I said to Robert.

He stopped wringing his hands. From his look he was expecting me to drop him a five course meal at his feet.

"Go to the main PRT office in Brockton," I began. "A big, gray building in the middle of downtown between the bank and the park. Walk inside. Try to look as suspicious as possible. Talk to yourself, stare at people, maybe even make some loud noises to draw attention. Tell the first person who comes to talk with you that the Butcher asked you to deliver a message. They'll ask why you did it. Say you can't remember. They'll ask what the message is. Say you can't remember."

Robert gave a puzzling look. "They'll just shove me aside as a rambling drunk."

"No," I said. "They're on high alert for any potential discoveries in the Butcher powerset. The PRT aren't sure if compulsion is among her powers, which means you'll automatically be placed under Master/Stranger protocol to be put under containment and observation."

"How does that help?"

I shrugged. "It's four walls, a roof, a bed, and three hot meals a day. They'll keep you in there for a week, maybe two if you can somehow milk an angle. It's better than jail, with no chance for prison, and it won't show up on your record. It's not much, but it's better than starving out here."

My solution didn't satisfy Robert, but I could already tell he was going to do it. This was someone who had eaten out of garbage, a survivor who would stoop as low as he could if it meant one more meal, one more miserable day.

"Tell your friends, but don't tell too many," I said. "After a while the PRT will catch on and they'll change their policy. Best way to go about it would be slowly, with only one or two of you in containment at a time, coming in maybe every two months or so. You won't be able to try it again once you're out. They'll keep detailed records."

"Yeah," Roger said, sighing. "I thought they might."

"Now for my price," I said.

"Don't have anything," Robert said.

Another conditioned lesson to avoid handouts. I always asked for recompense.

"Four names," I said. "Give me the names of a thief, a bully, a coward, and a liar. Do that and I'll let you go free."

"If I don't pay?" Robert asked. "I-it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm not sure if my names will satisfy, is all."

"Then you will have stolen from me, and will pay a thief's due."

Robert visibly gulped. A bead of sweat slid down his brow.

"I already have a liar's name," I said. "You told me your kids were hungry. You have no children. Offer your own name."

My kukri flashed against the setting sun. Roger blanched.

"R-Roger," he said.

"Good, easy," I said. "Only three more."

"Gus, Jennie, Bill."

"In that order?" I asked. "A thief, a bully, a coward?"

"Yeah."

He didn't take long, the names coming easily. These were people who had wronged him, and recently too.

"Thank you Robert," I said. "Go, and forget me."

Robert blinked, then stumbled off. He wouldn't remember me, or my name, but he would remember my law, my face, and my advice.

I turned my pocket knife back to the driftwood. I wasn't good at carving, the wood kept splintering at my touch, but I would learn. I would improve. Eventually the piece would be finished to my satisfaction, capturing all the right details to be instantly recognizable, and then I would start anew.

One face, then another, then another after that. I could see it so perfectly, a neat little row of heads half-buried in the sand, waiting to be washed away by the tide.

"No more plans," I said. To nothing, to no one.

Last edited: Jun 25, 2016

197

TheManWithaPlan

May 2, 2016

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

May 10, 2016

#678

Locavore 3.2

We sat at the roof's edge, close enough that a strong enough wind might have knocked us over. I stood beside them, choosing to stand while they swung their legs into open air. I suggested we watch by an open window, more out of view of any enhanced perception. Gus had insisted on the roof, and I complied. Line of sight was such an unreliable measure that we were better off playing the higher vantage point to our benefit.

"I wanted to fly, once," I said. The thought came from nowhere, maybe the first thing that came to mind as I stared out over a skyline that had become hostile territory.

Gus snorted. "Who doesn't?"

"But can't you just…" Jennie began, unsure of what word to use.

"It's not the same," I said. "Doesn't carry any weight."

They exchanged unsure glances between them. I could explain it using simple metaphor, but the actual meaning would likely never get through. These were people who had to panhandle for bus fare. They would sell their souls to be a Mover, to have the power to be anywhere else either than here.

The faintest outline of glowing shapes were moving off in the distance, at ground level. I could hear the engine quieting down from two blocks away. They weren't being subtle. As they approached it became easier to count their numbers. At a block away I could see two shapes, one sticking to the other like a lamprey to a shark, flanked by five on each side. Engine noise had died down completely, which meant they left the vehicle behind.

"How old are you?" Bill asked, his voice quiet.

"Sixteen," I said. "Why?"

"Fucking Christ," Gus muttered. He spat over the edge.

"The way you sounded just then," Bill said. "Your voice got small, like when a kid admits she did something wrong. Reminded me of my daughter, is all."

"How old is she?" I asked.

Bill's shoulders fell, his eyes turning away from me and towards ground level. I had my answer.

Instinct told me to reach out to him, to make a more tangible sign of empathy, but physical contact was such an alien sensation to me. My grip could shatter stone, and sometimes my hands trembled on the bad nights when I had to fight for control. I had to measure everything with a degree of caution, even something as simple as touch carried its own level of risk. That had hit me on a deeper level too, forcing myself to stay separated from people, forcing myself to see them as tools rather than people.

Gus did what I couldn't and gave Bill a gentle pat on the back. Jennie offered a bent cigarette, and Bill took it with a slow nod of gratitude. She tapped another out of the carton and lit it with a match.

Social support. Leaning on others when it grew too tiring to stand. I didn't necessarily miss that, because what time I had belonged to a group had barely lasted a week and had ended horribly, and working alone had its own benefits. But there was something to envy there. Something that couldn't be easily quantified on a list of positives and negatives.

"I'm sorry," I simply said.

Bill shrugged. "Don't be. Wasn't capes who took her. Was a small tumor right here." He tapped the base of his skull. "Doctors found it two weeks before her fourteenth birthday. She lasted a year before it finally got her."

I stared at him through my mask, one eye looking at the balding, slightly overweight man who certainly didn't resemble my father in any fashion. and the other eye seeing Bill through the measure of his pulse, the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

You're not a fucking doctor. You don't know for sure, I shot back.

He spoke so matter of factly. Tragedy did that to a lot of people, holding the pain so close and for so long that even that becomes another part of life. But I remembered watching Bill on the streets. He never used his dead child for pity, and he never used the my kids excuse to draw favors from me. Some hurts ran too deep.

Robert had described Bill as a coward. Yet Bill had agreed to come, and I had been pretty clear on the risk he was taking. He didn't seem scared of the job, or of me. What was he afraid of then? Something more existential? Death? Loss? What did he even have left to lose?

Bill glanced at me, blowing a faint cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "So who did you lose?"

"No one yet, and I'm trying to keep it that way." I turned away from him. Some people separated from the joined pair to walk wide circles around the block. Scouting the perimeter, probably. "But they went after my dad. He's in the hospital now. They'd probably arrest me if I went to go see him. I should say he went after my dad, because it was just one guy who hurt him, but it was more the collective they who were responsible."

"You planning to get back at them?" Gus asked. He had a very competitive mindset, with anything gained having to be at someone else's expense.

"No. I want to, I want to, really want to, but it's also what they would want, and I'd rather spite them more than anything."

Gus raised an eyebrow.

"Different them from them," I said. "The Butchers. The heroes. The gangs. There's so many thems." I rubbed my temples beneath my mask. "Sometimes I wonder if it's all just one big them, like it's all one coordinated movement against me."

"That's not saying much," Jennie said. "World's been shitting on us way before you came along."

"Any advice?"

Jennie laughed, a harsh bark that sounded halfway to a hacking cough. There were more gaps in her smile than not, and the teeth had been stained almost brown.

"We're probably not the best people to ask," she said. "Most of us on the Boardwalk are here because we couldn't keep our heads above rising water. We sunk when it counted, when the only thing to do was to keep treading and wait it out."

Bill and Gus nodded.

"Give yourselves some credit," I said. "You're survivors. That counts for something in this city."

"Ain't worth shit," Gus mumbled.

Jennie looked me dead in the mask, her expression serious. "You don't want what we got. That isn't survival. It's settling for the shit you're sitting in. You got power, kid, something we don't. People with power shouldn't be settling, shouldn't be climbing onto the lowest rung of the ladder just to stay there. They should be climbing, looking for more because what's life compared to living."

The first people rounding the building corner, within normal eyesight. They were shouting amongst themselves, whooping and hollering as they tried to drive their group into a frenzy. Their movements were twitchy, erratic, some hopping from foot to foot like they needed to pee, with others scanning their surroundings, their hands darting to the small of their backs. There was no shared color or theme, they just wore the torn and faded remnants of clothing they still owned for themselves. No common ethnicity, no common age. No two members looked alike.

"They settled for their shitty lives," Jennie said, pointing to the people below. "I haven't. I'll never become that. I might not look it, but I'll fight tooth and fucking nail just to die an inch taller than where I'm standing now."

"That was my plan, once," I said. My shoulders fell. "It didn't work out."

Talking turned to screaming. I could have tuned more closely into the precise conversation, but it was helping to keep Butcherspeak in vague description. It externalized them to a degree, put them somewhere a little more distant than my own head. That carried a price of its own though, forcing me to always keep a large part of my attention elsewhere. It kept conversations one-sided, my responses always a little too curt for other people's comfort.

Jennie grunted. Bill finished his cigarette and flicked away the butt. Smoke still spiraled around in him in lazy, concentric rings.

"You're sure it's them?" I asked.

"Yeah," Bill said, nodding. "They come around every other week or so, offering cheap product and a place to stay for anyone wanting to join up. It's an easy way to bloat up numbers, make your outfit look a lot bigger than it really is."

"They're not even the first to have the idea," Jennie added. "Empire came first, weeding out the strong and the white from the rest. ABB came after to hit us for whatever we had worth stealing. It's a small part we play, in the bigger picture, but we're always there when the gangs need more meat for the grinder or a soft target to boost morale."

"Then I came along," I said.

"You gonna do what every other C-Lister villain tries?" Bill asked. "You gonna make an army out of burned out veterans and the starving unemployed?"

"No. Never. It's what they would want. I'm just here to enforce the law. These men stole from you, right? In the Boardwalks?"

All three nodded.

"Then they are thieves, and pay a thief's price," I said, slowly assembling my bow, taking out each individual piece and snapping it into place. A shake of the wrist unfolded the entire frame, taller than me by half.

Reaching into a coat pocket, I drew out a small jar of sand which I had gathered from the beach. Pouring it out onto the floor, I laid a hand over the pile. The sand began to shape and solidify under my touch, molding into the shape of an arrow. I could make more, but with the limited amount of sand each arrow would come out more brittle, more prone to shattering on impact than actually driving in through flesh. One was all I needed. Perfect marksmanship made it easy to make a precise ammo count.

"Compromise," I said, nocking the heavy arrow to the string. Lifting the bow up with both hands, I firmly planted one pointed end into the cement floor, just deep enough that the metal spike found purchase. "Between me, them, and them. Maybe him too, for good measure. I keep law in the Boardwalks, stay out of sight, and everyone's happy."

"Pretty shit deal," Gus said.

I drew my bow arm back, far enough to provide the maximum amount of force. The bow itself was massive, its span easily half again my size.

I sighted down my target, let out two measured breaths, then released. A loud snap sounded as the arrow flew, the metal string whipping across my upper body. I imagine that if fired improperly, and if I didn't have superdurable skin, the taught wire could easily flense the skin off my forearm.

A few moments later and there was a loud crash, followed by a piercing scream, followed by terrified shouts. I imagined there had to be a profound psychological effect there, to be laughing in a delirious state one moment, and in the next find your hand transfixed to the wall by an arrow that looked more like a javelin in length. I had stretched the sand out a bit in the shaft's construction for the effect of size, keeping the arrowhead dense enough to penetrate the hand and the brick wall behind it.

I'd fire off more arrows if the others didn't leave soon. I'd nail them all to their own fucking gang sign if the message somehow wasn't clear enough.

More shouts from the others. More screams from the victim. Already they were working to get the arrow out, and they were working the wound so incompetently that I wondered if they would kill the guy if I left them alone. The mated pair were already gone. They hadn't been expected a fight, so they hadn't brought any muscle to bear. Their powersets didn't react well to a surprise confrontation, and it was in their nature to run and abandon the more disposable members. I didn't need to deal with the leaders directly, I just needed mark out a territory.

"You can go now," I said. "There'll be food and clothing waiting for you when you get back, at the usual spot."

"Still don't know why you called us in the first place," Bill said.

"To do a job, of course" I said. "It might not look like it, but you did play an important part here. I might call on you later, if that's alright."

"Sure thing," Jennie said, shoving off the roof edge as she slotted another smoke between her teeth. "Easiest meal I ever scored, no doubt."

"Thanks," I said. "If you'll excuse me…"

Two quick teleports crossed the distance between the roof and my target. The other gang members scattered in opposite directions. The trapped man tugged at his impaled hand, and blood ran freely from the wound.

I reached over and pulled out the arrow with a wet sucking sound. It collapsed back into sand before it hit the floor.

"Go," I said. "Tell Skidmark the Boardwalks are off limits. Tell him the Butcher wants to talk."

Wordlessly, the Merchant bolted. He was clutching his hand as he ran, his arm and shirt already stained red.

Silence again. Damning, cloying silence.

"Because he promised," I hissed, through grit teeth.

Last edited: Jul 12, 2016

202

TheManWithaPlan

May 10, 2016

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TheManWithaPlan

TheManWithaPlan

Prose Most Purple

May 27, 2016

#699

Locavore 3.3

Hate.

What do you hate?

The streets were lifeless. No lights were on, shops were closed in the midday, no one was out walking, and the wide intersection was empty of cars. Not dead like the docks, not exactly, in that anything was falling into outright decay. More like it was falling into disuse, enough maintenance put into the buildings to keep them standing but only just.

Roadkill had been left rotting in the middle of the road, a housecat nearly sheared in half. Its stomach had burst open to leave a large smear of gore stretching across a dozen feet. The driver had run the cat over, stopped, then sped off. Tire tracks were still visible, the entire scene undisturbed.

A calico, orange tabby fur with white spots. Beautiful creature. No collar, but it wasn't a stray. Even coat, trimmed nails, decently fed, all signs of care. Not excessively so, but more than what a shelter typically offered. The owner had been practically minded, treating it as a companion rather than a plaything. I never preferred cats or dogs over each other, I just never saw myself caring for a pet. Dd was allergic to dogs, and Mom didn't like cats. Said they reminded her too much of her mother, whatever that meant.

"Did you fight to get here?" I asked, kneeling down. An eye hung open, the other closed in a lazy half-lid gaze. An almost sardonic look, or maybe I was projecting. "Or were you just crossing?"

There was something there, something familiar in the dead cat's eyes. I couldn't see it, I just kept staring, not even sure if I wanted to recognize it.

Eyes turned from brilliant green to grey. No pulse, no lines, no glowing core. Heartsight showed me a lump of gray, on a gray road, in a city of gray beneath a gray sky. Small snatches of light and substance stood out against the gray, stars on a backdrop of infinite nothing, but the void had an unsettling depth to it.

I snapped back to normal vision with a small twitch of the neck. The cat was still staring at me. Not looking. Staring.

"Maybe you were already dead," I mumbled.

I kept walking, past grimy windows that still had faded FOR SALE signs plastered across.

This place was caught at the very border of the city, an awkward space just before the entrance to the freeway that had been filled in with strip malls and mechanic shops. The airport was half an hour north, and the railways a little further south. A good location if you were looking to expand, and the Merchants tried to after they had been pushed out to the fringes of Brockton. Some capes and splinter gangs had set themselves up in nearby Concord, even beginning to reach as far down south as Boston before the Ambassadors ground the Merchants there into paste.

Finally, after another hard blow delivered by the local Protectorate, Skidmark had cut all ties to draw back into Brockton, as he tried to consolidate as much power among the villain community as he could. Like vermin, they had to toe the line between growth and extinction, the local group culled if they made themselves too well known.

I caught myself at that It was too obvious a metaphor to fall into, one that could have me underestimating the Merchants when even Coil had warned me of Skidmark. If anything, I was the rat between the walls, rabid and dangerous but too stubborn to die. It was a sobering thought, and useful too when stepping into the meeting.

They had been staying at an airport motel the past few weeks, with the owners either driven out or dead. Most doors were open or had been visibly smashed open as more Merchants moved in. A few members were hanging around the parking lot, barely reacting to me. A man around my dad's age broke his stare with the floor to look at me directly, his mouth gaping open and closed.

"Skidmark," I said to him.

"Wun like youuuu," he droned. "Is busy. With stuff."

"He called me here."

The Merchant barely looked like he was listening. He leaned his head upward, to the second floor. I could hear music playing up there, but no voices.

I climbed up the stairs, stepping over a foul-smelling puddle that might have been piss or vomit or both. The door wasn't locked, the few inside barely reacting as I entered. Four Merchants were slumping in their chairs, barely holding onto their guns. One had his eyes rolled back, twitching slightly with spit dribbling out the corner of his mouth. I thought of it as an air of lethargy, rather than laziness, like they didn't have the energy to stand, rather than the motivation.

How could the Merchants have lasted this long? I was literally walking into their headquarters without so much as a second glance. How could the other gangs not have capitalized on these long down periods, when the drug high crashed and the Merchants had to carry themselves through a burnout?

Skidmark was facing the door, clawing at his arms already marked by dozens of angry red gashes. His nails were overlong and yellow, the same color as his teeth. Track marks ran along the larger veins of his arms, clustered together at the elbow joints. A worn leather belt was tied around his right arm. His mask was still on, but only his mask, the rest of the costume strewn about the room, leaving him in only a towel. Parts of another costume were mixed in with his. Used needles littered the bed. The room had a certain smell. I could figure out the rest. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. He decided to do that just a few minutes before meeting the Butcher of Brockton Bay? What, did the other Merchants sit here and watch?

From the bathroom I could hear the sounds of a woman dry heaving. Squealer, no doubt. I hadn't seen one of her monster vehicles parked anywhere outside or near here. She looked out but remained a factor. Knowing tinkers, I was expecting some other wacky shit like the motel itself to turn into a tank, or an enormous drill to burrow out from the parking lot. I had underestimated tinkers before and it had cost me dearly.

"Skidmark," I said.

"Yeah," Skidmark said. He cracked his fingers, working each joint for a small pop. "Yeah, I'll get to you."

"You called me. You set the time."

"A goddamn minute," Skidmark said, almost hissing the word. "Everyone wants a fucking piece, they all want a every fucking second of the day..."

He kept muttering to himself as he fished out a syringe from the nearby cabinet. It was a harsh reminder of how crazy I must have looked when dealing with the other Boardwalkers. Although when I talked to myself, I was actually engaged in conversation and not just rambling. I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

Skidmark tapped for a vein a few times, then shoved the needle in. He sighed as he depressed the plunger, his body going through an almost orgasmic shudder.

"Alright," he finally said, nearly whispering the word. "Alright. Now we can deal."

He rolled his neck back. There was an awkward silence there, broken only by the sound of vomiting a few feet behind us.

"Well?" Skidmark waved his hands at me in mock greeting. "Hi. Hello. You wanted to talk. Took off half my boy's hand just to set up a meeting. What's this about? Here to tell us to fuck off from the Boardwalks?"

"That usually why people meet with you?" I asked.

"Eh." Skidmark shrugged. "We're toxic enough that only low players or normals see us eye to eye, so it's regular enough that a cape walks in all cordial-like to swing their dicks about protecting the good little boys and girls from monsters like us."

"After all, we might get 'em high. Ooooooh." He waggled his fingers. "Stuff of nightmares for you heroes to actually have the stick up everyone's asses loosened a bit."

He was trying to bait me into an argument. The Merchants did a lot more damage than just sell. Feeding addictions, racking up debts with insane interest, kidnapping, extortion, sometimes random acts of violence and mayhem to initiate new members. Skidmark didn't just know, he was directly behind most of it, and he knew I had seen it firsthand from my time hiding in the Boardwalks. Skidmark was trying to figure out my moral limit, a common enough tactic when criminals needed to sniff out a mole.

"We all need release," I said. "My people especially."

"Your people?" he asked, leaning out of his seat. "Am I fucking hearing this right? You're telling me you're here to deal, little girl?"

Pretty girl.

With a smile like sunset.

And knives like midnight.

"Okay. Yeah. Yeah." Skidmark slapped the armrests excitedly, bobbing up and down in the chair. "Okay, let's play this out. Why would you want what we got?"

"I'm running a kind of favor system at the Boardwalks, seeing how the people there don't have much to money or anything else to give me," I said. "But right now all I can give is some crap advice on where to find food, some protection, basic needs and demands that isn't getting me much on their end. Food just turns to handouts, which brings attention I don't need. A lot of them are willing to sell their souls just for a hit. I figure if I can supply them, in exchange I can ask pretty much anything I want."

"Three years ago, had the exact same idea you did, little-" Skidmark began.

"Taylor," I cut in, visibly clenching a fist. I would never answer to Butcher, and I hadn't thought of another cape name for myself, so as disgusting as it was to have him call me by my real name, everyone in the city already knew it, so there was no harm in using it.

Skidmark placatingly held up both hands. "Had the exact same idea, Taylor. Roll into the back alleys, near the shelters, under over passes, sell product for easy service and call them henchmen to stroke the ego. It works for a while, buys a little bit of loyalty, but there's a problem there."

He pointed at an ugly scar on his hip. "The little shits get greedy."

"They start asking for more in exchange for less," Skidmark continued. "So you cut them off, see if they stay so uppity when the shakes set in, but that doesn't turn them back to you, it just makes them desperate. Eventually they shiv you when you got your back turned, take what you got for themselves before some bigger gang swallows up their operation."

"Sounds like a problem for the long term," I said. "Right now all I need is cheap and easy service. I'm not even staying in the Boardwalks long. I'm just making the best of a bad situation while I have to."

Skidmark spread his arms wide and smiled wider, as if he was gesturing to more than just the room as he spoke. "Aren't we all?"

His smile left as quickly as it came. "Now down to business."

Skidmark reached back into the cabinet where he kept the needles, this time pulling out a torn journal that had half its pages falling out of the binding. He hastily flipped it open, somehow not scattering papers everywhere, Skidmark ran his finger down the page before coming to a stop.

"Here's the deal I give to most small timers looking to cut in," Skidmark said, the laughing tone gone and replaced with curt professionalism. "Every week you come to me, where I give you your supply, amount non-negotiable, and a fifth of whatever you make. You want more, you pay for it at below market price, but you still pay for it. Try to supply anyone, I take a fifth of their cut too and a fourth of yours. Cut me out and look for another supplier, we're done, and I send my boys out to bring back a finger, a hand, or a head, depending on how pissed off I'm feeling that day. Go to the cops or Protectorate, or worse yet be stupid enough to get caught, same rules apply. You can deal to other gangs if you make sure none of that shit blows back on me."

"Other than that," Skidmark continued. "You're on your own. Anything goes. Sell to kids. Sell to dogs. Sell to your own fucking grandmother so long as they pay. Sell crack where you rest at. Get high off your supply. I don't fucking care. Just keep turning a profit on what I hand you and you're good. You won't get any help from us if you fall into shit, because you don't wear the M, but give a couple of weeks to play this thing out and we'll see if we can fit you in."

"Deal," I said almost immediately.

Skidmark withdrew a bit at that, a bit cautious.

"Well first you gotta put in some kind of...let's call it a deposit, so I can be sure you're serious about this."

"Seriously? I'm already giving you a cut of whatever I earn."

Skidmark held his palms up. "Then think of it as a kind of repayment, considering you owe me big after I had my boy save your ass from the skinheads a couple weeks back."

I held back a snort. Trainwreck had played his cover better than even Coil could have predicted, so well apparently that he had somehow convinced his gang that it had been Skidmark's idea all along. Whether Skidmark himself was actually dumb to believe it, or if he was buying into it to keep up appearances, I honestly couldn't say.

"Where is Trainwreck anyway?" I asked. "Wanted to thank him in person."

Skidmark jerked his hand back in what was supposed to be a dismissive wave. "Sent him out to collect. Should be back before we're done, if he doesn't wig out on the way back. You'll hear him coming."

"I don't have any money," I said.

"No shit. But we can work something out," Skidmark said, smiling wide again. He turned back to the bathroom.

"Babe!" he called out. "Babe!"

A small whisper answered, barely loud enough to be heard. "Whazzit, 'Dam?"

"Butcher here wants some of our action, but first she owes us a favor." Skidmark kept glancing at me as he spoke. "Arny's being a stubborn prick again and holding out on me, so I need someone to go scare the piss out of him. Take Butcher out in the Gnasher, make some noise and maybe break a few legs."

Squealer whined, but from the way Skidmark nodded I guessed that had to be some kind of affirmative.

"Easy milk run for you Butcher, considering what you've gone up against," Skidmark said. "Bring my girl back safe and sound, with the money that asshole up north promised me, and we can do business."

Because it was always that simple.

Last edited: May 28, 2016

170

TheManWithaPlan

May 27, 2016

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