I went after Stormtiger first.
It was a rational choice. His control over air currents made him the most dangerous enemy on the battlefield. Sure, the others might be juiced up on Othala's power, but none of them had Mover, Shaker and Blaster ratings at once.
At the same time, my first instinct was to target the parahuman over the normals. It would be self-delusion to deny the fact.
Troopers Ortiz and Brady backed up my offensive. The former still brandished his pistol; the latter clutched a ballistic shield he must have retrieved from the van's wreckage. Stormtiger turned, slashing at us from afar. Four thin, translucent streaks flew from his outstretched hand. That was his signature move, his so-called tiger's claws. Filaments of compressed air, sharp as concertina wire and capable of detonating with the force of a grenade. The claws shot straight at me, hissing with danger.
Of course, there was no danger. I just kept running, and they puffed out of existence in front of my face. The only effect was to give me perhaps a bit of extra fresh air.
One of the Empire grunts decided to take things into his own hands. "Heil Kaiser!" he shouted (seriously, that was his battle cry?) as he rushed up, waving a baseball bat. I felt a flash of concern and gripped my baton tight, but ended up not having to do a thing. He was still two strides away when my power cancelled his invincibility, and Brady body-checked him hard with the shield. He went staggering aside—right into the path of Stormtiger's second claw attack.
In the blink of an eye, his torso was sporting a series of small, evenly-spaced holes. The whole thing was surprisingly quick and quiet. Blood spurted, though not as much as you'd think; fortunately, none landed on me. He collapsed with a choked gurgle. I grimaced. It wasn't my fault they kept committing suicide, was it? "Kevin!" wailed one of his colleagues, a big guy with a forehead swastika tattoo. And what sort of Nazi was named 'Kevin'?
That was the last straw for Stormtiger. A great gust of wind went whoosh and off he went, shooting in the opposite direction from me. Half-flying, half-leaping, he bolted the battlefield, making for the cover of the nearby alleyways. I moved to chase him, but a loud shout from Armsmaster stopped me in my tracks. "Leave him! Get Othala!" he bellowed, pointing his halberd the other way. "Vista, move us up!"
Space warped. Suddenly Armsmaster, Miss Militia, and Vista (plus one PRT trooper) were charging through the gap Stormtiger had left behind. The rest of the Nazis didn't even try to resist. Following Stormtiger's example, they scattered and fled. I cast a final glance at the retreating cape, then turned back to rejoin the others. With how fast he was running away, I doubted I could catch him anyways. Besides, I could understand why Othala took priority. She was the Empire's healer, their dollar store Panacea. Taking out the medic was—well, a war crime, technically, but this technically wasn't a war and I didn't think Othala was in compliance with the Geneva Convention's rules for medics so— "Over there!" Armsmaster continued to shout orders and gesture dramatically. "Trap her! Pull him back! Keep them apart!"
The 'her' in this case was a lone figure towards the far end of the lot, the side the Empire had entered from. Othala had presumably been hanging back there, ready to renew her allies' power-ups if needed, and now she was caught in a pickle. The 'him' was another of the Nazis. While his fellows had simply run for the hills, he'd doubled back for her. It was a good thought, I'd grudgingly admit. If he could reach Othala she could grant him a super-speed power, and they'd escape us together. He was already halfway there, but thanks to Vista he'd get no closer. She was doing her treadmill trick again. Even though I could see the man's legs pounding furiously at the ground, he stayed the same distance from her while we drew ever closer.
Probably-Othala reached futilely for him. She didn't even seem to notice that the section of fence in front of her was stretching to the height of the Great Wall. The man stopped running and whirled around to face us. With a defiant gesture, he threw back his hood. A blood-red mask covered his features; golden-blond hair fluttered in a light breeze. "Victor!" she cried out.
"RUN!" he roared.
Victor. The skill thief. I hadn't expected him here, but his PRT file did note his close relationship with Othala. They were a couple, perhaps even husband and wife. That all but confirmed the woman's identity. I couldn't see him going this far to save some random Nazi girl. Was he giving himself up to buy time for the woman he loved? That was an oddly humanizing thought and—oh, he was reaching for something at his belt—
Brady threw his body in front of me, and the shield in front of his body. Miss Militia fired some kind of projectile, silvery and sharp. Ortiz fired a bullet. Sparks flashed on Victor's body but he didn't budge, his invincibility still active. His hand whipped up. That was definitely a gun. So much for unwritten rules. I pulled my head in; I saw Miss Militia diving to the ground. Pop. Pop. Vista raised her hands defensively. Pop. Pop. Miniature eruptions of dust kicked up, as bullets flew through distorted space and crashed to earth. Armsmaster burst forward in a blur of electric blue. There was the sound of scuffling and scraping metal. Pop. Another shot rang out erratically.
I dared to peek around the edge of the shield. Victor was grasping the halberd's blade with his bare hand, which certainly would've maimed him if not for his power-up. Trying to grapple him, Armsmaster's free arm lashed out, lightning quick. Yet somehow—through some combination of his own skill at martial arts plus draining Armsmaster's—Victor seemed to simply phase through the blow. Using the halberd for leverage, he did an acrobatic flip worthy of a Bruce Lee film, firing off another shot in mid-air. Vista, forced to stay on the defensive, deflected it away from Miss Militia. It was almost mesmerizing to watch. Almost. I couldn't help but notice that the fence had shrunken back to regular height, and Othala was climbing over it. I clapped Brady on the back. Tapping would've been politer, but I wasn't sure he would feel it through the body armor. "Get me closer?" I said, phrasing the request as a question.
It was a testament to his nerve that he didn't hesitate. He rushed towards Victor in a straight line like a raging bull. I followed in his wake, hiding behind his bulk as best as I could. Apparently inspired by our example, Ortiz and the third trooper (Brown or Clark, probably Clark based on the height) did likewise. The former yelled something that, based on my academic grasp of Spanish, was quite profane. We closed in on Victor like a pack of raptors. A walking martial arts movie he might be, but he'd be hard pressed to fight us all. Still, the guy was determined not to go quietly. Victor jumped over a halberd blow, throwing himself airborne in a way that looked physically impossible. He kicked Ortiz in the chest, the blow perfectly placed to knock the big man on his rear. Using that as a springboard, he sent Clark sprawling with a boot to the head, then jumped high, vaulting over Armsmaster's follow-up like a pole vaulter.
Trooper Brady, slowed by the heavy shield, arrived a fraction of a second later. I was right on his tail. Victor twisted in mid-air as he prepared to land, cat-like, on his feet.
We looked at each other.
He yelped, and plummeted to earth like a sack of bricks.
Brady promptly whacked him with the shield. Then Armsmaster jumped on him, followed shortly by all the PRT troopers. Victor let out a bloodcurdling shriek of terror, as if he was being torn limb from limb.
Othala—by now over the fence and crossing the street beyond—stopped at the sound. "Victor!" she cried out again. She actually took a couple steps back towards us. Why, I couldn't imagine. With no allies to use her power on, she was nothing but an ordinary woman. Temporary insanity, perhaps. It was only a couple, because with Victor neutralized Miss Militia sprang to her feet and fired. Fwip!
This time, she struck true. Othala swayed on her feet, one hand feeling at the dart in her neck, then collapsed.
Victor was still squirming, shouting muffled slurs unfit for polite company, but with me nullifying his stolen skills and a bunch of armored people dogpiling him he wasn't going anywhere. "Zip ties!" Armsmaster barked out. It was hard to see what was happening in the dark under that stramash of flailing limbs. The sound of indistinct rustling and grunting went for another minute. "Enough! Clear out!" The crush of bodies slowly backed off from Victor. His arms and legs were bound by so many zip ties he looked a bit like a mummy. I supposed it paid to be safe; for all I knew he'd drained the skills of a David Copperfield. Even so, Ortiz kept his gun trained on the villain's prone form, as did Miss Militia. Armsmaster straightened up, moving slowly in his de-powered armor. His halberd hovered over Victor's neck.
"You too, Blank!" He waved me away impatiently. I obeyed, feeling somewhat sheepish. Of course, we had to be sure Victor wouldn't break free once his power came back. The first thing that happened was that the halberd resumed glowing faintly blue. The second thing was that Victor thrashed violently in his bonds. He would have decapitated himself, save for Armsmaster's quick reflexes pulling the blade away. "No! NO! Where is it?" he shrieked. He craned his neck to glare at me. Maybe he was trying to fling himself my way, but all he succeeded at was flopping around like a landed fish. "YOU! Give it back! Give it back!"
I blinked in confusion, before understanding dawned upon me. I shook my head. "Uh, I can't. It's gone forever." I didn't I say I was sorry, because I wasn't, not really.
Victor entire frame shuddered. "Gone?" he whimpered, his voice small and broken. "Oh..." And just like that, his head hit the dirt as he fainted dead away.
At last, sweet silence.
Vista quickly broke it again. "What was that?" she demanded.
"I think my power just removed all his skills. Permanently." I informed her. That was interesting. Apparently they didn't fall under the category of intrinsic effects, like Tinkertech or Dauntless's charge did. There was poetic justice there, I thought. After all, he hadn't worked for any of that, merely stolen the fruits of others' labor. Now he knew how his victims felt, and from his reaction he didn't take it as well as he dished it out. I wondered how much he had leaned on his power even for basic skills like tying his shoes. It just went to show, it paid to learn things the normal way...I yawned. I was suddenly cognizant of the fact it was way past my bedtime. Would it be unprofessional to sit down? I settled for leaning on my baton instead. What a day it had been. What a fucking day.
It was Armsmaster, curtly professional as always, who spurred us into action once more. "Come on, job's not done. Get to bagging and tagging. Does anyone need medical attention?"
Trooper Clark rubbed her head. "Took a hell of a kick, but I'm good, sir. One of the Nazis got to Brown before Vista warped him away, though. Better check him."
He nodded, then touched a hand to his helmet. "Armsmaster to Console. At Bartlett and Berks, need extraction. Our van's wrecked." He glanced back at the chassis of our ride, propped up on its front wheels. The back tire was shredded like a deflated balloon. "We've got one agent in need of a medic. Four enemies captured, two presumed deceased." He paused. "Yes, he's here. No, it wasn't really his fault..." he stalked away, still talking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vista warping the downed combatants closer so they could be easily collected. Clark was bent over Brown's prone form. "Jalen? How are you feeling, man?"
"Like I broke all my ribs, but I'll live. Sorry to disappoint you." Brown chuckled weakly, then coughed. "Ow. Hurts to laugh."
Miss Militia dragged a motionless Hookwolf into view. A worrying thought struck me. "Uh..." I said hesitantly. "Is he alive?"
She flipped him onto his back. "He's still breathing." she reported. "I think he's got a brain injury, though."
"Ah." That was a relief. The Director hadn't said anything about not giving villains brain damage. "I hope that won't be an issue?"
Trooper Brady snorted. "I wouldn't worry. Cops get away with way worse, all the time. Hell, I'll even testify for you. Say you genuinely feared for your life."
That was true. I genuinely had. "Um, thanks. And thanks for covering me there." I remembered to give Ortiz a grateful nod as well. "And you too. That was a great shot."
He flashed me a thumbs up. "Hey, I gotcha! I'm just glad I hit him. Wasn't sure I could pull off the headshot, and I didn't want to shoot you by mistake, you know?"
"Uh, yeah." Hopefully he was a better shot than he gave himself credit for. "I'm kind of surprised Hookwolf didn't see it coming." I added as an afterthought. At the time I had been too focused on the fight to give it any mind, but now...what sort of person ignored a man with a gun so close by? Or rather, what sane person?
"I'm not. Plenty of villains don't give us troopers any respect." Brady said bitterly.
"To be fair, Hookwolf usually has metal under his skin." Armsmaster didn't look up from where he was tying up Othala. I hadn't realized he was listening in. "I imagine guns don't register as a threat to him anymore."
"Well, we sure showed him." Ortiz said brightly. "I wanted to thank you, too. I've been here four years, and this is the best day of my career."
Brady groaned. "Oh, he'll be insufferable. Running over Crusader, shooting Hookwolf—we'll never hear the end of it!"
Ortiz blew a raspberry. "Don't be a hater."
"Enough joking around." Armsmaster grumbled. "A good result today, I'll grant that. Uncommonly so. Even if things could have been cleaner." He looked sharply at me, and even with the helmet obscuring his eyes I flinched a little. "I don't recall ordering you to charge and hit the enemy with the van." Then at Vista, who had a similar reaction. "Or you, to pull Rune out of the sky so you could beat her with your bare hands."
Oh, that was what had happened to Rune. Now I noticed the knuckles of Vista's right hand were slightly bloodied. "Well, it worked!" she retorted, a braver hero than me. "Besides, they helped too..." she gestured at the other two troopers.
"Now, we're all safe, and that's what matters." Miss Militia said gently. "We can save the lessons for later. I wouldn't be too hard on them—every Ward their reckless moments. I know I did."
Reckless? Me? What kind of testosterone-driven glory hound did she take me for? Everything I'd done had been to maximize the odds of our side winning. Sure, maybe it had been a gamble to drive out in front of everyone else. And maybe fighting Hookwolf could have gone pretty badly if I hadn't gotten help, and...
Oh man. I really needed better strategies, didn't I?
2:14 AM
"—presume Stormtiger was able to inform Kaiser of the situation. The Empire's southern battle group retreated towards Downtown before we could regroup to strike them." Armsmaster wrapped up his lengthy after-action report. "Still, the Empire took sixty-four percent casualties in one night. We've sent a message every villain in this city will understand—the Docks are ours, and fairly won!"
The warehouse broke into raucous cheers and applause. Even Sophia couldn't help grinning behind her mask, caught up in the heady atmosphere. That would've surprised the other Wards, given most of them thought her a cold and heartless bitch. Be that as it may, she still despised Nazis as much as any black girl. It was damn satisfying, seeing them get the thrashing they deserved. About time!
Sadly, her own participation had been limited to patrol, search, and rescue. Her tally for the night? A mere four unpowered grunts, all of them downed with tranquilizer darts. It was deeply unfulfilling. She'd had to get her second-hand kicks from listening to the stories of others. Kaiser had led a push from Downtown, along with Fenja and Menja and Krieg. A mixed Protectorate/New Wave force had met them just inside the south edge of the Docks. By the sounds of it that had been a slow meat grinder of a battle, between Krieg's energy manipulation and how tanky the giants were. Manpower and Battery were still in Panacea's care, and Assault grimly boasted of landing a big hit on Krieg in revenge. Overall, though, the fight had ended as a stalemate.
But the western front—that had been a bloodbath for the Empire. Brandish's group had come down on the rabble like a warhammer. It was no secret New Wave still held a grudge over Fleur's death. Sophia would bet all her crossbows the ER had just admitted a bunch of skinheads with broken bones, and that Glory Girl would get away scot-free like usual (the perks of having a lawyer for a mom). They'd bagged Cricket too; the mute villain was currently tied to a bed in the PHQ infirmary, covered in burns.
And then there was Armsmaster's crew. Five captures in one outing was one hell of a haul. No wonder the Tinker had sounded marginally more cheerful than a funeral guest for once. Still, Sophia wondered if it secretly rankled him that he hadn't taken out any of villains personally. Even Vista had notched one; what she'd done to Rune was actually badass, more so than she'd imagined the pipsqueak capable of.
"We'll run out of holding cells at this rate!" Assault quipped as the cheers died down.
"We do have more prisoners than we're used to. I know there have been issues keeping them contained in the past." Armsmaster acknowledged. His mouth twisted in displeasure. Sophia knew Hookwolf, for one, had escaped a Birdcage transport twice already. How did that even happen? "I'll push to transfer them as soon as practicable. Although the Empire's been weakened enough they may not risk a jailbreak. Plus several will be unfit for combat even if they do escape."
'Unfit for combat', huh? That was a funny way of saying 'badly wounded, traumatized, or straight-up dead'. At least, Sophia thought it was funny. Good riddance to bad garbage. Her eyes flicked over to Blank sitting in his chair, slightly removed from the main group so as not to catch them up in his null field. He'd barely participated in the debrief, only speaking briefly to answer a few questions posed to him. When he did talk he sounded like he always did whenever he managed to string two words together. Quiet. Polite. Placid. Boring. Every bit the goody-two-shoes Sophia had pegged him for.
And yet there was no reconciling that with what he'd done. Disintegrating Oni Lee. Turning Fog inside out. Putting Alabaster in a torture loop. Committing vehicular assault on Crusader. Beating Hookwolf half to death. Traumatizing Victor into a gibbering wreck. Sophia was sure a single one of those would've seen her packed off to the Birdcage before she could say 'unfair'. For fuck's sake, she'd been railroaded into the Wards over some no-name thug who didn't even die. But here was Blank—two killings, two aggravated assaults, and two cases of horrible psychological damage on his record—still allowed into meetings like a regular hero. Why did he get away with it all? Just because he always followed every little rule and never talked back and always said 'yes sir' and 'yes ma'am'?
Was that it? Could it be so simple? Because he respected their authority and stroked their egos, Piggy and Armsmaster found excuses for him, convinced themselves he was justified no matter what awful things he did. Because he followed all the little annoying rules, he could break the big ones when it really mattered. That epiphany left Sophia sitting in silent shock for a second. It baked her noodle, it really did. Maybe Blank wasn't a sheep as she'd thought, but a wolf in sheep's clothing. If so he was a patient wolf, a calculating wolf. Not at all how she thought a predator should act.
But his results spoke for themselves, didn't they? Sophia had been a cape for nearly three years, and his tally had surpassed hers already—not in quantity, but certainly in quality. Hookwolf alone was worth a hundred two-bit thugs; hell, he was worth a thousand Taylor Heberts. Plus, now that she thought about the predator analogy. It wasn't like wolves did nothing but swagger around the forest howling their heads off. They wouldn't catch anything that way. They had to hide and lie in wait to ambush their prey, had to be brutal but cunning too.
Brutal, but cunning. Sophia frowned. It was clear she still had much to learn about being a predator. A large part of her recoiled at the idea of following Blank's path. The PRT had caged her pretty good, but that didn't mean she was going to pretend to be grateful for it. It felt beneath her dignity. Though as a Stranger she was no stranger to concealing her body, it went against all her instincts to conceal her heart, to plunge her true self down into a sunken place...
Or maybe, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, you're too weak to do what he did?
Sophia balled her fists.
"—think Kaiser will attack again?" Triumph was saying.
Miss Militia shook her head. "Not for a while. Kaiser's not so impetuous as Hookwolf and the Clan folk. He's smart enough to know that if he keeps escalating he'll run out of bodies. It probably helps that we took out most of his hotheads." A few cold chuckles greeted that comment. "No, he'll cut his losses, try and lie low while he recruits more capes."
"Just as well." said Lady Photon. "We can focus on the hunt for Lung—"
Assault laughed derisively. "Ten to one he skips town."
"That may well be, but if possible I'd still rather apprehend him. Spare some other city the trouble." Armsmaster demurred. "I'd argue for maintaining the emergency another couple days at least."
"And then? There's going to be a power vacuum with the ABB gone. Do we just let Kaiser rebuild and fill it?" Brandish said in agitation. "Finish them while they're weak, I say. Burn them out of their holes!" And to think she'd been against this whole operation at the beginning. It was remarkable what a taste of victory did to a cape. Judging from the scattered shouts of approval (her daughter loudest among them), she wasn't the only one flush with triumph.
"Personally, I'd like to." For once Armsmaster was in agreement with her. "The Director will take convincing. She won't want to risk another Boston Games. Though the situation's been disrupted enough that it may be inevitable already—"
Miss Militia coughed. "Well, that won't be decided right now. For now, everyone here's had a very long day. Seeing as things are quieting down, perhaps it's a good time to get some rest—"
The door between the warehouse and the offices clattered open. A helmetless PRT trooper rushed in, sweaty and wide-eyed. A pair of headphones sat askew on his head, its cable trailing behind. "Sir!" he gasped. "There's urgent news from HQ—"
"What? What is it now?" Armsmaster snapped. He wasn't the only one feeling put-upon. More than a few heroes audibly groaned at the prospect of their shift being extended again. The trooper hesitated, at which Armsmaster sighed and wearily motioned for him to get on with it. "Spit it out, trooper."
The man gulped. "Yes sir. The Director and senior leadership all just got a strange email. Sent from a burner account. All the major news stations in town are CC'ed in—this is going to blow up. Whoever's behind it is making some big claims..."
Kenta awoke to the sensation of his phone buzzing.
For a moment he lay there, groggily wondering why there was hard concrete beneath him instead of a soft mattress, why his nostrils were filled with the scent of garbage and stale urine instead of liquor and perfume. Then he grunted and pushed himself up. It had been a long time since he'd been plain old Kenta instead of Lung, but he didn't feel like much of a dragon right now. Dragons didn't flee from boys half their age. Dragons didn't find themselves sleeping on the streets they'd used to own.
He wondered who was still trying to reach him. Not many had his number to begin with. In those first few hours the messages from his lieutenants had come fast and furious, a flurry of bad news and requests for orders and aid.
PRT raid at 8th and Wells, requesting backup.
Pike St brothel lost, what do we do?
Send help. We're getting killed out here!
Save us, boss!
Where the hell are you?
He had stopped reading at some point, shoved his phone deep into his pocket and shoved his shame deep down as well. They didn't understand. How could they? They had no idea what it was like to live like a god, no idea how it felt to fall from heaven and be forced to live as a mortal again even for a second. Gods help him, it had been her all over again. Kenta had changed much since the day he met the woman in the fedora. He had fought, had survived, had struck down those who dared defy him. And yet when he faced the boy it had all come to naught. He was as if cast thirteen years back in time, naked and powerless and aware of his mortality, all too aware. Oni Lee's fate should have been a warning. His old underling was a hardened veteran, but he'd perished with nary a chance to strike back at his killer. Yet Kenta had ignored it, puffed up on pride and his own myth. Just another Asian boy, he'd thought. He'd swatted almost as many Asian boys in his life as he had flies...
In the end he hadn't replied to a single distress call before they stopped coming in the late afternoon. Instead, he'd spent the day skulking in shadows and scurrying between hiding holes. He still needed to figure out his next move. His holdings were in shambles; more importantly, so was the fear he'd spent years cultivating. The PRT was surely looking for him; all day, he'd heard the buzz of drones criss-crossing the sky and the rumbling of armored vans. If he stuck his head out, there was a chance they'd bring their pet abomination down on him. Lung didn't guard his identity as tightly as some other capes—it wasn't like he had a civilian life to protect—and now Kenta rued his sloppiness. Perhaps it was wiser to wait until the PRT's vigilance waned, then flee the city like a thief in the night. Kaiser would inherit his territory by default, he supposed. He imagined the smug fascist strutting through the neighborhoods that had been his, and a flash of the old draconic rage roiled his gut.
Well, it was too late for recriminations. Suddenly desiring a distraction from that line of thought, Kenta decided to check his phone. There was a new message from a number he didn't recognize, a burner no doubt. When he opened it, the very first thing he saw was a pair of names. Both of them were familiar to him, but juxtaposed together, they weren't.
In fact, it was so startling he read it twice, three times, four times, before continuing. More and more paired names leapt from the screen. At the very end was a link to a website that hosted more evidence, or so the message claimed. Kenta didn't click it. He didn't feel the need. Perhaps this was all an elaborate hoax, invented whole cloth for some incomprehensible reason, but cape's intuition said otherwise.
Kenta stood, stretched his legs, and shuffled to the alley's mouth. The street was deserted at this late hour. From his vantage point, facing south gave him a clear view of the downtown skyline. His gaze lingered on the spire of the Medhall building. God, he couldn't deny he was tempted. He might be finished in this town, but wouldn't be poetic to take his old enemy down with him? The rational part of his mind said it was a terrible idea. It would be a blaring signal for the PRT, for him. But oh, when he imagined the look on Kaiser's face as Lung burned his seat of power to ashes, Kenta smirked in spite of himself—
"Hey, you slant!"
A rock struck him in the back of the head. It barely tickled, his dormant power almost instantly hardening his skull in response. Kenta turned. A trio of white youths were approaching, their expressions tense and angry. The apparent leader was a man with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his forehead. "English motherfucker, do you speak it?" he spat.
Another one mockingly pulled his eyes into slits. "Ching-chong, ling-long, you understand that?" he taunted. Kenta grit his teeth. This sort of thing happened to other Asians sometimes, he knew, but never to him. There was an itching under his skin. His instincts urged him to vaporize these fools, but he tamped it down. It wasn't worth exposing himself over something so petty. Maybe if he didn't react, they'd be content to move on after a few more racial insults.
"Don't you know this is Empire turf?" the leader snarled. Was it? Maybe. There was always a bit of fuzziness around the precise boundaries. To a large degree, their extent depended on how badly you wanted an excuse to brutalize someone. "You think you can walk around like you own the place? Just because that chink Ward of yours—" He cut off. A shadow crossed the faces of all three Nazis. Kenta had inspired enough dread in his life to know it when he saw it. How come Blank was now the Asian cape this rabble feared most? Was his own legacy so quickly forgotten? The thought made bile rise in his throat. His head pounded like red claws were sinking into his brain, like fire was raging to escape his skull.
"Well, he's not here to save you!" the leader declared with a forced laugh. "Or—or were you counting on Lung? Ha!" The other two chuckled sycophantically. Kenta couldn't suppress a slight twitch at the mention of his name, and they noticed. "Ooh, hit a nerve, huh? You with the ABB, boy?"
"You sure look stupid now, don't you?"
"All that hype and he folded like a paper bag!"
"Bet that yellow coward's halfway back to Japan!"
The jeers were flowing like water. It was an unfamiliar and altogether unwelcome experience. Many men, most of them dead now, had cursed Lung as a monster and murderer. But rarely was he called a coward or weakling, least of all by scum like this. The urge for violence only grew stronger. Kenta could almost hear it as a whisper in his head. Maim. Kill. Burn, it repeated like a mantra. Maim. Kill. Burn.
"What a loser!" the leader sneered.
Fuck it, Kenta thought with eerie calm, before he let the voices win.
He tore open his coat, revealing the distinctive pattern of dragon tattoos beneath. In an instant, the laughter snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Blood drained from their faces, and a dark stain appeared on the front of the leader's pants. It was validating to see he could still inspire such terror. His fingers sharpened to claws and scales erupted from his skin faster than usual, as if his power was compensating for being pent up so long. An intoxicating aura of warmth enveloped him, as comforting and familiar as a favorite blanket. This was more like it, Lung thought as Kenta receded back into the depths of his mind. This was what he was meant to be.
Then he opened his mouth to release the fire brewing within.
If anyone's wondering about the chapter title...who do the spoils to go?
Victor probably had the quick-draw skills to kill either Vista or Miss Militia if he'd wanted to—but he also knew he was probably getting captured no matter what, and not keen on the Birdcage (plus Blank has a growing rep for extrajudicial killings). Of course, that restraint didn't save him from a terrible fate anyways.
Coil seems like the sort who'd agree that "chaos is ladder." His info may not be as polished yet as it was in canon, but it's definitely enough to make a big splash.
To paraphrase one reviewer "overpowered and underpowered at the same time" really is the perfect way to describe Blank's power. Someone who'd be in serious danger against a thug with a knife, but be perfectly safe inside the Sleeper's storm, is hard to place on a power scale.