Interlude 14

Victoria knew that she should be doing something more productive. Sitting around wasn't helping anyone, and it wasn't like villains stopped doing shitty things just because her personal world had collapsed.

Boston was unfamiliar, though, with a complicated cape scene that was even more daunting given the influx of refugees that managed to escape Brockton in time. She couldn't quite find the energy or the inclination to put the restless part of herself in the driver's seat. New Wave hadn't even officially decided what their next steps were.

If there was even a New Wave at all.

Uncle Neil, Crystal, and Eric were distracted. Aimless. Aunt Sarah had been their rock, the one keeping everything together.

Out of her parents' generation, Uncle Neil was normally the one chomping at the bit, but he hadn't put on the costume again, either. At least he had an excuse, though. He was busy figuring out how to put the pieces of the Pelham's lives back together, getting new copies of all their documents, trying to find somewhere to stay that wasn't a hotel, etc, etc.

Eric was still a kid. He might only be a couple years younger than her, but he didn't have the same independent streak.

Crystal was in the same boat as she was. No idea how to continue, where to go. Her classes and friends from BBU were gone, either locked behind the quarantine zone or dead. Or better off dead.

Which just left Victoria, and Carol.

And the broken pieces that remained.

Vicky couldn't even begin to figure out how to deal with her mother. There was just… so much, there. An entire airplane hanger full of baggage that neither of them were equipped to unpack.

Dad was dead. That should have hurt more than it did. Vicky told herself she didn't need to feel guilty, that it wasn't anyone's fault that she didn't miss him as much as she should. It was just how things were. Even if he'd been more awake, at the end, it didn't undo years of absence.

Or maybe she was just numb. Was this what Dad felt like, before?

Amy was… well, Amy. Not gone, but also not here. Carol wouldn't talk about her. Vicky didn't want to talk about her with Carol, anyway. The others didn't understand.

Victoria wished that there was some way to get news from the quarantine zone. Everything was kept tightly under wraps for obvious reasons, but that didn't make her less curious. What was Amy up to, in there? Had Hunter… Anne… Taylor… come back?

Through all of that, Victoria was just… here. Floating parallel to the floor in her generic hotel room, staring at the off-white ceiling, drifting along with the tide.

Part of her wished she'd stayed with Amy. Even if she didn't want to be a villain, or whatever the Hunt was, it would have been… something. This was just… nothing.

Maybe, if Amy came back to visit again…

Victoria clamped down on that line of thought. She had her own life to figure out. She wasn't going to follow Amy down whatever crazy rabbit hole she and Hunter had dug together. She wouldn't judge her sister too harshly, and she didn't want to give her up altogether, but… No. Not that far.

Maybe she should go find some bad guys to punch. Remind herself that villains were still villains, even if Hunter was annoyingly inconsistent.

Maybe she should just punch Carol. It probably wouldn't help, but it would make her feel better.

A knock at the hotel room door yanked her out of her melancholic brooding.

Vicky stared suspiciously at the door. Who even knew she was here?

They knocked again, and she sighed. She probably could just ignore it, but it wasn't like she had anything else to do. Besides, it might be a useful distraction.

She swooped down and barely remembered to actually land before opening the door.

"Dean?" Victoria said in surprise.

He shot her a tired smile, his hands deep in the pockets of his designer jeans. He looked effortlessly amazing, as always. The sleeves of his pale green button-down were rolled back casually, the tailored shirt and pants highlighting his fit frame.

Well, this was definitely a distraction. The knot of complicated feelings centered around her boyfriend was a whole other minefield. Her stomach clenched.

"Hey, Vicky. Sorry to drop by unannounced. Is this a good time?"

His expression was… surprisingly relaxed, actually, given the recent events.

"Yeah, of course, I missed you," Victoria forced herself back up to something resembling her normal level of enthusiasm.

He was supposed to be helping his family get settled at their apartment in the Seaport towers. Well, 'apartment' in the same way that his Audi had been a 'sedan'.

They hadn't talked much, since fleeing the Bay.

She closed the door behind him, and they both stared at each other for a long moment.

Vicky couldn't tell if she wanted to kiss him, hug him, something… didn't know if she wanted this to be normal, or not. Was it better, to pretend?

"How are you holding up?" He asked quietly.

Of course he would ask about her first. Even after everything. Stupid, worried boy.

"I'm okay," Victoria said.

The silence was awkward, but she didn't know what to say. How exactly did one broach the 'sorry my unstable villain sister and her crazier villain girlfriend mastered you' subject?

"So… I think I just got disinherited?" Dean said with a helpless kind of shrug and a sardonic edge to his smile.

"What?"

That wasn't what she thought he was going to say.

"Dad didn't say it in so many words, but… I finally got around to telling him that I'm not going to take over the family business, now or ever. He… wasn't happy about that," Dean didn't seem too let down about it, though. "Although, it was probably quitting the Wards that was the final straw."

Vicky blinked. She knew she probably looked stupid, but she couldn't quite get her expression back under control.

"You… what?" Victoria asked again. "Why?"

"Well, I wasn't listening all that closely, but I think he said a number of things about ruining my future and being ungrateful for everything he's done for me in the past. Typical Dad stuff-"

"No, you moron," Vicky couldn't help but match his grin. He was messing with her. It felt… good. Normal. "Why'd you quit the Wards?"

Dean's eyes turned heavy, and strangely… sad.

"There's… some things I haven't told you. I hope you don't judge me too harshly," He said slowly.

Victoria didn't know what to think.

"What do you mean? I'm the one who should be… Dean, what happened? What did Amy and Hunter do to you? Amy apologized, but she didn't really explain."

He sat down on the bed. The cheap hotel mattress springs creaked under his weight.

"I've read the PRT articles about being Mastered," Dean said after a few seconds of quiet. "It's different for everyone, but the descriptions don't quite do it justice. Not the way Hunter works, at least. I know, objectively, that I should feel… angry. Violated. Something. But… there's a difference between knowing you should feel something, and actually feeling it."

Victoria understood that all too well.

"I remember being scared, at first. When Amy and Hunter were… discussing… what to do with me. But… I could also see just how terrified, conflicted, sad, everything, that Amy was, and… I mainly just felt disappointed in myself. For not handling things better. For not helping sooner. I don't know. I guess, I never really believed Amy would actually kill me…" he trailed off. "But all of that feels muted, now. While I was under her control, I didn't feel like I was under her control, you know? It just seemed like the right thing to do. Even now that I know I have my own mind back… I'm aware, consciously, that it was wrong, and horrifying, but, weirdly enough, I'm actually okay?"

Vicky floated over and sat cross-legged on the other bed.

"If you aren't… I mean, I'm happy you're feeling alright," she said.

Happy he didn't resent her. Happy he wasn't leaving her, like everyone else.

Except he kind of was, right? He was quitting being a hero?

"So why are you leaving the Wards, then?" Victoria didn't enjoy feeling like she was missing all the key pieces of the puzzle.

Dean took a deep breath, and seemed to steel himself for something unpleasant.

"I bought my powers from an organization called Cauldron," he said deliberately. "I never asked how much my father spent for the privilege. I didn't want to know. I told myself that I would make good use of them, that I would leverage the opportunities available to me to make the world a better place. A kinder place. I think I may have failed at that, so far."

Whatever she'd been expecting, it definitely wasn't that.

Dean wasn't done, though, apparently.

"Cauldron made it abundantly clear that their existence must remain a secret. That they had means of enforcing their rules. I didn't see the harm in following their instructions. Surely just selling powers to the highest bidder wasn't the worst thing in the world?"

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

"It wasn't until Hunter questioned me that I learned the truth. Cauldron has a precog that controls the PRT, and by extension the Protectorate. I don't know how many capes are under their thumb. They're also behind the Case 53's, according to Hunter, at least. I don't know what else they've done, but if this whole mess has taught me one thing, it's that I'm done being a pawn in someone else's game. So, I quit," Dean finished, looking up at her with that same heavy stare.

Holy shit.

That was… a lot.

It didn't really surprise her that the Protectorate had some shady shit going on behind the scenes. It was all too easy to believe. There was a reason that New Wave had fought to stay independent, and she'd seen some of the PRT's questionable decisions first hand.

But wiping people's memories and dumping them?

She decided not to think about all the implications too hard right now.

"That's why you never talk about your trigger," Victoria said. Her voice sounded far more casual than she felt. "I thought it was just… Well, triggers are pretty private, by definition."

"Yeah. I got lucky, in a way. I never had to go through what you and Amy and everyone else did. I just drank a vial, and picked up some cool new tricks," Dean said. "I'm sorry, Vicky. For lying to you, even by omission. I really thought it was for the best. I was wrong."

"It's…" Victoria wasn't sure what to say. Was it alright? Did she actually care?

It sucked that Dean didn't really understand the pain of breaking, even if her own trigger hadn't been nearly as rough as some. It sucked that this was just another part of him that had it too easy, that didn't really get it.

But… Did it really matter?

"It's okay," Vicky sighed. "It doesn't feel great, but I get it. Sometimes, things feel too big for us."

Amy's comments about him being a nepo-hero were really smack on the nose. Had she known?

How many things had her sister kept from her?

"There's always something bigger," Dean said softly. "I wish… I just want to help, y'know? Find a way to make things better, and do it. Do the right thing. It shouldn't be this hard."

Victoria couldn't help but smile.

This was why she loved him. Despite all of Amy's criticisms, Dean tried. He really, really did. His attempts may have a pinch of underlying superiority complex, but that didn't mean he wasn't good. Even if he bought his powers with his father's money.

He was good, and he cared. About her, about Amy, about strangers he'd never met and everyone in between. Even villains. He wouldn't be half as appealing to her without the kindness in his smile, the constant concern in his eyes.

Even after what Amy did to him, he was just… sad that he couldn't have helped more. Like it was his fault. Self-sacrificing idiot.

She loved him so goddamn much.

"Maybe we can find a way to help," Vicky suggested, floating over to lean on his shoulder. "Together."

She could feel his cheek resting against the top of her head, and relished the return to something at least kinda close to normal.

They stayed like that for a long time. Dean played with her hair, idly twisting the golden strands around his fingers. His shirt was soft. She might have to steal it at some point.

"No more secrets," Vicky said eventually, pulling back to run her eyes over his face. They were pretty much the same height, sitting up straight.

Dean grimaced and took another deep breath.

"I also have… I told myself that I'm not going to lie to you about anything, anymore. Not if I want a chance to be better. I picked up something a while ago, with my powers. Something from Amy, that got confirmed while I was under Hunter's thrall. It's personal, and if she hasn't told you herself, she probably doesn't want you to know. I was hoping to help her with it myself, but… well, you know how well that went," Dean chuckled. "I've learned my lesson about trying to handle everything on my own, especially when it isn't my problem to fix. I'll leave it up to you, whether or not you want to know. I know it's not really a fair choice, since you don't know what I'm talking about, but I'm doing my best, here."

It took Vicky a moment to sort through what he was saying.

"So… you know a secret, of Amy's, something bad enough that she was willing to Master you to keep it quiet…" Victoria bit her lip. "Does it put anyone in danger?"

"I don't believe so," Dean replied. "But my track record for gauging Amy's threat level is obviously crap."

Victoria snorted.

She really wanted to know. Every time she thought she understood her sister, there was another layer that she'd somehow missed.

It hurt, knowing that Amy didn't really trust her. So many conversations about Anne, and Amy's new, budding relationship, covering for each other, the arcade… all a smokescreen for Amy's clandestine activities with the Hunt.

Vicky understood her reasons. Carol's bullshit, the pressure, the everything, but… it didn't make it hurt less, even if she hid the pain from Amy as well as she could. She didn't want to push her away any further.

What else was there? What did Dean know, that Amy wouldn't just tell her?

She should wait and just ask Amy herself. Now that she knew a secret existed, she could bring it up directly and get the full story from her sister. It wasn't fair to use Dean's powers to force something into the open that Amy preferred to keep hidden, not behind her back like this. Amy deserved the chance to explain it in her own words, rather than Dean's version.

He may not even be right, since his powers were inconsistent and flawed when it came to interpreting emotions. It wouldn't be right to let herself be biased against Amy because she got a skewed version of things from an outside source.

Vicky's gut twisted.

"Tell me."

…

The actual train stations in the Trainyards weren't traditional passenger train stations. The industrial area got its name from the many freight train depots that ferried goods too and from Brockton's ports, before Leviathan sank the shipping industry along with all the boats.

Now that the trains and the companies that used them had long since left the dying city, the northern portion of the Trainyards consisted of mainly flat, open ground crisscrossed with rusted tracks and rotted wooden ties. It was also a good place to gather lots of people without being overly cramped.

Which is why the members of the newly christened Blood of the First Hunter decided to meet on the abandoned tracks to watch the moon rise and await their savior's glorious return.

Emma was well aware that everything about this… organization… was a bit… over the top. What had Vicar called it? Absurd?

But, if it worked…

Overall, she was proud of what they'd accomplished. It was surprisingly easy, actually. She'd just told Taylor's story, with a few embellishments, and found people who wanted something to believe in. Something that felt real.

She hoped that Taylor wouldn't mind the lack of anonymity. Technically, Taylor told her that she would kill her if she told anyone the truth, so this might be her last night alive.

It was worth it.

They all knew, now. The story of Taylor Hebert, Anne Callahan, the First and Last of the Hunt. How she had been kind, and warm, before Emma and Sophia had broken her. Before they killed her. How she rose from her grave to deliver deserved death to the monstrous and the unrepentantly evil.

They knew that she killed Sophia and spared Emma, even though she didn't deserve it.

From there, the Hunter's tale was mostly public record. She cut a bloody swath through the Empire, culminating in their foolhardy assault on her Hospital and the resulting massacre. She hunted the dragon and his suicide bomber, stood against the corrupt and incapable heroes that allowed the city to suffer under their watch, and set her disciples to slaughter the remaining drug dealers and sex slavers that still walked among them.

And, of course, her clash with the angel, on the morning when the city fell and an Endbringer died.

Emma stared up at the full moon, just now beginning to crest the horizon.

Even she didn't know exactly when Taylor would come back. Vicar hadn't been specific.

But she would. Emma was certain.

Michael's words washed over her and she let her eyes fall closed. He was good at this, the public speaking part. Knew the right way to get people excited, how to keep them engaged. The message was better coming from him. He looked and sounded like a responsible, sensible adult, even when he said… questionable… things.

"Tonight, we hold our vigil, as those who put their trust in the strength and character of the First Hunter. Tonight, we let our minds open to the calming light, so that our combined hope may embolden her. She does not need us, but that is precisely why we follow her, nonetheless," his voice echoed in the wide yards, under the open sky.

He glanced down at the front row, and Emma gave him an encouraging smile. The Mark on his forehead was easily visible in the moonlight. Michael was one of the unusual members who both believed that Taylor and her Vicar were only human, and yet were also worthy of their undying devotion.

He understood. Most of them didn't, not really. Most followed because it was comforting, or fun, or because they truly believed that the Hunter was something more.

They weren't necessarily wrong, either. Taylor was greater than all of them, and her existence was comforting.

Emma couldn't help but wish that Vicar had given her a Mark, too. Several of their members had debated whether it would be sacrilegious to carve the Mark into their own skin, rather than having it gifted to them. Emma decided that it should be given by the Hunt.

A few of them had gone ahead with it anyway, although not on their foreheads. It wasn't like Emma could actually stop them.

Still, Emma knew she was lucky that neither Hunter nor Vicar had decided to kill her for what she'd done. She still wasn't exactly sure why. She could still feel the cold steel of Taylor's gun against her forehead sometimes, at night.

Now, it was comforting, instead of terrifying.

She really hoped that Taylor would come back soon.

The moon was bright, tonight.

Not too much longer.

"...hourly sermons over the course of the vigil. In the meantime, Margaret and John did a fantastic job with the refreshments, so please show them your appreciation-"

A high, resonating note echoed over the city. It didn't hurt, but it felt wrong, somehow.

Emma knew instinctively that it wasn't Taylor's doing. This was nothing like the choir that reverberated under the stars a month ago.

Every piece of glass amongst the congregation shattered. Luckily, there wasn't much. Just a few beer bottles. Everything else was plastic or metal, because of the… well, everything, about living in the quarantine zone. Breakable things hadn't lasted all that long.

This was bad, but she couldn't quite remember why. What was the significance of broken glass?

Cries of surprise and pain rose from the crowd, and far more from the refugee camp between the buildings. There were still a fair amount of windows there, even if many were cracked or boarded up.

What…

The earth trembled, and the voice of the Hunter's Vicar thundered in the evening air.

"The Slaughterhouse Nine have entered the quarantine zone."

Emma's blood ran cold.

Everyone knew the stories, but it wasn't supposed to happen here. It wasn't supposed to happen to them. They were always supposed to be somewhere else.

The moon just stared, overhead.

Taylor would fix it. She would save them.

And if she didn't, her Hunt would. Those she had chosen to act in her absence.

Emma knew that the Blood's doctrine was made up, but that didn't make it untrue.

The Vicar's strange, pale Messengers appeared all around them, a field of white stalks and grasping fingers.

"Tonight belongs to the Hunt. Any who remain outside are at risk."

Emma could feel the Vicar's anger in her words, carving her promise of blood and death into the world itself.

The Amygdala began to move. The grotesque, many-handed giants towered over the ruined buildings, silhouetted against the stars.

The Hunt would give no quarter, tonight.

"The Labyrinth is open. Take my hand, and you will be safe. Take my hand, and live to see the sun again."

The Messengers reached for her, silent pleading in their bulging, unfocused eyes.

Don't judge me for where I choose to place my faith.

Her parents didn't understand. They didn't like what she was doing. Emma didn't care.

Their following may be based on her words, but it's foundation was her belief. Her faith.

Taylor was the only one who was allowed to kill her.

Emma took the nearest Messenger's hand, and the world spun around her as she and so many others were dragged willingly into the dark.

…

Dragon didn't sleep, and she never stopped. She knew that something was terribly wrong as soon as she lost communication with the newest quarantine zone.

Well, more wrong.

The directors were supposedly working on a plan to resolve the biological anomalies in Brockton Bay, but they hadn't given her anything concrete in a week. Just to monitor closely, and wait.

It didn't seem like anyone else was escaping the zone, at least. Just the members of the Hunt, and they supposedly had means of resisting the Simurgh's song.

The town that sprung up around their Hospital was a surprise. It almost seemed… successful. Peaceful. The number of mad Afflicted victims in the zone decreased every day as the hands and the Hunt did their gristly work. By the end of the week, the city was almost clean of corpses.

Now, though…

Dragon shifted her full focus to the remaining reports from the area. She redirected her nearest drones and satellites.

While she waited for everything to move into position, she analysed the last moments of communication she received from her ongoing monitors.

The specific frequency was easily identifiable, as soon as she noticed it.

Shatterbird.

The Nine were attacking Brockton. Of course they were. They'd been quiet for a week, but that wasn't unusual. She'd lost track of them after they massacred an entire town in Virginia.

More than enough time to make it here, if they were moving quickly and quietly.

Dragon dispatched her latest version of the Cawthorne and downloaded her consciousness on the fly. She needed to get there yesterday.

Hopefully, Colin would be ready by the time she arrived.

While she flew, she identified targets using satellite imagery and her semi-autonomous surveillance drone.

Crawler was the easiest to spot, and the highest priority. He was already laying waste to the PRT base of operations outside the barricade. If left unchecked, he would tear a massive hole in their defenses, and who knew how many Simurgh bombs would escape.

Other than that…

Dragon was used to seeing abominations, but Bonesaw had obviously been busy. That explained the lack of bodies in Virginia.

All around the quarantine zone, groups of flesh monstrosities and spider bots began to engage the sparsely placed rotating PRT forces. It was hard to tell from this distance, but the creatures looked like countless people stapled and sewn together, limbs and faces eskew and screaming.

Luckily, Dragon wasn't capable of feeling nauseated.

The Cawthorne arrived in Brockton airspace, and Dragon banked sharply to head for the PHQ.

Despite the ongoing atrocities, she couldn't help the warm feeling of appreciation when she saw him.

Armsmaster's newest suit was impressive, designed to take advantage of his newfound augmentations, courtesy of Amy Dallon. His cobalt and silver power armor shone with inner light and barely constrained energy, standing over twelve feet tall on the reinforced helipad on top of the PHQ.

And on his back, the moonlight greatsword radiated an ethereal silver brilliance that they had never managed to replicate in their lab.

There was no substitute. The sword needed to be wielded in order to harness its power.

Colin apparently decided this was the perfect excuse. Dragon idly wondered if he'd gotten clearance or not.

For once, she decided she didn't care. What she didn't know wouldn't trigger her restrictions.

His helmet tipped back towards the sound of her approaching engines and she liked to think he was smiling under the full face visor.

He took a running start, and leapt from the peak of the PHQ.

It was child's play to calculate his trajectory.

Colin landed on her back with surprising grace given the size and weight of his armor, and something resembling joy filled Dragon's mind as the connection between them snapped back into place.

She didn't like being unable to contact him. It was… uncomfortable.

"Somebody's feeling impatient," she greeted him fondly.

"It's been a long week," he replied. "I was just debating the optimal method of stress relief while working on an official request to perform hands-on testing. I believe killing Crawler is the perfect resolution to both problems."

Dragon laughed, and a sonic boom shook the city as they rocketed towards their target.

…

Aisha Laborn shoved her way through the crowd that now filled the seemingly endless corridors.

Seriously. How was it so fucking crowded, when there was supposed to be infinite space or whatever? What the fuck?

People were so fucking stupid.

She had to find Brian. He'd know what to do.

Although, she had a sneaking suspicion that he'd find her before she found him.

Her custom Hunter's Mark top snagged on one of the broken waiting room chairs and she tugged it free impatiently. At least it wasn't as bad as some of the robes the others liked to wear. Not that she would be caught dead in those. Fucking ugly and shapeless. Besides, just adding red paint to one of her surviving tops made it look more like blood anyway. Much more edgy.

The darkness came to life around her, and the muttering crowd went silent.

A hand gripped her arm and dragged her through the empty void.

Aisha couldn't help but cackle. She'd been right all along, despite her brother's protests.

"I knew it! I fucking knew it! Mister 'I'm just busy helping around the camp' my ass! You're one of them! You're-"

Sound and color finally returned to the world, and Aisha cut off sharply.

Holy shit.

She was actually here.

There were rumors in the camp about the great Heart of the Labyrinth, beneath the Vicar's living throne. You could hear it, if you went close enough to the front door. Most didn't dare, but Aisha and her friends weren't most.

Most who actually saw it didn't live to talk about it, though.

"Grue," Vicar called. "The lantern, please."

Brian reformed out of living darkness next to her, and tossed a small metal lantern filled with purple flames up to the Vicar.

The heart beat, low and steady. Its pulse seemed to echo in her head.

For once, Aisha was speechless.

It was one thing to guess that Brian might possibly be Grue, the dark specter of the Hunt that circled the camp in the night to drive away the Afflicted. It was… something else, to actually see him in his black leather cowl, wreathed in roiling smoke and blue-white lightning.

"Any updates?" Vicar turned to the blonde in a purple and black suit. Tattletale. Aisha hadn't paid super close attention to the details, but she could remember the names, at least. As for the rest… well, it was a lot to remember. The blood stuff was fun, but the sermons were fucking boring.

"Crawler is attacking the main PRT west encampment. Dragon and Armsmaster are already on route," Tattletale rattled off. "The PRT is hanging them out to dry, though. No reinforcements ordered. Probably hoping we all kill each other in here. Mannequin and Burnscar already made it through the southern border. Velocity tried to stall them, but it didn't work. He lived, at least. Militia and Battery are still at the PHQ."

"No sign of Bonesaw?" Vicar asked.

"She'll be with Jack and the Siberian. He won't risk his best chance at actually beating us. There are plenty of her… creations… running wild around the perimeter, though, so she's definitely here somewhere. Whether or not they've made it inside is anyone's guess, but I'm willing to bet they have," Tattletale shrugged.

Vicar nodded, but her face was tense under the hood.

"Who else are we missing?"

"Shatterbird and Hatchet Face. The PRT doesn't have eyes on her, which means she's probably already in the quarantine zone. Plus, you know, all the screaming," Tattletale said. "No sign of Hatchet Face, either, although he's less subtle."

Vicar took a deep breath, and the Labyrinth itself seemed to breathe with her.

This was, by far, the coolest thing Aisha had ever done.

"Grue. Spread out as much as you can and try to find Shatterbird and Hatchet Face. They must be somewhere I don't have Messengers yet. Kill Shatterbird if you get the opportunity, but don't risk getting caught in Hatchet Face's vicinity. We can send the dogs after him," Vicar ordered. "If you see any sign of Jack, Bonesaw, or the Siberian, retreat to the Labyrinth. With any luck, we'll avoid fighting them until Taylor gets back."

Her brother nodded seriously, and Aisha managed to resist the temptation to make a snarky comment. Barely.

Mainly because it was so fucking nice to see someone order him around for a change, but also because this was fucking real. The hunt was on, and Brian was one of them. He was actually going out to kill the fucking Nine.

Also, Vicar really believed that the Hunter would return. Aisha hadn't been sure if that was bullshit or not, but… The Hunt themselves either knew something she didn't, or they were drinking too much of their own Kool-Aid.

"Regent. Take your puppets south. Find Burnscar and Mannequin. Between them, they'll be able to do a lot of damage to my hands and Amygdala, and I don't have unlimited biomass to work with."

Aisha turned and almost screamed involuntarily.

She hadn't noticed the shadow looming over her. Ten feet up, a thin guy in a top hat and theatre mask stood on the massive shoulder of… something. It definitely didn't look human. Hair-like horns sprouted from either side of its head, its jaw twisted into a gaping maw. Its legs looked strangely stunted compared to the length of its arms, one of which was thin and agile while the other was bulging with muscles and thick fur.

And she'd thought the Amygdala were creepy. Jesus fucking Christ.

"As you command, your highness," Regent said. Even Aisha could hear the grin in his voice.

Vicar didn't comment, and he left quickly with his monsters in tow.

Aisha finally noticed that Brian wasn't at her shoulder anymore. Shit.

"Spitfire. Go with Bitch and help her keep Bonesaw's creations in check. Stay away from Burnscar if you can help it," Vicar continued.

The creepy girl in the gas mask didn't answer, just nodded along with their temporary leader.

"And, Rachel…"

Vicar paused and stared at the metal woman.

Everyone knew Hellhound. Bitch. The Hunter's first warrior. Second only to the Vicar herself, and her dogs were fucking awesome.

"The city belongs to the beasts, tonight."

Rachel nodded, and left without another word. Spitfire hurried to follow behind her.

Aisha was so excited. The Nine were totally going to get their shit wrecked, and-

"Aisha Laborn."

She hadn't realized that it was just her and the Vicar, now.

The hooded figure on the living throne regarded her coldly, those giant fuck-off hands hanging in the dark behind her, barely illuminated by the lantern light.

That was… intimidating. And badass. Fuck.

For once, she didn't know what to say.

"Stay here, and don't fucking touch anything," Vicar said.

Well, then.

"Yes, ma'am."

…

Rachel strode down the hallway toward her shelter, the long duster that Taylor gave her flaring behind her with each purposeful step.

She didn't like taking orders from Taylor's pet hero, but it wasn't as awful as she thought it would be. Besides, it's what Taylor would have wanted.

"Take care of them for me, while I'm gone."

Rachel would do just that. She wouldn't fail Taylor.

While she and her pack still lived, no one would hurt Taylor's family.

Emily reached out to take her hand while they walked, grabbing on and squeezing like a vice. Rachel was careful to make sure her metal skin didn't damage Emily's flamesprayers. Or her hands.

Rachel liked Emily. She was quiet, and soft. Didn't feel the need to fill every fucking second with useless words. But she had fire in her, too. Those Empire fuckers definitely found that out the hard way.

Emily pretended to be angry, when Rachel told her so. She wasn't very good at pretending.

Luckily, Rachel's steel flesh was fireproof.

"Are we really…" Emily's voice shook, even if she tried to hide it. "I mean, the Nine… the gangs were one thing, but…"

"They're just assholes," Rachel said. "Nothing special."

Emily coughed out a laugh. Good.

"Everything burns," Rachel reminded her.

"Right. Yeah, okay," Emily said.

"Good."

Rachel whistled, the correct tone and cadence to call all of her pack to her.

They moved quickly. Maybe they understood that it was finally time.

Time to hunt, for real.

Rachel and Spitfire walked through a door and out onto the open tracks.

At least all the fucking cultists were gone. Too many people.

"Rachel," the Vicar's voice came from a Messenger right beside her left foot. "Bonesaw's creations just breached the northern barricade. They're heading your way."

Rachel didn't answer. It wasn't a question.

She whistled again, and the dogs spread out like they'd practiced.

They were good. Even the newest ones followed orders.

It used to hurt, to draw too much power at once. It used to wear her out.

That was before Taylor gave her the blood of the beast. That was before Taylor's Vicar made her strong.

Now, the weight of her power couldn't break her, no matter how hard it tried.

Rachel grasped the sparks of her pack in the iron fist of her will, and gave them her strength.

Her pack. Her army. Her family.

She knew all of their names, and they cared for her in a way that people weren't capable of.

Fifty-four soldiers, to defend what was hers. Theirs.

She wouldn't do this for people. People fucking sucked.

But Taylor was different. The Hunt was different.

And these assholes wouldn't take that away. Not while she still breathed.

Her pack grew rapidly until they dominated the night, every one of them over two stories tall and twice as long. Their claws sunk into the earth and bent the metal rails like hot toffee. Their bone armor and coarse coats were stronger than steel. Their jaws were industrial clamps and their teeth were cruel spikes of iron.

They were beautiful, and they were strong.

Rachel wrapped a metal arm carefully around Emily's waist, and leapt onto Brutus's wide back.

The full moon shone bright overhead.

"Kill."

The pack howled their triumphant melody, and Rachel howled with them.

…

Cherie Vasil stretched her legs out and let them rest on the gurney in front of her with a satisfied groan.

Honestly, she couldn't have asked for a better job. This was easy, and convenient. Maybe Jack was losing his touch.

Sure, she was technically in the most danger, but it wasn't all that much safer outside. She wasn't as confident in Jack's plan as he was.

He was too sure of himself. Too used to having the upper hand. Between Bonesaw and the Siberian, his arrogance was justified, but the Hunt had tricks nobody had ever seen before.

Tricks like this lovely, infinite fortress of theirs.

No wonder Jean-Paul threw his lot in with them. She could see the appeal.

The crowd milling about in the Labyrinth was a symphony to her power.

Their precious Vicar had been too liberal with her protection. She hadn't even considered that the enemy may already be in her camp.

Now, all Cherish had to do was wait.

…

Deep within a hidden bunker in the northern wilds of British Columbia, a door opened.

Geof turned at the sudden light, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid a bullet to the head.

The rest of the Dragonslayers were already dead. Another tool that had outlived its utility.

Contessa allowed herself a rare moment of calm to survey the console.

Ascalon, they called it.

Its creator had named it Iron Maiden, when he had still been alive. Before he died, and abandoned his half-finished creation.

Not that it really mattered.

It was a means to an end.

Just like everything else.

…