It Gets Worse Pt 14 (Patreon)

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by Fizzfaldt and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Museum of Making Music
Carlsbad, California

The player piano was a masterpiece of its kind. It was cared for almost obsessively. Also, because the curator had a strong belief that instruments that were not used deteriorated with age, it was played on a regular basis. However, not even the sharp-eyed caretaker spotted, late one evening, a dozen caterpillars that had somehow entered the building. One by one, they inched their way up into the body of the instrument, selecting places that were both out of sight and would not interfere with the playing of the piano.

Then they attached themselves to the wood and began to shed their outer skin to let their chrysalises form.

Saturday Evening, January 15, 2011
L33t

The sound of laughter woke L33t. Not just ordinary laughter, either. Rollicking, belly-deep guffaws. The type of laughter that Uber came out with when he was watching a Charlie Chaplin special, or perhaps Laurel & Hardy. But why he was laughing now, L33t had no idea.

Grumpily, he pulled himself out of bed and stumbled out into the main living area. The computer chair was a little way off to the side of the keyboard while Uber was lying on the floor in front of it, holding his ribs as he rolled from side to side. Shaking his head, L33t came closer, peering at the computer screen to see what Uber had downloaded this time. To his puzzlement, there was just a cityscape; specifically, a view of the Brockton Bay cityscape. "What the hell?" he muttered.

"Snitch!" cackled Uber. "Snitch got out!" He went back to his uncontrolled merriment, but he'd given L33t the clue as to what had happened. The feed was indeed from the Snitch, which was sitting innocently on its docking cradle, but the time-date stamp was from about the time they'd been returning from Captain's Hill. Pulling the chair back to the computer, he sat down and started an analysis of what was going on.

A few minutes later, he thought he had an answer. At some point, there'd been a spike in the system. Checking the log, he thought back, and narrowed the time down. It was, he surmised eventually, within five minutes of the time that Shatterbird had been removed from the equation by way of lightning strike.

Wait a minute. He hadn't seen where the lightning struck, but it wasn't hard to call up a geological survey map. And there it was; right in the zone where the lightning had fried Shatterbird, an electricity line made its way across the flank of Captain's Hill. And what's the bet it connects into the line that we steal power from? He didn't even bother making a wager on that one.

Looking things over, it hadn't done any damage, but it had managed through some weird coincidence to precisely emulate the signal for the Snitch to engage its autonomous mode and go data-gathering. Coincidence, he wondered, or luck? Glancing suspiciously at where the guns were busy exchanging luck energy, he entered the command for it to replay whatever it had recorded. Maybe then he'd have an idea of why Uber was still laughing like a hyena on crack.

At first, nothing seemed to be happening. The Snitch had taken a meandering path through the city, apparently going unnoticed by one and all. But then it had fixated on a beat-up looking RV that was just cresting an overpass near the Trainyards. It was odd, he thought, that he didn't hear any noise from the vehicle's engine as it pulled to a halt. Any curiosity about that slammed to a screeching halt of its own as the door opened and Jack Slash himself emerged. Along with Burnscar, he had headed down to the back of the vehicle, where the rear end was in the process of hinging upward to allow first Hatchet Face and then Crawler to exit. The Snitch zoomed in as the group tightened up, and then it happened.

The explosion caught L33t by surprise and he flinched backward as Jack Slash was flung one way and Burnscar another. Hatchet Face was sent cartwheeling down the overpass, while his axe spun off to the side. As luck would have it, Burnscar had been pitched almost over the edge of the overpass. She managed to grab a handhold at the last second, but then the axe came out of nowhere and sheared through her upper arm. The last L33t saw of her, she was draped across a load of trash in the back of a truck that had just driven under the overpass, her one good arm hanging out the side as though she were trying to flag down a lift.

"Wait, what just happened?" L33t mumbled when there were no more explosions forthcoming. Had someone else decided to take a run at the Nine when he wasn't looking? To his disappointment, Jack Slash appeared to be alive, if somewhat injured. As the Siberian picked Slash up, the Snitch lost interest and turned away from the scene. L33t reran the action to just before the explosion, and watched carefully.

It was on the third run-through that he identified the loud abrasive noise that came through just before the explosion, which started him giggling. Now that he knew what had happened, he could see the fire in Burnscar's hand igniting the cloud of flammable gas that Crawler had just added to the atmosphere. There was even a small mushroom cloud. He watched it again, and this time he started laughing as soon as Crawler got out of the RV.

"Rule number one!" whooped Uber. "Don't light Crawler's farts!"

That was when L33t fell out of the chair as well.

Palanquin Nightclub
Faultline

"Found the problem, ma'am," reported the electrician. He was an older guy with an incipient gut and thinning hair on top, but everything Melanie had seen told her that he was good at his job. "Roof developed a water leak during that rain we had. An inch to the left or right and it wouldn't have been a problem. But it fell right where something was chewing on the wiring; rat, probably. Then it somehow managed to short across to another wire, which knocked out the lights for the entire building. Never seen it happen like that before. Anyway, easy fixed. We'll be out in under an hour."

"Oh, good," she replied, giving him a genuine smile. As a person who prized intelligence and competence in her own people, she liked seeing it in others, especially those doing work for her. Also, if what he was saying was true, the club would be opening on time, saving her a lot of money. "I'll let you get back to it, then."

"Ma'am," he agreed. Turning, he left her office. She leaned back in her chair and sighed in mild aggravation. This sort of thing, even if it didn't disrupt the smooth running of her club, still unsettled members of her Crew. Elle was affected more than the others; the girl's psyche was fragile, and she didn't take well to abrupt changes in her surroundings. Her power tended to act out when that happened, reshaping the world around her to fit her mental state.

She also wouldn't have been happy with seeing tradesmen tramping through the private areas of Palanquin in their quest to locate the source of the fault that had plunged the building into darkness, so she'd sent Gregor and Newter out to take her for a stroll. This had the double benefit of giving her a slow, gentle transition from one place to another, and of keeping her moving so that her power couldn't get a grip on the local surroundings. Emily had opted to take a nap instead, which was also perfectly fine. She, at least, didn't tend to alter her environment when she was agitated.

Melanie's laptop still had charge, which meant she could work on the books until the power came back on. Sitting forward again, she booted it up and started going through the spreadsheets, checking paper receipts by the light coming in through her office window. The work was slow and tedious but it had to be done, and she prided herself in getting things right the first time.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, an almost subliminal hum heralded the lights turning themselves back on. With a sigh, she sat back in the office chair, eyes going to the screens that provided a backdrop to her laptop. They came online one by one, showing static which was then replaced by imagery from her security camera system. Carefully, she checked each image for the subtle markers she'd put into place to ensure that the footage wasn't being looped or replaced with an earlier recording; it wasn't likely, but she didn't want to depend on 'likely' for her personal security.

Nothing showed up, which was both expected and gratifying at the same time. She could clearly see the electricians finishing up, so she stood up from the chair. While she absolutely appreciated their workmanship and efficiency, she also wanted them out of the club once they were done. Just as she was about to step around the desk, however, movement on another screen caught her eye.

A moment later, she relaxed slightly; it was just Newter, Gregor and Elle returning from their stroll. Their timing, she had to admit, was excellent. Or had she left the sign on? That would've been a beacon signalling them it was time to return.

But then she spotted something else; specifically, a limp form cradled in Gregor's brawny arms. As obese as Gregor appeared, he was quite strong for his size, and the young woman afforded him no burden at all. A frown creased her forehead; what had they gotten themselves into? Newter may be irresponsible from time to time, but Gregor's phlegmatic nature provided a good check for him. Melanie just couldn't see them kidnapping a girl off the street … well, for any reason, actually. The sight of the woman's left arm, missing from mid-bicep down with the stump encased in one of Gregor's trademark slime-blobs, only made things all the more confusing. I have got to get to the bottom of this. But first, there were the electricians to deal with.

Gregor the Snail

"Okay, you get her comfortable and I'll go tell the boss," Newter said, stepping around Gregor to allow him to place their involuntary house-guest on the bed in the spare room. Elle watched from the side, though what was going on behind her vague expression, Gregor had no idea.

"That would be a good idea," Faultline said from right behind Gregor. From Newter's startled eep, he hadn't heard her approaching, either. "I'm sure this is a very interesting story. Don't leave out any details."

Leaning over the bed, Gregor carefully placed Burnscar—Mimi, as Elle had called her—on the bed. He made sure the injured arm wasn't being pushed up against anything, then checked her pulse again. As before, it was weak but steady.

Behind him, Newter took a deep breath. "So we went for a walk, like you said. And it was a good idea. Elle was enjoying herself, as much as she enjoys anything, and it was a really nice day out. Barely anyone stared at us, or took pictures even."

"Granted." Faultline's voice was steady. As he pulled the covers up over Mimi's lower body, Gregor thought he heard Newter gulp. "Skip to the part where you bring an unconscious girl into my club."

Gregor turned around and faced up to Faultline. "It was very unusual," he said, drawing her attention to him. "We were walking with Elle when a garbage truck stopped near us at the lights. It was Elle who saw the arm hanging over the side."

"Garbage truck?" For the first time, it seemed that Faultline was on the back foot. "What was she doing in a garbage truck?" She stepped to the side so that she could look at the woman in the bed. "Wait a minute … is that Burnscar?"

"Her name is Mimi," Elle said unexpectedly. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and whatever she was looking at didn't seem to exist in the same reality as everyone else. Of course, that wasn't unusual for her. "She was in the asylum with me. She liked talking to me."

Gregor noted a tracery of vines that was beginning to grow around the edges of the ceiling. Tiny buds of flowers were sprouting here and there; while there were thorns, they were small and unobtrusive as yet. As far as he could tell, this meant that Elle felt secure and unthreatened, or at least as unthreatened as she ever felt.

"But you didn't know it was her at the time," Faultline said. "You couldn't." She seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as Elle.

"I spent a lot of time looking at her hands," Elle replied. "I didn't like looking at her expressions. She was very unhappy a lot of the time." Moving to the bed, she sat down on the edge and took Mimi's hand in hers. "I didn't like her very much then, but now I understand how she was thinking. She didn't have any friends then. Maybe it's why she did what she did."

Joined the Slaughterhouse Nine, Gregor understood. He knew what it was like to be alone in all the world without even memories of his past, of his family. It would've been totally foreign to his nature to have become a member of such a murderous group, but perhaps Mimi hadn't seen another option.

"She made Gregor stand in the road so the truck wouldn't keep going, while I got Sleeping Beauty there out of the truck," Newter explained; to Gregor's relief, he chose to leave out the minor detail of how Gregor had glued the truck's tyres to the road when the guy had tried to drive on anyway. The blobs of slime would dissolve … eventually. "Dunno how she lost her arm, but by a sheer fluke she fell so it jammed up against a mattress someone tossed out. Stopped her from bleeding out. Lucky for her, huh?"

"Less lucky for us," Faultline said flatly. "In case you hadn't realised, this means the rest of the Nine are in town. They're likely to come looking for her, and I doubt very much they'll be so grateful for you for saving her life that they'll leave us alone, much less alive."

"So we do not tell anyone," Gregor said, surprising even himself. "If we do not advertise it, nobody will know she is here."

"The big guy's got a point," Newter agreed. "And hey, what if she ended up like that because of a disagreement? What if they're out to kill her? If we just throw her out, she might die, or they might backtrack her here, and come after us for helping her."

Faultline

While Melanie took care to run her Crew with a light hand, it was well understood that she gave the orders and they followed them. Sometimes, however, when they dug their heels in, she knew it was time to back off and let them have what they wanted. This seemed to be such a time. Why they were intent on saving Burnscar, she wasn't entirely certain, but that seemed to be the way of things.

"Okay," she said. "Fine. She can stay. But someone keeps their eye on her at all times. I mean twenty-four-seven. And once she wakes up, if she acts out, we deal with it. The last thing I want is this place going up in flames."

Elle didn't react, but Gregor nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Sure thing, boss," Newter added. "I'll go tell Emily about this so she doesn't get surprised by it."

"I'm pleased to see that someone around here is being afforded that courtesy," Melanie observed dryly.

"I was going to come tell you!" protested the orange-skinned boy. "Just as soon as we had her settled!"

Melanie raised an eyebrow. (It had taken hours of practice in front of a mirror, but the effect was worth it). "Just so we're clear, begging for forgiveness isn't easier than asking for permission, not around here. You had a phone; you could've called me. You didn't. If she acts out, this is on you. Got it?"

"Got it," mumbled Newter, looking and sounding suitably chastised. Ducking his head, he slunk out the door.

"All right, that's settled." Melanie dusted her hands off. "Gregor, get her off that bed. She's going to need blood expanders and some sort of dressing for that arm once your gunk dissolves. Also, we're going to need to check her over for other injuries. It'll be much easier to do all this in the sickbay than here." Both Elle and Gregor stared at her. She clapped her hands briskly. "Well, come on. She's not going to treat herself."

Feeling once more in command of the situation, she led the way down to the sickbay. Fortunately, it was her practice to keep it well-stocked for situations like this one. Barring complications beyond Melanie's capacity to treat, Burnscar would survive and recover.

What happened then would be up to her.

The Dallon Household
Amy

"You are not coming in the house like that." Carol Dallon's voice was firm. She looked Vicky's somewhat-multicoloured form up and down with an expression of mild disbelief. "How did this even happen?"

Vicky, standing on the front doorstep of the Dallon household, on to which she was dripping slowly-congealing paint, looked away with a sheepish expression. Amy, who was miraculously untouched and standing a little away from her sister, cleared her throat while trying to hold back a smirk. "Well, there was this dumpster—"

"Ames, I got this," Vicky said hastily. "Mom, I was out with Amy and we happened to see, uh, some kid trying to move a dumpster. So I went over and asked him if I could help. He said his dog was stuck behind it, and I could hear it whining, so I picked the dumpster up."

"Get to the part where you get doused by paint," Carol suggested pointedly.

Amy, finding it even harder not to laugh now, obliged. "Well, we didn't notice at the time that the dumpster was behind a hardware store that sold a lot of paint. So I'm guessing that when they throw display cans out, they don't always make sure the lids are on tight."

Carol frowned. "I don't think that's the case. If I recall correctly, coloured paint is only made up once the customer chooses the colour. If they mix too much, they have to dispose of the excess in dumpsters with 'toxic waste' markings all over them. Did this one have those markings? If not, we might have a lawsuit in the making."

"I'm not sure," Vicky confessed. "I was kinda distracted, by the, uh, the dog whining. I just wanted to get it out, y'know?" She put on a good show, but she wasn't fooling Amy. It had been obvious at the time what Vicky had been distracted by.

Still, she had to stand up for Vicky in this. "I think there might have been, but there were a lot of gang tags on it." She shrugged. "It did look a bit different from normal dumpsters, but I didn't think anything about it."

Carol seemed to buy it. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes in what looked like mild pain. "I can't leave you alone for even a moment, can I?" She averted her eyes from Vicky's garishly-coloured hair and clothing, causing Amy to immediately assume a solemn countenance. "Whatever possessed you to hold it over your head, anyway?"

Vicky, wearing what had until not so long ago been a fashionable top with matching skirt, looked sheepish. "There were some trash cans beside it that I didn't want to knock over, so I lifted it straight up. I made sure the lid was shut and everything!" Amy wasn't sure whether Vicky was more annoyed at the fact that Amy had laughed all the way back home, or that the outfit was comprehensively ruined.

"And you didn't happen to notice that this dumpster was behind a paint store?" Carol shook her head, then looked suspiciously at Amy as the latter turned a snicker into a cough. Apparently deciding there was nothing to worry about there, she turned her attention back to Vicky. "Or consider that there might be something liquid in it? Why did you tilt it, anyway?"

"I didn't know!" wailed Vicky. "It was just easier to lift it that way!" She demonstrated, with one hand low and one high. Naturally, as she raised her arms, the high hand came back over her head while the low one stayed farther out. "The first thing I knew about it was when it started pouring all over me!" She lifted up clumps of her formerly-glorious blonde hair, now a matted mass sticky with red, blue and a mottled purple-brown shade of paint. Her clothing had fared even worse; it was actually difficult to tell what were the original colours and what had been added in the involuntary paint-bath.

"Well, at least the kid got his dog back," Amy added, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Thank you, Amy, but you're not helping," Carol scolded. "Don't you have something better to do?"

Amy decided that it wouldn't be the best of ideas to point out that Carol was the one who'd kept her outside while castigating Vicky, so she edged past her sister and stepmother and into the house. Doing her homework while lying back on her bed and listening to music was a lot more relaxing than listening to Carol read out Vicky, anyway. Especially as she could giggle to the mental image of Vicky's face when the paint hit her. Vicky was her sister, and she loved her dearly—maybe a little too dearly—but slapstick was still slapstick.

Undersiders' Base

Brian was still chuckling when he got back to the loft. Brutus pulled at the lead, anxious to get back upstairs to familiar territory, and Brian leaned down to unclip it from his collar. He climbed the spiral staircase one step at a time, losing ground steadily to the dog's scrabbling paws, but he didn't care about that.

Rachel was waiting at the top, leaning on the wall. She was still favouring her twisted ankle—the result of stepping on the soap in the shower—but from the way she was walking on it anyway, it was definitely on the mend. With any luck, it wouldn't hamper them when they scouted Lung's casino on Monday. "What happened to him?" she demanded, kneeling down so she could run her hands through the happily-panting dog's fur. "He stinks!"

Yeah, see if I offer to walk your dog any more when you can't do it, he almost said. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself. "He was doing well, so I took him off the lead," he said. "But then he saw a rat and went after it. Got stuck behind a dumpster. I tried to shift it, but it wouldn't move."

Lisa came through from the kitchen, took one look at him, and her eyes widened. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa beside Alec, who took no notice of anything except his on-screen character. "Go on," she invited.

"You're not gonna believe this, but Glory Girl and someone I guess was Panacea showed up," Brian went on. The identification of the blonde teen had been easy, but Panacea's face was largely hidden when she was in costume. Nonetheless, Lisa began to giggle. Rachel looked blank. Alec lifted his head at the mention of the superheroes' names. "They were in civvies, but when she heard Brutus whining, Glory Girl lifted the dumpster out of the way like it was a cardboard box." He began to snicker; Lisa, somehow divining what he was going to say next, started to giggle. "It was behind a paint store. There was some paint loose in the bottom. She started showing off how strong she was, and the paint got out." He paused for effect. "All over her."

Rachel's eyes widened, and she gave a snort of laughter. Even the normally-emotionless Alec let out a bark of amusement before going back to his game. Lisa, giggling helplessly, sprawled on her end of the sofa. Brian sat down in one of the armchairs and shook his head. "The look on her face was amazing. Even Panacea couldn't help laughing too. And the best bit? I think Glory Girl wanted to get my phone number."

Howling with laughter, Lisa fell off the sofa.

The Dallon Household (a little later)
Amy

Amy was just rechecking her homework answers when Vicky stormed into her bedroom in a tightly-belted bathrobe, scrubbed pink with her hair hanging damp and stringy, but clean. "Fat lot of good you were," the blonde announced huffily. "I didn't see you standing up to defend me." Dragging the chair away from Amy's computer desk, she sat in it sidesaddle, crossing her arms over the backrest and resting her chin on them.

"I did try to defend you," Amy protested, doing her best to keep her face straight even while a giggle threatened to sneak through. "I told her that the kid got his dog back. And I didn't point out that the 'kid' was about eighteen, and had abs to die for. Or that it wasn't even his dog, that he was walking it for a friend. Or that you were hamming it up and showing off for him." She had to admit, tossing the dumpster into the air and catching it on one end had been impressive. What had been even more impressive was the deluge of paint that hit Vicky about half a second after the dumpster had slapped back on to her palms, directly over her head.

The dumpster had ended up at the other end of the alleyway. That was something else they weren't going to be telling Carol.

Vicky rolled her eyes loftily. "That's all sister stuff. We should be doing that shit automatically. And I still don't see why you couldn't make the paint just … just dry up and flake off me or something. You got it off my arms so I could carry you home." She shot Amy an accusing glare. "Or why you had to laugh so much."

"I told you," Amy said patiently. "I could just about get it off your arms because nobody's gonna notice if you don't have any hair there. But if I worked up something to take it off the rest of you, your hair and clothes were at risk."

"Screw my clothes," Vicky retorted crudely. "They were a dead loss anyway. And isn't Mom riding my ass about that."

Amy sighed and rolled her eyes. "And what would she have done if you'd shown up on the doorstep wearing nothing but a layer of paint because your hair and clothes had been dissolved by the bugs I made? Oh, wait, not even the paint." She gestured at Vicky. "Basically, whatever you used just now was probably the best idea." In addition, she didn't like to show off with her powers past the basic 'heal people' in case the public got the (correct) idea that she was far more versatile than she let on.

"Paint thinner from the garden shed," Vicky said sourly. "Stinks, and it burned my scalp a little. Had to shampoo and condition it three times, and it's still a bit stringy." She ran her hand through her hair, and made a face. "It's probably gonna fall out anyway, with all this abuse." Suddenly, a speculative look crossed her face, and she jumped to her feet. Without saying another word, she dashed out of the room.

"Well, that happened," mumbled Amy, and went back to checking her work.

She didn't get far with it, as Vicky was back in less than a minute, bearing a pair of sewing scissors. Amy didn't have to wonder long what they were for, because Vicky demonstrated immediately, by holding a large hank of hair away from her head and hacking away at it with the scissors. Large and sharp, they were designed more for cutting cloth, but they made good headway on her hair. Clump after clump fell away under Vicky's inexpert but enthusiastic attack.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" shouted Amy, sitting bolt upright on the bed. She admired many things about Victoria, but her sister's hair was near the top of the list. Long, with bouncing golden curls, it was everything Amy wished her own hair was.

"Well, duh," Vicky said as she angled her head for another attack on her hair. "If I cut all my hair off and you regrow it for me, I don't have to worry about getting around like the Bride of Frankenstein for the next few days."

Amy shook her head violently. "I am not growing you a whole new head of hair just so you can get around having stringy hair for a couple of days! Jeez!" Earlier, she'd regretted laughing at Vicky quite so much. Now, she was repenting of her regret.

"What? But you've got to regrow it!" Vicky stopped cutting, the scissors halfway through severing more of her hair. She looked like a half-shorn sheep, only messier. Her expression was stricken. "I can't go to school like this!"

The bedroom door opened, and Carol entered. "What's all this shouting—Victoria Dallon! What in heaven's name are you doing?" She stared open-mouthed at where Vicky stood, golden hair littering the floor around her feet and incriminating shears in her hand. "What have you done to your hair?"

"She's cutting it so I'll regrow it for her." Amy's voice was flat. She was throwing Vicky to the wolves on this one, and not regretting it for an instant. "Without consulting with me first."

The argument that followed was short, sharp and not without the occasional burst from Vicky's emotion aura. Amy didn't have to say a word, as Carol handled all the heavy lifting. She read out Vicky in excruciating detail, explaining how Amy's power was not a toy, and how cutting her own hair without permission, much less oversight, was irresponsible, dangerous and downright immature.

"But what am I gonna do?" wailed Vicky, looking and sounding much less sure of herself. She gestured at her head, from which hair hung in mismatched clumps; if Amy were to be honest with herself, Vicky looked more like a horror movie reject than a vivacious teenage superhero and darling of the city. "I can't go out like this! What'll people think?"

Which was the first smart thing she'd said, Amy decided. While Vicky almost certainly meant it in a personal sense, Carol's eyes narrowed in thought. "It certainly wouldn't look good for New Wave's image for you to show up like this, or not show up at all," she decided. "Amy, can you neaten it up for her? Make it so it's not so frightful, and can grow out on its own?"

Amy put aside her homework. "Sure," she said. "Vicky, gimme your hand." Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she reached out toward her sister.

"Can't you just make it, you know, back to the original length?" pleaded Vicky. "It took me years to get it this long."

"No." Amy spoke without thinking; with a shock of surprise, she realised that Carol had said exactly the same thing at the same time. She glanced at her stepmother, wondering that they'd actually managed to see eye to eye on something for once. Carol wasn't returning the glance, so Amy cleared her throat. "If Mom says no, she means no." Taking Vicky's hand, she concentrated. "Gonna need you to turn your head so I can see what I'm doing."

It wasn't a short process, but as Vicky turned her head from side to side, Amy had her hair grow out in patches to match what was already there. Now and again she cheated, reversing the process to shorten some of the longer bits, until it was all around the same length in a kind of curly pageboy bob.

"That's the best I can do," she decided, releasing Vicky's hand. "Gonna need a hairdresser to fix it the rest of the way." Tilting her head, she looked the result over critically; for a first effort, she decided, it wasn't too bad. At least Vicky didn't look like she'd been attacked by a crazed sheep-shearer or something.

Evidently, Carol thought the same. "It'll do," she allowed grudgingly. "Monday afternoon, Victoria, you're going to a hairdresser I know. Get it properly shaped and trimmed. In the meantime, keep it brushed and shampooed." She pointed an imperious finger at her daughter. "And don't ever do anything as stupid as this again." Then she indicated the floor, where the evidence of Vicky's indiscretion was spread everywhere in golden strands. "And clean this up."

"No, Mom," sighed Vicky. "Yes, Mom." She waited until the door closed behind her mother to add in an undertone, "Three bags full, Mom." For the first time in Amy's memory, she added a rude gesture toward the door.

"Well, it was kind of your fault," Amy pointed out, lying back on the bed. "You should've checked with me before you started hacking at your hair." She smothered a giggle as Vicky wrinkled her nose.

"If you'd just gone ahead and done it," her sister began, then reconsidered as Amy shook her head emphatically. "Okay, fine. Monday afternoon, after the hairdresser, we're going shopping. There's a place near the Forsberg Gallery that has some of the new fashions." She pointed at Amy. "As in, you're going shopping with me, and you're going to buy at least one outfit."

"Nope. No way." Amy shook her head again, her frizzy brown hair bouncing around her head. "You can't make me spend my money. Anyway, I'm saving up." It wasn't much right now, but by the time she reached college age, Amy intended to be able to move out on her own. Well, Vicky can come with if she wants.

"Okay, fine. You're gonna try on at least one outfit," Vicky said by way of compromise. "And then we're gonna hit this new paleo place I've heard about for lunch."

"Paleo. Right." Amy wasn't thrilled by the idea, but if it got Vicky away from the concept of making Amy pay for an outfit she didn't want and was never likely to wear, she'd deal with it.

"Hey, it's healthy." Vicky sat back down in the chair, then scooted it closer and poked Amy in the arm. "You could probably deal with a bit of healthy food. And you're paying. Consider it payback for not getting that guy's number for me after the paint thing. And for getting me in trouble with Mom."

Given that both episodes had (in Amy's opinion) been Vicky's fault, Amy didn't feel overly guilty. In any case, she had … not so much of an objection, but more of a query. "Why are you even getting numbers off hunky strangers, anyway? I thought you were with Dean?"

"Dean?" Vicky sniffed imperiously and made a dismissive motion. "Dean's ancient history. He's on the junk pile. I'm not talking to him any more."

Which meant they'd had yet another fight. Amy sighed. While the guy's abs had been pretty impressive (though Amy had been more intrigued by how he got his cornrows so neat) it would probably have been a bad idea to get his number. Dean and Vicky, no matter how much Amy might hope otherwise, would always get back together. She'd lost count of the number of breakups and makeups their relationship had gone through since they first started dating.

"Yeah, yeah," she said with a snort of her own. "That'll last." She pointed at the floor. "Anyway, I believe you've got some cleaning up to do?"

This time, Vicky gave her the rude gesture.

Sunday Morning, January 16, 2011
Slaughterhouse Nine (now Six)
Jack Slash

"Ow." Jack tried to move again, and regretted it. Again. "Ow." While he felt a lot better than he had the night before, all things were relative. What he actually felt like was crap that had been gently warmed over. Or caught in the middle of a biologically-induced fuel-air explosion. As much as anyone could call what Crawler did 'biological'.

"Don't move," Bonesaw scolded him. "Your broken bones are still knitting, and I'm making sure the skin grafts take properly. You need to lie still for another day or so, but then you'll be fine."

"Has Shatterbird shown up yet?" Jack asked. "Or Burnscar?" The two capes weren't the heaviest hitters for the Nine, and they could always be replaced—as far as Jack was concerned, every member of the Nine apart from himself was expendable—but their abilities were very useful for spreading chaos. Aside from him, the Nine was now devoid of Blasters.

"We haven't seen either one," Bonesaw said as she checked him over. "Nobody knows where Shatterbird could be, and if Burnscar was unconscious when she fell into the garbage truck, she'd bleed out before she ever regained consciousness. There's been nothing on TV either."

"Okay." It was more of a grunt than anything. "We need to scout out the city. Two teams of two. You stay here. Crawler and Siberian, and Mannequin and Hatchet Face. Hammer and anvil." He didn't bother to explain why he was splitting them into those pairs. Mannequin was a Tinker, so it wouldn't bother him if he got too close to Hatchet Face. Crawler and Siberian, on the other hand, were the closest thing he'd ever seen to being an unstoppable force. There was nothing in Brockton Bay that could stand up to the pair of them for any length of time.

'Hammer and anvil' was a ploy they'd worked out. The four of them would travel in a rough square, the partners in each pairing keeping in sight of one another. When they saw a prospective victim, they'd herd them into the middle of the square. The resultant fight would be extremely brief and brutal.

"Oh, goody!" Bonesaw bounced on her feet and clapped her hands. "I'll make sure they bring back any capes they find. It's been ages since I had anyone to play with." Which meant, Jack knew, to dissect and investigate the inner secrets of their powers, then build yet another hybrid monstrosity out of what remained.

He mustered a proud smile as a tear lingered in the corner of his eye. They grow up so fast. "That's my poppet."

"I'll go tell them now!" Still full of excitement, she darted out of the RV to wherever the others were waiting. As far as he could tell, the vehicle was currently inside a warehouse of some sort. Whatever; it would make an adequate hiding place until the time came to utterly fuck up Brockton Bay and get rid of the nagging feeling of dread that he just couldn't get rid of. For a moment, his mind drifted back over the ominous message he'd gotten from the radio. Nah. Pretty sure I was hearing things.

Drifting off to sleep, he imagined that he heard laughter coming from a very long way away. Despite himself, he shivered.

Empire Eighty-Eight (or the remnants thereof)
Crusader

"I still don't see why we had to meet at my place," Justin groused. He considered himself to have a very good point; while his pay as an Empire cape had been quite impressive (accent on 'had been') he chose to live in an apartment and bank the majority of his income. If he bought the occasional flashy car or motorcycle with it, that was his beeswax. And as nice as the apartment was, it wasn't set up for more than one or two visitors at a time. Having two adults, two kids and a baby crowding into his front room didn't really bode well for his privacy.

"The PRT somehow got hold of Max's phone and they've seized all his assets, including Medhall," Kayden pointed out. "They're almost certainly watching my apartment because I was married to Max. Even if I'm not under threat of arrest, they'll want me to testify against him. At worst, they'll try to take Aster away from me." Justin knew what a bad idea that would be; Kayden took the 'momma bear' archetype and turned it up past eleven. "Rune's parents might just turn us in if we went back there. Alabaster lived in the Medhall building because of his appearance. Theo's got nowhere else to go. Krieg left town, and I'm pretty sure Victor and Othala got arrested at home. Just be glad that Night and Fog chose to stay in Boston."

Justin was definitely glad of that. As useful as Geoff and Dorothy could be in a fight, they were creepy as fuck when it came to socialising. It wasn't that they were unsociable; more like, somehow, they'd read about socialising in a book and were applying it by the numbers. He could swear he'd heard the exact same conversation between them on several occasions, right down to the words and gestures.

"So what's the plan?" He didn't see any point in dragging things out. "Are we rescuing Max and Brad and the rest? Kicking over a new version of the Empire? Folding our tents and disappearing into the night? What?"

Kayden took a deep breath. "We're going hero."

It took a long moment for Justin to get what she'd just said. When he did, he stared at her incredulously. "What? I mean seriously, what? You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

Sighing, she dragged her hands down her face. "I wish I was, but hear me out." She glanced over at where Theo was changing Aster's diaper. "Max's capture has put all our identities at risk, but mine more than most. If the PRT decides they've got enough proof of me being Purity, Aster is in the firing line. We've got to get out in front of that. I've been trying to turn hero for a little while now, but the PRT's been treating me like I'm still a villain, even though I'm only hitting criminal targets. I'm thinking that maybe if we all show up and declare that we're rebranding as heroes, they'll pull their heads out of their asses and let us be heroes instead of insisting that we're still villains."

"Pfft, as if," jibed Paul. "They want their heroes lily-white, but not in the good way." He flourished his hand, with its unnaturally-pale skin, as an example. "Even if they let us go hero, they'll be watching us like fucking hawks—"

"Language!" snapped Purity, pointing at her baby. "I don't care how much you swear on your own time, but not around Aster."

Paul rolled his eyes, though the effect was somewhat muted due to the fact that they were solid white from side to side. "Fine. They'll be watching us like gosh-darn hawks, and if we give them any excuse at all, they'll come down on us like a ton of bricks." Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the wall. Justin was no great shakes at body language, but this was easy to read: not a hope in hell.

"You really think they'll let us go hero?" asked Cassie, currently using her power to make Justin's salt and pepper shakers orbit her head. "They're usually pretty tight-assed about that sort of thing. I mean, even if I wanted to do it in the first place." If Justin had to guess, she was trying to come across as 'cool and edgy'; to him, it looked more like 'indecisive teenager'.

"It's better than trying to defend the Empire's turf against the ABB and whoever else tries to take it off you," Kayden pointed out. From her phrasing, Justin figured she'd already made the mental shift away from considering herself a part of the Empire. "They've only got a couple of capes, but Lung and Oni Lee are far too hard to put down."

"I've fought Oni Lee," boasted Paul. "He wasn't so tough."

Justin looked him up and down. "Being able to bounce back from whatever damage he does to you isn't the same as beating him. I can see where Kayden's going with this. If we stay as we are, we're the Empire. Four capes against the PRT, the New Wave, the other gangs, the cops. We'd be outnumbered and, I'm sorry to say, outclassed by most everyone out there. Kayden excepted, of course." He'd witnessed Kayden letting loose a couple of times before. Even buildings only afforded visual cover when she was really pissed.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding." Paul's tone was deeply disgusted. "You're gonna go along with it too? Admit defeat? We're the Empire." He shook his head. "We don't back down. We make the other guy back down. First thing, we break the others out of holding. Then we double down, and—"

"No. We don't." Kayden spoke with finality. "When the Empire had over a dozen members in Brockton Bay alone, we called the tune and everyone else walked lightly around us. But now? It's like Justin said. We're outnumbered. We don't even have the resources to pull an effective jailbreak. But if they let us go hero, we've got the PRT and Protectorate nominally on side, as well as New Wave. We don't have to defend territory any more. That frees us up to hit the ABB where it hurts, instead of just defending against incursions."

Paul looked around at everyone. "I can't believe we're just giving up like that. How about out of town members? We could bring them in, use them to get Max and the others loose."

"I tried calling them," Kayden said, her voice low. "The only ones who were interested were Geoff and Dorothy; everyone else gave excuses. And before you ask; they're good, but they're not that good. They can't make up for the lack of Max, Brad, Jessica, Nessa and the others. Which is why I didn't have them come up. They just aren't a good fit as heroes."

"No, you didn't have them come up because you knew they wouldn't even consider going along with this defeatist attitude," snapped Paul. "Justin. Cassie. You know Max would never condone crap like this. The Empire never rolls over and shows its belly. We don't back down; we step up."

"That's easy for you to say," Justin pointed out, feeling a little irritated at the constant push-back the hyper-albino cape was generating. "Even with Othala, the rest of us had to worry about dying before she got to us, and you didn't. If you hadn't noticed, we don't have Othala any more. That's not a problem for you, no matter who you go up against."

"Yeah?" Paul stepped forward aggressively, his hand dropping toward where a pistol hung at his hip. "Well, maybe this situation needs strong leadership instead of pansy whining about what we can't do. You gonna provide it, or do I need to show you who's boss?"

This was rapidly escalating to a point that Justin didn't like. He let his ghost-forms boil out of him, launching forward to tackle Paul to the floor. They couldn't touch his weapons, but they could definitely make sure he couldn't use them. Outnumbered by seven or eight combatants to one, Alabaster fought back. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't harm the ghosts and while he was stronger than any one of them and felt no pain, they had group tactics on their side, and one mind controlling all of them.

The fight, such as it was, was over so fast that Aster hadn't even had time to get agitated. Paul was face-down on the floor with both arms wrenched hard up behind his back. Justin wasn't concerned over doing permanent damage to Paul, but he tried to keep his tone professional. No sense in coming across as gloating and giving Paul even more reason to dislike him. "Paul, give it up. I'm with Kayden on this one. The Empire is finished in Brockton Bay. We're gonna try to make it as heroes, if the PRT will let us. We won't go after you, or Empire rank and file, but if you do attack us we will fight back. And, you know, hand you in."

"Fuck you!" yelled Paul from the floor. Kayden hissed in annoyance, but Paul didn't seem to care any more. "You're all fucking cowards! One setback and you go to jelly! Rune, are you with me? We'll show these pissweak cocksuckers what it means to be Empire!"

It was actually a pretty good speech, considering that it was delivered by a man whose face was being pressed into the floor by a bunch of selectively tangible ghosts. It had fire and spirit and a frightening amount of intensity. Reconsidering his choice to let Paul speak, Justin had a ghost clamp its hand over the prone cape's mouth.

"Um." Cassie looked and sounded indecisive. Justin knew her as a true believer; she and Alabaster usually got along well because of that. However, a lot had gone wrong for the Empire in the last few days, and she had to know the backup they usually enjoyed just wasn't there any more. She was useful as transport and as a ranged attacker but without big hitters to distract the enemy, she'd become what Justin privately termed 'skeet'. Alabaster's distraction capability, Justin suspected, wasn't great.

"Cassie, honey." It was Kayden, stepping forward with her hands showing. She wasn't lighting up, which everyone knew was a precursor to her attacking. "You know me. I worked under Max for ten years. I don't back down lightly from anything. But this here, this is too much for us. We can't purify Brockton Bay as villains. Not as few as we are now. But we can do it as heroes." Lowering her voice slightly, she sent Cassie a mock-conspiratorial smile. "All we have to do is attack the right targets."

Even knowing Kayden as well as he did, Justin wasn't sure whether she was being genuine or just saying what Cassie needed to hear. Maybe it was a bit of both. She'd most likely learned that off Max; the former leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight was good at that sort of thing.

"Huh." Cassie tilted her head, then looked at Kayden and Justin. "I guess you're right. And I bet I'd make a rockin' hero." She glanced down toward Paul. "What are you gonna do with him? I mean, just because we're gonna be heroes doesn't mean we're gonna just hand him over to the authorities, right? That's kind of a dick move."

"It's not my intention, no." Kayden crouched down next to Alabaster's head. "Paul. Listen to me. If we let you go, are you willing to just walk away? We don't want to fight you, but we will if we have to."

Paul struggled for a moment before Justin had the ghost take its hand away from his mouth. "Fuck you all for being losers," he spat. "But fuck you most of all, Purity." The vehemence in his tone turned the name into a curse. "I thought you were strong. I thought you were a believer. You're nothing but a traitor to the cause."

"I am a believer," she said sadly. "But we believe in different things. You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"What the fuck do you think, bitch?" he retorted, struggling vainly with the ghosts. "I know you're trying to intimidate me, but you don't get it. I don't fucking intimidate. What are you gonna do? Kill me?" He laughed harshly. "Good luck with that. It's been tried. Whatever you do to me, I'll come back from. And I'll kill you. I'll kill every one of you. Then I'll get some help from Night and Fog, bust Max out of lockup, and the Empire will go on."

Standing up again, Kayden tilted her head toward the small kitchen area. Justin and Cassie followed her there; while it wasn't really far enough away for privacy, another ghost put its hands over Paul's ears to prevent him from overhearing what was to be said.

"All right," Kayden said, sounding a little upset. "I was hoping he'd see reason, but he just keeps doubling down. Any ideas?"

Justin grimaced. "He's always been a little full-on for me," he admitted. "I don't want to hand him over and I really don't want to kill him, but is there even a third option?" Besides the moral aspect, he wasn't at all sure they could even succeed in killing the unkillable man, and if they tried and failed, he'd be even more angry at them.

"He's really, really pissed off right now." Cassie looked troubled. The salt and pepper shakers, Justin noticed, were back on the table. "I used to think he was cool and all, but wow, he's really going off the deep end, isn't he?" She looked from one adult to the other. "What are we gonna do? What can we do?"

"Well, we've got four options." Justin took a deep breath as the other two turned their attention to him. "One, we let him go. Not ideal, because he knows our secrets, he knows where we live, and he'll come after us as hard as he can. Two, we hand him over to the PRT. Even less ideal, for basically the same reasons. He'll give them everything on us in a heartbeat, just to screw us over. Three, we kill him." The grimace crossed his face again. "I really don't like that one. Executing a comrade in arms, even one who's turned against us, in cold blood? Not what I signed up for."

"And the fourth option?" Kayden glanced into the front room, where Paul was still struggling against the grip of Justin's ghosts.

Justin shrugged. "We keep him prisoner until a better idea shows up." It didn't sound great, but none of the options did.

"So in other words, we do nothing and hope for inspiration to strike." Cassie didn't sound thrilled.

"Yeah."

"Well, crap."

Justin sighed. "Yeah."

Forsberg Gallery

Half a dozen antique pianos had been brought in to complement the exhibition of old-time arts and crafts that had culminated in nine anvils leaving the building via the window. Despite this (or perhaps because of it) the exhibition had been a great success, but now it was beginning to wind down. However, the excitement was not quite over.

One of the more stately pieces, a genuine antique pianola that had been trucked in from California, was marvelled at by the crowds who came to view the exhibition. Its flawless appearance, however, concealed a secret; within its polished wooden exterior were eleven chrysalises. The twelfth was empty, its inhabitant having already broken free and left for parts unknown a couple of days before, but the rest were still intact, awaiting the time that they would crack open and release the piano's glorious passengers to the world.

This time was close at hand.

Part 14