A Darker Path Pt 40 (Patreon)

Farewell, Bastard Son

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Relevant Side Story

8 AM Saturday Morning

Laborn Residence

Aisha's phone pinged as she and Riley sat side by side on the sofa, eating cereal (carefully, so boring big bro wouldn't yell at them) and trading barbs about the cartoons they were watching. Putting her bowl down on the coffee table, on top of one of the coasters he had pointedly placed there for them (again, so he wouldn't yell at her) she dug the phone out of her pocket. Her day brightened right up when she saw the text that had just come through.

Hi,

Just popping over for a quick visit with my loyal fans. Didn't want either of you dropping your cereal.

See you in a sec.

A

"Cool!" she exclaimed. "Atropos is coming over!"

"Wow, really?" Riley looked impressed. "Does she visit you that often?"

"Not really," Atropos observed from the kitchen doorway. "But I was thinking we could go down to the Boardwalk next Saturday. The Brockton Bay Rogues' Guild will be putting on a show there from about one onward, every weekend from now on."

Aisha was proud that she didn't jump. She tilted her head, trying to place the name. "I don't think I know that one."

"They only formed in the last few days." Atropos strolled over and sat down in Brian's armchair. "A couple of new local capes asked Parian if they could work for her. A Tinker called Salvage and a kinetic manipulator called Bastet."

"Okay, yeah, that's kinda cool," Aisha acknowledged. "Wanna help me badger Brian into going down there after he gets off-shift, Ri?"

Riley's grin was getting better all the time; in a week or two, Aisha judged, she'd be full-on smartass, firing on all cylinders. It was a lot better than the timid little smile she'd had when she first arrived. "I think I'd like that. Isn't Parian the one with the dolls?"

Atropos nodded. "That's the one. I'm really proud of her for stepping up and helping out the other two."

"So what's Salvage do with their Tinkering?" asked Aisha. "Do they take old stuff and make it look like new, or something?"

"Not quite." Atropos tilted her head. "More like, he takes stuff that would be worn out and no good to anyone else, and he builds something worthwhile out of it. It's actually pretty cool."

Riley nodded. "Yeah, I guess it would be."

Aisha could tell that the phrasing had hit her cousin right in the feels, so she put her arm around Riley's shoulders and squeezed. Riley leaned her head against Aisha's shoulder in a way that made Aisha want to fight the world just to keep her safe.

"So anyway, how are you two doing? Settling in okay?" From the tone of her voice, Atropos hadn't noticed a thing. Aisha didn't trust that for a second. Her girl Atropos noticed everything. Which meant she was deliberately not calling attention to it, so Riley wouldn't be embarrassed.

Damn, she's cool.

"Um, well, yeah," Riley ventured, sitting up slightly but not pulling away from the protective circle of Aisha's arm. "It's really nice here, and Aisha's amazing, and Brian's doing his best for us too. I mean, he's a bit strict but only when we don't pick up after ourselves or stuff like that. And they've nearly got my costume done. I'm debuting on Monday as Miss Medic."

Aww, you're amazing too. "Yeah, the costume's pretty rad," Aisha agreed. "They're gonna love her." She lowered her voice in her best attempt at a menacing growl. "They better love her."

Riley leaned into her, giving her a shoulder-nudge. "You're just saying that because sister support." But the tone of her voice was playful.

Mentally, Aisha fist-pumped in triumph. Yess! She's finally making jokes, not dumping on herself! "Well, yeah," she agreed. "I'd say it anyway. But this time, I mean it."

Atropos nodded encouragingly. "I look forward to seeing it. You're gonna do a lot of good out there, I can tell."

"Thanks—wait a second!" Riley sat all the way up, shrugging off Aisha's arm. "That stuff you wanted me to make. Did you need it right now? I've got it curing in the bedroom. It's going to need another hour before it's good to use, though."

"Oh, I don't need to use it for another few hours. Would it cure just as well if I took it with me?" Aisha was sure Atropos knew the answer, but chose to ask the question anyway.

"Sure." Riley popped to her feet. "It just needs to mature a little. There's no more prep needed. I'll go get it now."

Aisha watched her vanish into the bedroom. "She's pretty brainy with that stuff. Smelled a bit funny when she brewed it up in the bathroom sink, though."

"And Brian didn't mind?"

Aisha shook her head airily. "He might have most people bluffed with that growly tough-guy act, but he's a big marshmallow underneath. Never yells at Riley, and he always tries to say stuff that's encouraging." She gave Atropos a sideways warning glance. "I'll totes deny it if you repeat this, but him getting grabbed by the PRT and doing the hero thing is the best thing that coulda happened to all three of us."

She was pretty sure Atropos grinned just then. "My lips are sealed."

"Yeah, just make su—"

"Here it is!" Riley burst out of the bedroom, bearing a small plastic container with a screw-on top. "Just smear it on whatever you want to apply it with. Guaranteed non-toxic and non-allergenic."

"Thanks." Atropos stood up as well, and accepted the container. "I really appreciate this."

Riley shook her head in negation. "No, I owe you so, so much. You saw me inside Bonesaw and got Panacea to pull me back out again." Impulsively, she moved forward and hugged Atropos. The city's most dreaded cape hugged her right back, holding her tightly.

"All you have to do to repay me is be you, the best way you know how." Was that a hint of roughness in Atropos' voice? Aisha couldn't be sure. Then Atropos turned her head toward Aisha, and this time there was absolutely a grin under the mask. "And keep being a good influence on Aisha. She needs it."

"Hey!" But Aisha couldn't keep the grin off her face. It wasn't like Atropos was wrong or anything.

"I'll see you guys later, then." Atropos let Riley go, then leaned over and ruffled Aisha's hair. "Toodles." And just like that, she flipped up a little panel on the device wrapped around her arm, pressed a couple of buttons, and ... vanished.

Riley shook her head wonderingly. "That will never not be awesome."

"I know, right?" Aisha patted the sofa cushion beside her. "C'mon, there's more cartoons we haven't eviscerated yet."

Riley sat down again and picked up her cereal. "Is it just me, or are the big bad evil guy's plots always too stupid for words?"

Aisha tilted her head. "Are you talking from experience?"

"… maybe."

<><>

Just a Little Later

Panacea

Amy had music playing in the background as she checked over the inhabitants of her terrarium. The mushroom baby in the pot was gently swaying as it danced a little jig—from the waist up—in time with the melody. It actually had pretty good rhythm, and she was starting to consider how she could help make it mobile. True, a tap-dancing mushroom kid would probably send Carol into hysterics, but Carol didn't have to know.

The ones in the glass box were also doing fine, and the lizard—a rather handsome male bearded dragon that Vicky had dubbed Smaug—was dozing under the sun lamp. Smaug opened his eyes a little as she gave him a gentle scratch alongside the neck, just where he liked it. Amy wondered if her power wanted to enhance Smaug as well, though she suspected that turning him into an actual fire-breathing dragon might be a little beyond her. She was also dubious about giving him wings, not least because this would no doubt confuse him horribly.

Just then, her computer pinged to let her know she had a private message in PHO. Frowning, she gave Smaug one last skritch then slid the top of the terrarium back into place. Winged or otherwise, she didn't want her dragon escaping.

Seating herself at the computer, she clicked on the notification.

■

PRIVATE MESSAGE

To: TheRealPanacea

From: Atropos

Subject: Need a favor

Hi,

Is it okay if I drop in for a chat about a potential favor? Nothing illegal, nothing harmful. You might even get a kick out of it.

Atropos

■

Amy frowned. What the fuck? What kind of a favour does she want from me? She took in a calming breath and let it out as she thought about her dealings with Atropos. As she did so, she got up and closed her bedroom door.

At the start, things had been fairly rocky (and, to be fair, she'd been stressed out by basically everything, but now she had her mushroom babies, and her stress levels were way down). However, she'd done an objectively good thing by reverting Bonesaw back into her younger self. Atropos' advice had led to the mushroom babies, which had to be a good thing, especially since Atropos herself had been quite taken by them.

Amy read the message again. If there was one thing she could count on Atropos to do, it was to be brutally honest. If she said, 'nothing illegal, nothing harmful', she meant it. Though Amy had no idea what the whole 'might get a kick out of it' could be about.

And if I don't want to do it, all I have to do is say no. She figured she had a good enough read on Atropos by now to be confident about that. Moving the mouse, she clicked on the 'answer' icon.

Okay, come on over, she typed. No promises until I hear what it is. Then she clicked the Send icon.

Behind her, she heard her mattress creak. For a long moment, she froze, then she deliberately took a breath. "You're sitting on my bed, aren't you?"

"Mm-hmm." It was Atropos' voice. Swivelling the chair around, she saw what she expected: the black-clad villain, casually seated on her bed, with her head tilted in an expectant pose. "In fairness, I did my best not to give you a jump scare this time."

"True, and I appreciate that." Amy leaned back in her chair, trying to look more relaxed than she felt. "So, what can I do you for today?"

"I want to create a particular effect, and I thought of you. A powder or dust or something similar that changes hue on a specific command, then dies or drifts off or whatever. The command being …" Atropos lifted her hand and snapped her fingers.

"Um." Amy blinked as her imagination was suddenly off and running with ideas for how it could be achieved. This is my power, isn't it? I think it is. "I have … ideas. Any other specifications?"

Atropos nodded. "It needs to be able to cling to cloth and leather and be harmless to the human body, even if inhaled or swallowed. Also, unable to reproduce. That's about it."

Amy tilted her head as concepts unfolded in her mind. She narrowed ideas down to about half a dozen, then picked the one her power seemed to favour. "Yeah, I can do that. Just one question. Why? What's this for? Are you going to graffiti something halfway across the city?"

"Now that's a use I hadn't thought of, but no." Atropos chuckled. "So, a little background. Bastard Son of the Elite is coming to town, and his name really doesn't do him justice. He currently thinks I'm dead, so what I want to do is …"

As she spoke, Amy grinned wider and wider, then broke down into laughter.

Atropos had been right. She did get a kick out of it.

<><>

10 AM, Eastern Standard Time

Somers Rock

"Okay, so what do you think?" Sabah turned her open laptop to show the other two the website she'd designed.

"Daaamn, girl, you're some kinda computer whiz." Bastet looked and sounded seriously impressed. "You put all that together in a couple days?"

"What she said," grunted Salvage. "That looks pretty slick to me."

Sabah blushed behind her mask. She was no expert, but it wasn't hard to throw together a fairly basic website from online tools, especially with the help of a few of her friends in college. They hadn't known what it was for, of course, but their advice had been useful all the same. "Thanks. So, uh, I put those ideas into a costume for you, Bastet, and some, um, accessories for you, Salvage."

They watched as she dug into her bag and came up with a wrapped bundle for Bastet, and a smaller one for Salvage. She handed them out, and the two capes before her opened them with rather more enthusiasm than she'd expected. With an expression like a kid on Christmas morning, Bastet stood and held the costume up in front of her. "Hot damn," she said, looking down at herself. "I gotta go try this on!"

Without even needing to be prompted, the guy behind the counter pointed toward the restrooms, and Bastet hustled in that direction. Salvage, on the other hand, looked over the cans of metallic-flake paint and the sharp conductor's cap that Sabah had been able to find for him. Also in the bag was the best-quality toolkit she'd been able to find him on her limited budget.

"Jeez," he said, his mechanical gauntlets handling them as though they were the crown jewels or a Fabergé egg. "You buy all this for me?"

Sabah shrugged awkwardly. "If we're going to be working together, we should all be at our best, right?"

"Right." He nodded. "Yeah." Carefully, he fitted the cap into place. It had a flexible leather mask sewn into the brim that could drop down over his face; leaving it up, he pulled his goggles into place under the bill of the cap. "How do I look?"

"Like a goddamn million bucks," Bastet said as she sashayed out of the restroom. "How cool does this look?"

Sabah nodded approvingly. Bastet had made good use of the basic hygiene kit Sabah had included in each bundle, and she did look a lot more like a serious cape rather than someone who'd snuck in by the side door. "Very cool indeed. So, let's talk about what we're actually going to be doing as the Rogues' Guild."

She was taken aback, and somewhat daunted, by the sudden attention this garnered her. What am I doing? I have no idea how to lead a group of capes.

"Keep talking, boss-lady," Bastet urged. "You know what you're doing. We don't."

"Okay, then. Okay." Sabah took a deep breath, then let it out again. It seemed she was indeed the leader, however little she was prepared for it. "I usually go down to the Boardwalk and do shows, like you saw. Until we can line up paying work for both of you, I'm thinking you could be a part of the show. Bastet, your costume's good for this. Salvage … maybe you could bring some scrap along and build toys for the kids while they watch? Toys that are safe for them to play with?"

"With these tools, hell yeah," he said immediately. "I can make 'em safe as you like."

Bastet lifted her chin. "And you think I should do that fire dancing thing you were talking about?"

"As a finale, yes." Sabah found herself reaching for ideas. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

"Yeah, actually." Bastet twirled her finger in a circle. "How about little cloth birds? You make 'em, I make 'em fly around me?"

"I can do that." Sabah nodded. "So … what do you think? We meet up at the Boardwalk, where I did my last show, at about one? The inaugural show of the Brockton Bay Rogues' Guild."

Bastet and Salvage looked at each other, then Salvage shrugged massively. "Well, my calendar's free."

"Mine, too." Bastet held out her hand to Sabah. "Let's knock the goddamn socks off this town."

Sabah shook it, then shook Salvage's gauntlet much more carefully. "Okay, just give me a second and I'll actually put that in here as an event. The site should automatically crosspost it to PHO and other local social media sites. With any luck, we'll get people showing up out of pure curiosity. Come for the hype, stay for the show."

Bastet grinned. "Works for me."

<><>

1:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time

Outskirts of Brockton Bay

Bastard Son

The limousine was as comfortable as ever, and he was feeling damn good after the night's sleep in Boston. The van holding his latest crew had caught up with him there, and he'd spent the next few hours instilling in them their new attitudes, values and skills. They'd come to him as loyal employees of the Elite and he'd turned them into lean, mean fighting machines, fanatically dedicated to him and him alone.

Just the way he liked it.

Over the hour's drive north to Brockton Bay, he'd casually flicked through the news and the PHO boards, hoping to find out if Atropos' body had been taken anywhere special. But there was no mention of her death at all. The explosion of the car had made the news, and the hostages were apparently already back with their family, but of Atropos there was nothing. It was like she'd suddenly ceased to exist between one day and the next.

It was the PRT, he realised. It had to be. Their pet boogeyman had gotten herself killed, and they were desperately hiding that fact while frantically scrambling to figure out what to do next.

Too bad, so sad. I'm already here, and I'm going to be running this dump by the time I'm finished.

Heh.

With the van following behind, the limousine threaded its way through the streets of Brockton Bay. He'd decided that he would swell his ranks with the newly formed so-called Brockton Bay Rogues' Guild before assaulting the PRT building, because having capes on call made so many things much easier. According to a notification that had popped up a few hours ago in the 'local events' section of PHO, they would be down at the Boardwalk for most of the afternoon, performing a show for passers-by. While the Boardwalk was by all accounts quite lengthy, the notification included a handy map location for reference.

It didn't take long to get to the location. There were no parking spaces available on the street, but that didn't matter. The driver knew to find the closest available parking spot, then return when needed.

Pulling his latest mask on, a masterpiece of sneering contempt, he opened the door as the limo slowed to a halt and stepped out onto the road. Behind the limo, the van swerved sideways and stopped, blocking the whole damn road. The driver cut the engine, set the handbrake and got out, ignoring the honking from the car he'd just cut off.

This was deliberate. He wanted outrage. He wanted attention. People needed to see him in action.

Seven more men climbed from the van; as one, the eight crossed the now-blocked road to where he waited. He'd trained them all, instilling them with unbreakable loyalty and the willingness to do anything he told them. Unlike the weaklings who had declined to attack Atropos, these men would've done just that if she'd survived the night's action.

That was fine; it meant they were perfectly willing to go after lesser targets.

Each of the eight had been given a nickname, based around the weapon he'd picked out for them. Shaver held a straight razor, Handicap a golf club, Strike a pair of bowling pins, Chairman a folding chair, Sweeper a broom, Shark a pool cue, Bookworm a heavy encyclopedia and Snips—chosen before Atropos' untimely end—two pairs of sewing shears. The latter weren't as long as Atropos' bodice shears, but in his experience, two pairs of blades beat one any day of the week.

Parian and the other two rogues—Bastet and Salvage, going by the website—were now staring at them as the surrounding crowd backed away. Phones, previously recording the show, were now aimed at him and his men.

"Good afternoon," he said, grinning under the mask. "I'm Bastard Son, and you three just volunteered to join the Elite, heh."

"Uh, no." Parian gestured, and three large stuffed animals, previously dancing for the audience, moved forward to block the way. At the same time, she waved at the crowd. "Away!" she shouted. "Get away!"

He didn't even have to give orders; that was how much in tune his men were with him. Shaver and Snips darted forward, moving in perfect unison. Each dodged a clumsy blow from their respective targets—a six-legged horse and a purple gorilla—then retaliated with precisely timed slashes that left the stuffed animals in shreds on the ground. The third one, a rabbit with boxing gloves and an eyepatch, got off a single punch, expertly avoided, before it joined its compatriots.

Bastet began powering up some kind of telekinetic whirlwind, while Salvage just stomped forward, clenching his metallic fists. "Come on!" he yelled. "Come on! I can take you!"

It wasn't even a contest; Handicap vaulted up and over his unprotected head, knocking him to his knees with a single well-timed tap from the golf club. Bastet lasted a little longer as she fed gravel and ground trash into the high-speed vortex around her, but Sweeper hooked his broom around her ankles and pulled her off her feet. Winded by the fall, she stopped struggling when Sweeper put his broom across her throat.

"Well, that was the Rogues' Guild, heh." Striding forward like a conquering hero—or villain, rather—he latched his hand onto Parian's shoulder and surveyed the shocked crowd. "Good thing they aren't trying to be heroes. Well, that's—"

"Aren't you forgetting something, Bastard Son?" The words cracked like a whip across the silent crowd, cutting his incipient speech off at the knees.

He looked around, recognising the voice but not believing what his ears were telling him. There, just on the other side of his men, stood Atropos, but transformed. Instead of midnight black and grey, her costume was pure white from head to toe, and she wore a sword slung across her back. Standing there in the sunlight, she was dazzling.

<><>

Taylor

He stared at me, his jaw working a few times. "N-no," he protested weakly, then his voice gained strength. "No! You died! You're dead! I killed you!"

I shook my head slowly, gently, almost mockingly. When I spoke, my voice held an ethereal quality. "I am Atropos the White, now. I have passed through fire and death, and now I …"

I paused and shook my head again, then snorted.

"Sorry," I said in my normal voice, barely holding back a chuckle. "I thought I'd pull the 'back with more power than ever' schtick, but that's too pretentious even for me." Holding up my hand, I snapped my fingers, and the bio-dust Amy had prepped for me turned from pure white to dead black, then fell away in a cloud, drifting downwind with the breeze. "As the saying goes, the reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. Now, just so you know, you're already on two warnings. Does anyone here not know what that means?"

Dead silence answered the question. If anyone hadn't known, they'd either figured it out from context or they were saving the question for later.

"Yeah, I know what it means." It seemed Bastard Son had gotten his head back in the game. "It means you're standing right there in front of me, and right now the odds are eight to one, heh."

"Eight to two," grunted Salvage as he climbed to his feet.

"Three," Bastet corrected, also getting up.

"No," I said. "This isn't about you three anymore. Thanks for the offer, but I got this."

"I'll be sure and put those words on your headstone." Bastard Son gestured at his minions. "These are my people you're facing now, heh. You don't—"

The one with the pool cue came at me first, twirling it like a quarterstaff. I feinted a kick to his knee; while he was reacting to that, I gave him the novelty-sized eight-ball that I'd gotten from the joke shop to the middle of the face (big pockets are so handy). He went over backward, and I caught the pool cue out of mid-air.

As part of the same movement, I snapped it over my knee, deflected the golf club with the skinny end and whacked its user on the funny-bone with the heavy end. Fanatically loyal or not, neural responses override mere intentions; his hand sprang open and dropped the club. I caught it before it had fallen two inches, reversed it, and tapped him precisely on the temple with the business end. He dropped like a hole in one.

Bastard Son was still monologuing, turning in a slow circle to take in the crowd's reactions as he did so. "—stand a hope in hell against—"

Now I had two on me; the broom guy to my left and the one with the straight-razor to the right. I pulled my shears, deflected a simultaneous attempt to brain me with the broom and slice open important parts of my anatomy, then whacked both implements at just the right angle to snap them off short.

The minion on the left had clearly been trained in full-length broom use, not short-broom-plus-broken-piece-of-handle (a glaring hole in his education, in my opinion) and I used the opening to disarm him of the larger piece, then tripped him with it. He fell headlong and got the wind knocked out of him. At the same time, I let the shears hang off my pinky finger while I twitched the handle of the razor out of right-hand guy's grip, wrapped my fist around it, and slugged him solidly across the jaw. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed.

"—just one of them, let alone—"

Three of them came at me all at once, with the fourth one coming around toward the back, trying to hit me from the rear quarter. Front guy had a folding chair (really? Wow), the new left-hand guy had a pair of bowling pins, the new right-hand guy had a book. It looked like volume E of the Encyclopedia Americana, but I could've been wrong.

A sheet of paper, torn from the book, came spinning at me with enough speed and power to slice my jugular. I deflected it with the end of the broom (losing a few bristles on the way), then used the same movement to hit the chair just right as it came at me. If he'd been using a regular chair, he might've been okay, but the folding mechanism was a fatal weakness. It came apart in his hands, and once again he hadn't been trained in using the pieces of his weapon.

Bowling pin guy hadn't been idle in this time, spinning his weapons in a deadly ballet of grace and skill. I swayed aside from a strike that would've caved my ribs in, and deflected the other with the butt-end of the straight-razor handle. Discarding the latter, I grabbed the back leg section of the now-defunct folding chair and hooked it between bowling pin guy's hands. One of the pins ended up in my hand—I didn't need the broom anymore—and I used it to brush aside another deadly paper missile then hit the open book solidly, crushing all his would-be paper missiles to uselessness.

Almost as an afterthought, I rapped him over the knuckles, causing him to drop the book. I threw the pin at chair-guy, who was still trying to figure out how to hit me with something that wasn't a folding chair anymore, and he folded up himself. With my hand now free, I caught the book and smacked its previous owner with it, then spun and used it to shield me against a solid drive with two pair of shears. I mean, the nerve of the guy. Shears, against me?

"—all eight, so you might as well—"

Bowling pin guy was still up, though he had some holes in his defence due to being reduced to just one pin. He came at me again and I brushed his attack aside with the book, then smacked him in the middle of the forehead with it. Going cross-eyed, he sat down suddenly.

Flipping the shears back up into my hand and dropping the book, I gave my full attention to shears-guy, who was coming in again. Gliding in myself, I let one attack hiss past my ear while I deflected the one aimed at my gut. This gave me the chance to kick him in the groin, which I did, then disarmed him of both his weapons while he was distracted. Collecting both pairs of shears in the same hand, I smacked him upside the temple with them, then stepped past him as he collapsed.

"—give up now." Bastard Son jolted in surprise as I stopped in front of him and dropped the two pairs of shears at his feet. My own shears, I spun once and returned to their sheath. "The fuck? How did you—?" He scrabbled for the pistol in his shoulder holster.

He stopped talking again, mainly because I'd drawn the sword that was still slung across my back, and flicked the weapon from his hand. The point came to rest, hovering just in front of his adam's apple. He swallowed convulsively.

"My turn now," I said conversationally. Even the few birds around had stopped chirping. Everyone was listening. "Do you know what this is?"

He jerked his chin, carefully. "It … it's a sword, heh."

"Not just a sword." I smiled behind my mask and pitched my voice to reach the crowd. "It's a hand-and-a-half sword, commissioned by Louis the Fourteenth for the infant child of one of his mistresses, before the kid was legitimised. I was gifted it by Kaiser's boy. Or, to put it another way, it's a bastard sword from the Sun King, made for a bastard son, given to me by the son of another bastard." I chuckled and tilted my head slightly. "Technically, Kaiser was a legitimate birth, but everyone who knew him would agree that he was a total bastard in every other sense." Sliding the blade back past his ear, I flicked his mask off. "A fitting weapon to End the career of someone called Bastard Son, don't you think?"

"I—" he began.

"I wasn't asking you," I snapped, flicking the sword at his eye, so close that he blinked and stepped back and tripped, landing on his back. "I warned you not to come here."

Taking the sword in both hands, I slashed at him, carving the shape of a kite shield on his torso. The front of his business suit fell away, as did most of his tie. "Fuuck!" he screamed as blood began to flow down his chest. It wasn't bad; I'd only cut about an eighth of an inch deep.

"In antiquity, the bastard children of nobility had a particular device added to their coats of arms," I said conversationally. "This was called a bend sinister. Basically, a stripe that went from upper right to lower left. Like … so." One more slash, leaving a bleeding diagonal line across his torso, and I put the sword up. "Any last words before I finish this?"

"Yeah." He grinned through the pain as he scrambled to his feet. "My men are getting up, heh."

I glanced back over my shoulder. "So they are. But do you know what I just killed?" Taking a cloth from my pocket, I cleaned the length of the blade before I re-sheathed it.

He shook his head in confusion. "… what?"

I grinned inside my mask. "Your powers." The substance Riley had cooked up for me had done the job it was meant to. Applied to the very tip of the blade, it was now in his bloodstream. Some had already reached his brain, where it was meticulously severing all links to his corona pollentia. No neural signals would reach it, no blood vessels would feed it. It would die, and his connection to his powers with it. "And your men are now aware that you just ordered them to attack me. Whoops."

Bastard Son stared at his ex-minions. Some still appeared a little dazed from my rough handling of them, but I'd made sure not to do any permanent damage. None of them were looking at me. All of them were glaring at him. Courteously, I stepped aside.

"You … bastard," one of them growled. I didn't think it was a reference to his cape name.

Abruptly, he turned and ran. Shouting in rising anger, they bolted after him.

<><>

Parian

"Uh … thank you," Sabah said, cautiously approaching Atropos. "You … you saved us."

"Not a problem. I actually like your puppet show, and the Rogues' Guild is a good idea." She tilted her head. "Hey, next month there's going to be a charity show for the oncology wing of Brockton General. If you wanted some great publicity, there's your chance. Oh, and you might want to get Salvage to move that van out of the way."

"Oh. Um … sure." Wow, she thinks it's a good idea? Tentatively, Sabah gestured toward where Bastard Son and his pursuers had disappeared down the street. "Should … should you be doing something about that?"

"Mmm, true." Atropos sighed, her voice taking on an overly melodramatic tone. "Otherwise, he'll get away, and come back with ever more elaborate schemes, and I'll look bad for having not killed him in the first place, and there'll be so much drama." She leaned in close and dropped her voice to a whisper. "You can't see it right now, but I'm totally rolling my eyes. Anyway, nice meeting you. Toodles."

And then, between one instant and the next, she vanished.

<><>

Bastard Son

His breath was ragged as he staggered up to the limo. It had taken him far too long to shake his pursuers and then to locate the damn car using the tracker on his phone. For some reason, the driver wasn't answering his.

Wrenching the back door open, he fell into the cool interior, then pulled it shut and engaged the lock. "Thank fuck. Get us out of here, heh." When he came back to Brockton Bay, it would be with serious forces next time. Actual capes under his power. Atropos would … why wasn't the car moving? "I said, drive!"

<><>

In the Front Seat of the Car

Taylor

I wouldn't get a better prompt than that. "As you wish, sir." I dropped the screen between us, slid the sword up and through, and drove the point into the middle of the bend sinister I'd carved into his torso. It went straight through him, and a foot into the seat cushion beyond. He gasped, dying, scrabbling at the blade.

"Wh—f—you—how—?"

I shook my head. "I told you I'd kill you. People just don't listen these days."

Leaving the scabbard lying on top of the unconscious driver, now sprawled across the front passenger seat, I opened the limo door and got out. I pulled out my phone and typed out a text to the PRT, with the address appended. Cleanup in aisle six. Finally, I leaned back in and activated the comms system, sending a live (so to speak) feed to every member of the Elite with a screen.

I was pretty sure they'd get the message.

Part 41