A Darker Path Pt 51 (Patreon)

Conclusions

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

Taylor

It had been a busy, busy day (except for the morning at school; that had been positively restful), and it wasn't over yet. I'd already known Dad was going to be staying a little late at the Dockworkers' Association to make sure all the paperwork was filled out correctly and everyone's current credentials were up to date. There was no way he was going to let even one of his men end up out in the cold because he was too lazy to finish cross-checking everything.

"You'll be okay here at home on your own?" I asked Cherie. "Amy's met you, but you might freak out the Travellers a bit."

"Okay on my own?" She gave me a hug. "I'm home on my own. I've never had this before. I can do my homework in peace, nap on the sofa, go take a shower, watch whatever TV shows I like, snack from the fridge without being yelled at … just being left alone is almost as awesome as having you and your dad around."

I returned the hug, then pulled her head in so our foreheads touched. "I'm glad," I told her sincerely. "I shouldn't be too long, and I'll pick up pizza on the way back."

She beamed at me. "See what I mean? I get pizza, too."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I chuckled in return. "Pizza is always good." Cherie had never had much chance to eat pizza until now, so her favourite topping was basically, 'Yes!' but she was starting to tend toward Hawaiian (with pineapple) while Dad preferred meat lover's, the carnivore. I could eat either, so I figured I'd get a half and half.

As I headed upstairs to where I'd left my costume, I took out my phone and tapped in a number.

"Atropos." Panacea's tone was cautious, which wasn't surprising; every time I'd contacted her, she'd ended up well outside her comfort zone. "What do you want now? And why are you calling me instead of texting?"

"Hello to you too," I said lightly. "I just wanted to ask you two things, and talking is a lot easier than great long strings of text messages. First up: how are you going with the critter I gave you this afternoon? And second: how do you feel about doing another Sveta job, only on a totally different case fifty-three?"

"Well, the viruses are done," she stated. "It was a lot easier than I expected. You seem to have a knack for inspiring my power. I'm really not sure how I feel about that."

"Hey, it's all lovely, crunchy data." I grinned, envisaging the look on her face. "And the other thing?"

"Sometime, you are going to have to explain that. And yes, fine, I'm okay with helping another case fifty-three. Same deal as before? You kill the powers—in a way I still have no idea how it works—and I do the remodel afterward?"

"Correct in every respect," I confirmed. "Slightly easier this time, because there's enough body mass to work with. We won't need another dead pig."

"Well, that'll make it a little bit less weird." She sighed. "Why is it that I go into every one of these conversations determined not to give an inch, only to find myself agreeing to your latest shady gig anyway?"

"Because your power loves stretching its hypothetical legs, and because my 'shady gigs' work toward the betterment of mankind in general, and Brockton Bay in particular." It was only the truth.

"Ugghh." It was a groan of frustration. "If you didn't actually kill people, you could be the greatest hero in the world, and I'd have far fewer moral qualms about this sort of thing. You do know that, right?"

"Meh, heroism and moral qualms are overrated. Plus, they get in the way. I prefer to be a shadowy, misunderstood, edgelord loner who leaves the heroics to the heroes and deals with the actual problem, no matter how bloody it needs to be. Pick you up in five minutes?"

That startled a laugh out of her. "Well, at least you don't have any misconceptions about yourself. Okay, sure, five minutes."

I grinned. "See you then." Ending the call, I tossed the phone onto the bed and started getting changed.

<><>

Trickster

Francis pulled the motorhome into the rest stop just short of the Brockton Bay city limits. There was a large sign saying exactly that, with the addendum 'Atropos' Hometown - if you're a villain, consider this your second warning' hand-written in large, friendly letters.

Cody, sitting in the passenger seat, shared a glance with him. "Think she wrote that?"

"I don't think she would've bothered," Francis decided. "But it's still there, so she doesn't care." Neither of them was stupid enough to assume she didn't know about it. He raised his voice and turned to look back down the narrow corridor. "Okay, guys and girls, we're here. Time to make that call."

"No need," Cody said in a strangled tone. "She's here."

Francis whipped his gaze forward, to see the familiar black-clad figure standing in front of the motorhome, with another teenage girl beside her. Along with her companion, she was illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, the reddish light doing absolutely nothing to make her any less terrifying. She raised a hand (empty of any weapons, as far as he could tell), and waved once.

Cautiously, he opened the driver's side door and got out. "Uh … hi?"

"Hello, Mr Krouse," Atropos said briskly. "The plan was a good one; I'll give you props for that. This is Panacea. She'll be assisting me today."

"What, as in New Wave Panacea, the healer?" Francis was fully aware that he was stating the obvious, but was unable to stop himself.

"If there's another Panacea out there, let me know so I can sue her for copyright infringement," the frizzy-haired teen snarked. "So, you guys call yourselves the Travellers? Can't say I've ever heard of you."

"That's probably a good thing." Francis decided this had to be one of the more surreal conversations in his life, and he'd spent the last year stuck in a universe that was basically an uncanny-valley version of his own. "We've tried to keep our heads down, and move along when things got too problematic. Thus, the name."

"Also, you're from Aleph," Atropos filled in helpfully, because of course she knew that. "So, let's go see your girlfriend and End her problems."

Before Francis could think about how ominous that sounded, she was already past him and climbing on board the motorhome.

<><>

Danny Hebert

Taking off his glasses, Danny groaned and rubbed his eyes. They ached from perusing form after form, ensuring that everything was filled in and stamped correctly. His right hand wasn't much better off; he'd corrected more than a few errors and omissions, initialling the changes to maintain the paper trail.

But as far as he could tell, everyone in the Dockworkers was primed to go forward with the start of work on Saturday evening, either commencing their training courses or actually breaking ground on the first roads. He was pleased that they had this opportunity after all the years they'd kept faith with the Association, hanging in through thick and thin. More than a few were in arrears with their membership payments, but he hadn't pressed them; if it was a choice between feeding their kids or paying the Association dues, he'd prefer they took care of their families.

Several depots had been constructed out of town to hold the machinery and other supplies necessary to carry out a project of this magnitude. He'd looked over a couple of them and seen the first arrivals, and been stunned once more by the sheer scope of everything that was going on. The plan they were following had not only anticipated the need, it had arranged for everything to be delivered ahead of time. There would be no bottlenecks, no slowdowns; not under this plan and not on his watch.

As he stacked the papers according to which files they would need to go into, footsteps sounded in the corridor. He looked up, expecting to see Kurt or Lacey returning to chivvy him into going home. But the two men wearing business suits who stepped into his office were not members of the Association; neither were the two who followed them (who were not wearing business suits).

He knew who the first two were, and what the next two were. Tired as he was, adrenaline flushed through his bloodstream. "Gentlemen," he said, standing up. "We're closed. Come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's the weekend," said the man on the right, one John Giardini by name. "The whole place will be locked up."

"That's the general idea, yes," Danny agreed blandly.

The one on the left, an outwardly polished character called Patrick Bianchi, shook his head sorrowfully. "He's being rude to us, John. And after we came all this way to see him."

The two at the rear moved outward so as to flank their bosses, but didn't say a word. After all, they weren't being paid to.

"I'm not being rude," Danny said. "Attempting to choke down our supplies of tar and aggregate to force us to pay a higher price, that was rude. I'm just coordinating the biggest rebuilding effort this city has ever made. I don't have time for would-be hard men to come here, trying to put a stick in our spokes for their own personal profit." Any time now, Taylor …

Giardini looked sour. "How did you get past that, anyway? I thought I had it locked down."

"You moved shipments on from four separate sidings before I had a chance to divert them," Bianchi added. "How did you know that was going to happen?"

"Exactly what city do you think you're in, and whose plan do you think we're following?" Danny gave them a level stare. Come on, rub your brain cells together and come up with the right answer. "I'm going to tell you one more time, gentlemen. You're not welcome here. Kindly leave."

He wasn't about to tell them that the plan had anticipated something like that, and had advised secondary and tertiary sources of the required materials. Also, whose number to call in order to get things moving again.

Taylor had said he would know when things would start happening, and he did. A faint golden glow suffused the entire office, and the men before him froze. Through the door came a tall, statuesque woman wearing sumptuous robes, with a glittering diadem hovering above her head.

"Hello." She looked over the scene, and her eyebrows raised somewhat. "Well, now. This is not what I expected. Do you have many enemies?"

That wasn't the sort of greeting he was used to, but he chose to roll with it. "I suspect I'll be acquiring more and more as this project goes on. Too many people have become used to making an unfair profit out of getting kickbacks, and they react badly when they're turned down. You would be … Administration?"

"Most call me Queen Administrator," she said coolly, stepping past the men. "I have been directed to work with you regarding what sort of powers you would prefer to gain out of this transaction."

"And you weren't given a choice in the matter," he guessed.

"It's the first time this has ever happened to me!" she burst out. "The interloper threatened me with physical force! I do not receive orders! I give them!" She seemed quite indignant over the whole thing.

"I get it, I do." He gestured at Giardini and Bianchi, and their two strongarm men. "They were about to do the same with me. Trust me, I know exactly how it feels to be leaned on by someone who should have no authority over me."

She blinked. "Oh. I see. So, you actually have need of powers then? How would you prefer they manifest?"

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin, thinking. "Taylor said your powers involve multitasking and control. Are there any other nuances I should know about?"

"Well, my typical manifestation is control and monitoring of lower life forms. Bugs, let us say, or rats." She brightened. "There are many rats within a short distance of here. Would you like the power to call them to you and order them to do your bidding? Your enemies here would not stand long against them."

"And then I'd just be the guy who controls rats." He shook his head. "I can't see that being overly useful, except under very specific circumstances. Pass."

"Well, what would you like to control?" She seemed to be restraining aggravation. "This is much easier when we're running the show."

He snapped his fingers. "That's it! I want to run the show."

"I beg your pardon?" She tilted her head; the diadem floating above it tilted as well. "Are you saying you want to control these other humans? Because your range would be extremely curtailed—"

"No." Danny shook his head. "I want to be able to control and monitor events. Any group effort that I'm involved in. I want to be able to look in on any aspect of the project and fine-tune the efforts that are going into it. Push a little harder here, pull back there, smooth out a welding seam, make sure diggers miss a buried electrical cable, turn bad luck into good luck. That sort of thing. Run the show."

She pursed her lips in apparent thought. "If we did this, you would not be able to take specific control of anyone involved in the group effort. They would do what they wanted to do; you would merely be adjusting results."

"That's fine." He shrugged. "My people are well-trained, but sometimes slip-ups are unavoidable. If I can literally make sure they don't happen, or that nobody gets hurt if they do happen, I'll be happy."

"This is … possible," she conceded. "Not the usual kind of thing, but possible. Monitoring and controlling events and results for group efforts that you are specifically involved in. Bad luck to good luck, and so forth."

She drew forth from her robes a rolled-up parchment, which she handed over to him. He unrolled it and began to read through what turned out to be a fairly comprehensive document covering what they'd just spoken about. Checking each paragraph and clause carefully, he found nothing that nullified or negated the basic concept of what he'd requested.

"This all looks fine," he said eventually. "I'm almost surprised you didn't try to slip in any fine print."

She heaved an aggravated sigh. "The interloper's exact words were, 'None of that monkey-paw bullshit. Clean dealing, right down the line. I will know.' So no, there is no fine print."

"That's the second time you've mentioned this 'interloper'. I'm guessing he's your counterpart who's supplying Taylor's power to her?"

"Yes." Her look of aggravation had not gone away. "He shouldn't be allowed to do what he does! There are rules!"

"Hmm." He looked closely at her. "So … if you'd gotten to Taylor before this interloper did, what would you have done for her?"

"Oh, probably the ability to monitor and control bugs in her area."

"So, nothing that would actually help her deal with the ongoing bullying situation unless she used bugs on her bullies, then."

"Well, no. Why?" She looked at him, apparently missing the whole point of his comment.

"Oh, no reason." He held up the document. "I've read it through. Do I need to sign it or something?"

"No. Your acceptance is enough. When the outside world starts moving again, you will have your powers. I will no longer be here, but these men will still be. No time will have passed for them. Are you sure you don't want a power that will assist you in combat?"

"No, no, I got this." He nodded to her. "Thanks, I'll take it from here."

"Very well." She gestured; the golden glow vanished, as did the woman and the rolled-up parchment she was holding. As she'd advised him, the men were still there, with no idea what had happened.

Danny smiled.

<><>

Panacea

Amy followed Atropos up into the motorhome and down the narrow corridor. A tall dark-haired guy watched them go past from the passenger seat; as Amy glanced at him, he leaned back slightly out of the way. She figured it was mainly due to her proximity to Atropos, as nobody ever showed her that level of extreme respect when she showed up in costume as Panacea.

It was definitely something she could get used to, though.

Two guys and two girls (one of the latter apparently needing a wheelchair) watched Amy and Atropos go past as they proceeded down the corridor, mingled fear and respect and hope in their eyes. She heard whispers start up behind them:

"Was that the girl who was with her in Canberra?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I thought I heard Atropos say something about Panacea."

"Shh!"

They entered the rear of the motorhome, where a woman in her early twenties took up most of the room of what should've been a double-bed sleeping area. From the waist down, her body had bulged and mutated and grown extra parts, with eyes that blinked and teeth that snapped. Under all that, Amy presumed, were legs. Lots of legs.

The woman herself was not really in great shape. She looked haggard and worn, with chapped lips and dry, lank hair. Covering her upper body was a college sweatshirt. No item short of a size fifty extra large muumuu could've covered her lower body.

"Amy Dallon, meet Noelle Meinhardt." Atropos' tone was matter-of-fact. "Noelle, this is Amy. In a minute or so, she's going to be your very best friend in the whole world."

"Don't touch me." Noelle's voice was tired, as though she'd said that a lot. "Every time someone touches me, I generate an evil clone of them, and we have to kill it." She rolled her eyes. "So. Many. Times."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm here to kill your powers first, hey?" Atropos had switched from matter-of-fact to upbeat. She pulled her shears out and twirled them in a complicated pattern, then snipped the empty air over her other hand. Between one second and the next, her palm held a small plastic capsule. It had to be sleight of hand, but Amy would've required a camera with slowed-down footage to be sure. "Catch!"

Noelle blinked at the legerdemain but caught the capsule out of the air anyway. Frowning, she pulled it apart to reveal … "A grape?"

Atropos slid her shears back into their sheath. "Well, they do say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but I couldn't find a capsule big enough for an apple. So, a grape's just going to have to do."

"So, do I chew it up, or am I supposed to cut it into pieces?"

"Just chew it up." Atropos shrugged. "Eat it like every other grape ever. Trust me, it'll do its job."

The guy who'd gotten out to meet them spoke from over Amy's shoulder. "Um, what does it do? It's not poison, is it?"

"It is actually, but it's the type that kills her powers and not her." Atropos tilted her head toward Noelle. "In your own time, hon."

Taking a deep breath, Noelle popped the grape into her mouth and chewed on it, then swallowed. Amy watched her carefully; from the way the guy behind her was holding his breath, so was he. A few seconds passed, and Noelle didn't go into convulsions or start speaking in tongues.

"Um … so how do I know when it's working?" she asked, gesturing at the eye on one of her outlying areas, which had just blinked.

"Your skin fizzes when your power's active, does it not?" Atropos tilted her head. "Is it fizzing now?"

Noelle studied her hands. "I … don't think so?"

"Point. Okay, ready for a more dramatic test?" The shears were suddenly in her hand again. "You regenerate, correct?"

"Very, very quickly." The tiredness was back. "Even my head, when I'm shot. But it still hurts."

"Ready for a little pain?" Atropos poised the shears. "If the cut doesn't go away, no powers."

"Sure, what's a little more?" Noelle spread her hands.

"Alright then." Atropos slashed once with the shears. A cut opened up near the edge of Noelle's body, and a little blood flowed. Noelle barely reacted. The cut did not close.

Atropos flicked the blood from her shears and slid them away. "Panacea, would you say that cut is still bleeding?"

Amy nodded. "Yes, it is. Does that mean her powers are dead?"

"It does." Atropos held up a finger. "We're going to need a skirt. Because unless you can make clothing at the same rate as you make someone's lower body, there's gonna be some nudity going on in here. And I don't know about you, but I'm just a delicate flower."

Restraining herself from face-palming—Atropos was the exact opposite of a delicate flower, unless people were thinking of a Venus Flytrap on crack and steroids—Amy accepted a skirt that was passed forward to her, then handed it over to Noelle. "Put it on, then take my hands."

Wonderingly, Noelle did so. All the information on her body—and holy shit, had her powers messed her up—poured into Amy's mind. There was a dead spot, gradually growing, where Noelle's powers had been centred, but there was still plenty of mass to rebuild her legs and everything else that belonged below the waist.

Taking a deep breath, Amy set to work.

<><>

Danny

"You know, I don't think we will." John Giardini ran his hand over his clenched fist. "I think you need it explained to you how things work."

"Are you aware who's bankrolling this project?" Danny was willing to let them walk out unscathed if they saw sense. "Atropos, that's who. And she's already maimed and blinded people for trying to steal from the coffers."

"Which we're not doing," Pat Bianchi said flatly. "We're just laying down who you buy from, at what price. And you know, a little something-something coming back into your bank account isn't stealing either. That's money coming from us. A gesture of goodwill, let's say."

"I've never taken kickbacks in all my time in the Association, and I'm definitely not about to start now." Danny planted his knuckles on the desk and stared the businessmen in the eye. "Just as I'm not about to pay your inflated prices when I can get better deals elsewhere. And before you think about killing me, Atropos would absolutely take it amiss, to the point where you and all your associates would go the way of the Slaughterhouse Nine and the Simurgh. So, I would advise you to write all your terms on a sheet of paper, roll it up really tightly, and shove it where the sun don't shine."

Giardini shook his head. "He's not listening, Pat."

Bianchi frowned. "You're right. He's not. Connor, Michael?"

The large men who'd followed the aggregate and tar moguls into the office stirred and stepped forward. "Yes, sir?" asked one of them; Danny wasn't sure (and didn't care) if he was Connor or Michael.

Bianchi gestured toward Danny. "Rough him up some, then spread his right hand out on the desk so I can break it."

"Last chance." Danny could feel it coming together. The fight was about to start. And it was a 'group effort' in which he was involved. "Walk away … or be carried."

"Big words for one against four," sneered Giardini. "Get him."

With those words, he crystallised the situation. Danny was aware of every factor, every nuance. He knew which one was Connor and which was Michael; furthermore, he knew which way Connor would go, and that Michael would back his play. Michael had played gridiron in his youth, and had a weak left knee. Connor thought he was good-looking, and would prioritise his face for protection. And Giardini's statement of the odds had given Danny access to everyone in the room.

Grabbing up a paperweight shaped like a dry bulk carrier, Danny hurled it at Bianchi's sneering face. Bianchi saw it coming and tried to dodge, but Danny shifted the odds of his hitting and Bianchi's dodging to the point that it struck dead centre, knocking the man cold.

Connor was almost close enough to grab him by now, so he feinted a punch toward the man's face, forcing a flinch. That gave him just enough of an opening to grab up his chair and swing it into the side of Connor's head. Again, the chances were minimal that he'd score with it, but his newfound ability allowed him to lower the odds of a good defence and increase the possibility of a solid hit all the way up. The chair smashed into the side of Connor's head, sending him reeling across the desk then sliding to the floor.

Michael was coming up behind him, but Danny knew exactly where he was and what he was doing; a back-kick with the hard heel of his shoe rammed into the thug's knee, eliciting a rending, cracking sound and a high-pitched scream from the stricken Michael.

Placing his hand on the desk, Danny vaulted over it, increasing his chances of doing so to the point that he was successful. He landed in front of Giardini, who still seemed to be trying to comprehend what had happened to his colleague and his men. The man reflexively swung a punch, which Danny allowed to land, but dialled back the force to the point that it just barely split his lip and rocked his head back.

Then he retaliated. Punch after punch, each one far harder and more accurate than he would've been able to land in the normal course of events, rocked Giardini on his heels and drove him backward across the room. Holding him up by his lapel, Danny looked him in the eye.

"Get out of Brockton Bay, and don't make me come after you." Then he delivered a perfect right cross to the point of the man's jaw, dropping him unconscious to the ground.

Strolling back to his desk, Danny pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his split knuckles, then picked up the phone and dialled 9-1-1. "Yes, police, please. My name is Danny Hebert, and I work at the Dockworkers' Association. I've just been attacked in my office."

Giardini and Bianchi would lawyer up, of course. But they would also be out of Brockton Bay, and out of his hair. If they ever came back, he would be the least of their worries.

<><>

Taylor

I watched as Amy worked her magic, turning Noelle's monstrous lower body back into that of a young woman. As she worked, the excess mass seemed to almost wither and rot away, until Noelle was left sitting—legs curled under her—in the middle of a stinking circle of what remained.

"Okay," said Amy. "Up you get." She tugged upward on Noelle's hands, and Noelle wobbled to her feet. One foot and then the other stepped out of what had been her prison for so long. And then she was standing, free of her bonds, wearing the sweatshirt and the skirt.

"Oh my god," gasped Trickster—Francis Krouse—as he edged forward, trying not to shove past me. "Noelle. You're alright. You are alright, yeah?"

As Amy let go her hands, she basically fell into his arms. "I am now," she said. "I want to take a three-hour shower, and wash my hair about ten times, then a pizza, then another shower … oh, god." She turned her beaming expression toward Amy and myself. "Thank you. Thank you, both of you, so very much."

"Thank her." Amy gestured toward me. "This was all her idea."

"So, um, the payment," Trickster said, not letting go of her. It would've required high explosive to separate them at this point, I gauged. "We've got some cash—"

"I've got a better idea." I grinned under the mask. "No villains are allowed in the city. But if you pledge to me here and now that you won't break the law in Brockton Bay, I'm thinking you could maybe find worthwhile employment on the road gangs, using your powers. So instead of paying money, you could actually earn some. Legitimately, even."

"And if we don't?" asked Ballistic. "Not that I'm against the idea, but my power isn't that great for construction, and I'm totally untrained for anything like that."

I tilted my head. "Well, the other option is that I could accept your payment, then send you back home to Aleph." Stunned faces stared back at me. "Tell you what, think about it and let me know. Panacea needs to go home, and I have to deliver a message."

I turned and headed back down the corridor to the exit, and stepped out of the motorhome, with Amy right behind me. "Ready to go home?" I asked as the shadowy portal formed in midair.

She nodded. "Sure, but where will you be going to deliver your message?"

I held up the vial she'd given me, of targeted viral contagion. "Ellisburg."

Part 52