Chapter 299: Epilogue: Teneral E.1 & e.2

“I expect I’m not doing myself any favors,” the girl spoke.

“Favors?”

“Remaining silent. You’re here to judge me, and silence is damning.”

“I’m not so sure I like the word ‘judge’. Evaluate is a better word. Listen is better still. I want to listen to you, because I can’t help you if I don’t understand you, and I want my understanding of you to come from your words,” Jessica Yamada spoke.

“Silence says a great deal, does it not? I recently heard a man speak to the people in charge about the homeless, the masses of refugees we are still trying to find homes. He spoke of needs, of women and children, and of families that have been broken because temporary shelters don’t allow the men within. He proposed a plan, then justified it with a diatribe on humanity and pity, leadership and the threat of unrest, the threat of people manifesting powers, and he talked of faith. He finished on that note. Do you know what point the canniest people in the room are left paying attention to?”

“You were talking about silence. Something the man didn’t say.”

“You are paying attention,” the girl said, sounding mildly surprised.

“It’s my job.”

“Then you’re already aware that what one leaves out is as telling as what they include. The void in our speech, if you will. The gaps. The man said nothing of resources, of food supplies, because he does not want to raise the topic, and he has no answers there. Silence can be louder than words.”

The therapist nodded. “It’s an interesting thought, and it’s one we could talk at length about, but, please excuse me for saying so, I think you’re dodging the question.”

“Dodging?”

“Evading, avoiding-”

“I was not asking for clarification, doctor. I was expressing indignation,” the girl said, stressing the last word. There was a kind of vibration in the words as she said it.

“Whatever else you are, you’re still human.”

“There was a time I’d have swiftly responded to that,” the girl said. “You would be dead, if you were fortunate enough.”

“…And you’re acting like I should be able to read something in your silence. The problem is that speech needs periods of silence to be intelligible, to separate the words and keep it from being a steady drone of noise. To frame it. The opposite is true. To find the meaning in what’s left unsaid, we need words to punctuate it.”

The girl opposite Jessica Yamada frowned just a little. Her deep green eyes didn’t move a fraction as she met the therapist’s. It held an intensity that suggested she could have faced down a stampeding elephant or an airborne missile. Very reluctantly, she said, “…Fair.”

The therapist relaxed a touch, sitting back in her chair. “What we do here is up to you. I’ve had patients who enjoy this kind of verbal jousting. Many walk into a first session with preconceived ideas, that they’ll be forced to lie on a couch and bare their vulnerabilities while I pry at them with questions. A debate gives them their power back.”

“It’s the approach that makes sense. The, er,” the girl stumbled uncharacteristically as she searched for a word, “parahumans… they tend towards conflict.”

“There is a lot of evidence to suggest that’s the case. Do you? Tend towards conflict?”

“No. Which is a good thing, I imagine. My other half was always more patient, more relaxed than most. Its duty was always at the end. For those who had duties at the beginning, it would be harder.”

“How do you define beginning and end, when it’s a cycle?”

“Beginnings and endings,” the girl mused. She smiled a little. “I’m tempted to say you just know. That it’s instinctual, you know what you are. But that’s something of a coward’s answer. More correct to say that you can distinguish the two when there’s a long, long journey in the middle.”

The therapist shifted her position, taking a glass of water from the table beside her and sipping it.

No doubt inviting me to keep talking, the girl thought. She turned her attention to her drink. It was cold. She exercised her power, reaching into the deep dark well within her, and withdrawing a single individual.

Põletama, the firesinger.

The individual emerged, coalescing from shadows. A woman, dark skinned, with skin painted in wild colors that had once hidden her features as well as any mask. Where it had once been paint and flesh, the barest minimum of cloth, the flesh ridged. Her eyes burned as she stared out from the shadows of her deep-set eyes.

The girl didn’t take her eyes off the therapist as the firesinger reached out and put one glowing fingertip into the water. It took a moment for the liquid to start steaming.

The other two shadows stood at different points in the room. One stared at the bookshelf, its lips moving as it murmured in a voice only the girl could understand. The other stood at the window, arms folded, his cape moving in a wind that wasn’t present, hood hiding his features.

The girl in the heavy leather chair, by contrast, wore only a sleeveless top and a knee-length skirt. Both the collar of the top and the skirt had heavy lace at the edges. Her blonde hair was braided. It made her look far younger than she had in previous appearances, and she’d looked young then.

“You were tempted to say you instinctually know who you are,” the therapist said.

The girl tilted her head a fraction.

“To be blunt, I’d say the vast majority of my patients don’t know who they are.”

The girl lifted the steaming mug to her lips. The smell of the heavily spiced mead flooded the room. The therapist didn’t comment, hadn’t commented. She was technically legal, however young she might look.

The girl swallowed, then said, “What, not who.”

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” the girl responded.

The therapist spoke a little slower, as if she were testing her words in her head before she spoke. Exceedingly careful. “You seemed to know who or what you were, before, and you changed your mind.”

“People are allowed to do that. To change.” The response was dismissive, cavalier. All such a statement demanded.

“Do you consider yourself people, then? Just a minute ago, you said you would have taken offense to the idea.”

“You harp on. These are all variations on the same question,” the girl said.

“Yes. Who are you? How do you see yourself? Has that changed?”

“I am very possibly the strongest being alive on this planet, short of the remaining Endbringers.”

“Very possibly.”

“A murderer.”

“In what sense?” the therapist asked. “One who has murdered, or one who murders?”

“Same thing, isn’t it? You don’t leave that behind you. Nobody lets you.”

“People can forgive and forget.”

“They might forget murder, they might forgive madness, but they won’t be so ready to make peace with a lunatic murderer,” the girl said. She sniffed a little, as if scoffing at the thought. “You wanted to know who I am? I was perhaps Scion’s greatest ally, until… I wasn’t.”

“Why weren’t you?”

When the girl spoke, an echo had creeped into her voice. A chorus. “You know, I could kill everyone, if I so chose? If I decided to stand, right here and right now, and kill you all, it would be fully within my power?”

The therapist didn’t flinch.

“Do you doubt me?” The chorus was there in full. A hundred voices from one mouth.

“To be honest, I don’t know enough about the combat side of things to say,” Ms. Yamada said.

“It’s cause for any sane person to worry for their welfare, and for the welfare of their loved ones. You pretend indifference.”

“I’m anything but indifferent. I’m genuinely more interested in the fact that you seem to be avoiding the subject. A subject you raised.”

“I grow irritated with this pedantry,” the girl said. She stood abruptly from the chair. Two of the shadows dissipated into smoke.

Prolapse, torturer’s son.

P̄hū̂ comtī, rider in daylight.

The two new shadows took their place on either side of her. Big individuals. Villains, once upon a time.

The therapist continued, “You’ve stopped calling yourself the Faerie Queen. When I asked for a name, you stayed silent, and you sat there for nearly twenty minutes before talking. You could have helped Scion and destroyed us all then. You didn’t. I’m asking you what happened. It’s clearly important to you.”

The girl’s eyes didn’t waver, but she lowered her chin a touch, and the angle of her head cast her features in deeper shadow. When she spoke, the choir of voices that came from her mouth was calm. “Do you have a preference, in how you’d like to die? I have a range of powers at my disposal. There are swift methods, but perhaps you’d like to go out more dramatically? If you beg for mercy, I could spare others.”

“You’re allowed to say you don’t know the answer, Ciara. If it comes down to that, then I can suggest an answer and we can explore it together.”

The girl had gone still. Her shadows were flexing, one cracking knuckles on a hand roughly the size of the therapist’s entire upper body.

The girl considered the visuals of crushing the therapist, the way flesh would pulp and seep between the shadow’s great fingers. It was a good alternative to dwelling on the feelings that had just stirred.

“Nobody has called me by that name in a very long time,” the words were more a threat than anything.

“It was in the records,” Ms. Yamada said, “I need to hear the answer from your lips first, before I can offer you my thoughts. But let me warn you, I’m only offering a suggestion. Food for thought. I read the transcripts from the debriefing you gave Chevalier. You talked about anchors. I don’t want you to… ‘anchor’ to anything I say. Use it to find your own answer, instead.”

“You claim to know me better than I know myself.”

“We’ll discuss that point if and when we get that far. For now, I need to know your thoughts on what happened.”

“I-”

“But please sit down, first,” the therapist said. “We both know you could kill me at any moment, here. Having them here doesn’t change that, but it’s…”

“It is admittedly vulgar,” the girl supplied.

The therapist nodded. “We’ll go with that.”

The shadows dissipated.

Ampelos, the ill-fated. I was the ill fate.

Daimones, the lost.

The ones who replaced them were children. One, young enough to be androgynous, wore a long-sleeved shirt that hung down to its knees. It spun in place, skipping, then spinning again, a toddler at play. The other explored the room. The man with the hood and cape remained by the window, arms folded, staring out at the world beyond.

Ciara spoke. “He broke. He was strong, he was noble, proud. He was a monster, alien. They brought out the humanity in him, and then they broke him. I could have stepped in, but I didn’t. I don’t know why.”

The words were a challenge more than an admission. A demand for a better answer.

“Would you like to hear my theory, then?”

“As you wish,” Ciara replied. She didn’t quite manage to feign the indifference she was going for.

“You’re exactly what you appear to be.”

“What do I appear to be, doctor?”

“An adolescent.”

Ciara frowned. “I had hoped for a good answer. I’m older than you.”

“Only just. Chronologically, I think we’re the same age, nine months apart.”

“You miss my point,” Ciara said, clearly annoyed.

“No. I got it. Chronologically, you’re older, and by those measures, your youth is only a mask you wear. By other measures, you’re still a child. You triggered at a very young age, you were no doubt isolated, as masters tend to be. No doubt surviving purely by your own methods. Somewhere along the way, something happened. You stole the wrong power, you fought someone and lost, or you found yourself in a bad situation. In the course of that event or in the wake of it, you unlocked stronger powers, and they eclipsed you as a person. Am I too far off track, here?”

Ciara didn’t respond. Her hard stare was a challenging one, now, a hard stare.

“You were still a child, and you needed rules and a foundation to define yourself by, as any child does. Your chose your anchor, chose Scion, and you formed your view of capes as faerie to distance yourself from a world you barely felt in touch with. You built up your persona as Glaistig Uaine, a name others gave you. It might have even played a role in why you turned yourself in and took up residence in the Birdcage. You craved structure.”

“You’re calling me a child?”

“I’m suggesting you were functionally a child until a very short time ago. You’re now an adolescent. Scion was a powerful figure in your life, owing at least partially to your power’s involvement in your day to day, minute-to-minute existence. Virtually every child goes through a phase where their parents are invulnerable, incapable of failure, strong, and beautiful. They grow out of that phase when reality challenges that assumption. If what I’m suggesting was true, well, reality never challenged the assumption because it was true, in Scion’s case.”

“Up until the moment he began to lose,” Ciara said.

“Many begin to rebel against their parental figures around the time they enter adolescence, around the time they start seeing their parent as flawed humans. In your case, it was a faster process. A moment’s decision. Whether I’m right or not, you were thrust into a new mode of thinking, a new mode of being, and it has to be bewildering.”

“Your theory, then, is that the most powerful cell block leader of the Birdcage was a mere child, however old she might have appeared? That the answer to my present crisis in identity is that I am a mere teenager?”

“For the adolescent, the greatest, most defining challenge is to find themselves. To seek out identity. For the unpowered youth, it’s often a question of what clique they fit in, what clothes they wear, how they express themselves, and what path they want to step forward on, in terms of possible careers. For powered youth, it’s about all of the things I just mentioned, as well as the villain and hero labels, their place on the team, their place in family, the bonds they form. These are questions you’re now asking yourself. Am I wrong?”

“I dislike being painted with such broad strokes, doctor,” Ciara spoke.

“There are always variations,” Ms. Yamada said. “I’d never approach a patient with the idea that it comes down to this and this alone. It’s a starting point. You need to find yourself, and you need to do it with the burdens of the strongest human being on the planet. I’m telling you, here and now, that this is something everyone faces at some juncture. It’s perfectly alright to define yourself as ‘someone who is looking for definition’.”

The girl smiled a little. She lifted her mug to her lips, then wiped her mouth with her thumb.

The therapist took another drink of water. “You’re smiling? I suppose I don’t need to worry about my impending death, then?”

When Ciara spoke again, her voice was normal. “What you said is… a thought. I was smiling because I was wondering what your superiors would think if they knew what you’d told me. A powerful parahuman, free to find herself? Perhaps I’ll follow in the footsteps of my ‘parent’.”

“I don’t have any superiors,” the therapist said. “The PRT is done. There are groups trying to cobble together a replacement, but it’s looking shaky at best. I’m here because I was invited, and because I want to help people. I’d like to help you. I think everyone would be much happier if we found you a path that isn’t following in his footsteps.”

“Did I ask for your help?”

“You’re still here,” Jessica Yamada said. “Y-”

She didn’t get further. There was a knock on the door.

The concern on the woman’s face, Ciara noted, was more than it had been when she’d been threatened with her own imminent death.

“Please excuse me.” The woman stood from her chair and crossed the room. She opened the door.

Ciara watched as the figure unfolded before her. A giant armored in the skin of a monster, a knight, a wisp of a figure, all at once. She could see his very presence tearing through the doorframe, the slightest movement tearing whole sections of the building to rubble. She could feel the vibrations, taste the dust in the air.

But that was only one version of the building, out of sight, out of mind.

As if she was squinting without moving her eyelids, she refined her vision, saw him as the therapist saw him. A man in gold and black armor.

His voice was barely audible. “Ms. Yamada. I’m sorry to int-”

“I’m in a session, Chevalier. An exceedingly important session.”

“I know. I’m really very sorry. I had a small opening in my schedule. I was hoping for just one minute to talk with you.”

“I’m in a session. You agreed to abide by any rules I set. This was a pretty big one.”

“If I didn’t talk to you now, I’d have to wait three days to get another chance. My hands are full.”

“I can imagine. But I’m in a session.”

“One minute. Trust me when I say I know how important it is that you stick to your rules. But this is important enough that I have to ask. Can I have one minute of your time?”

The woman hesitated.

“Please.”

The therapist turned, meeting Ciara’s eyes. “No, Chevalier, I-”

“I’ll manage on my own,” Ciara said. “In fact, I would appreciate having a minute or two in private to think over what we talked about earlier.”

Ms. Yamada frowned. “I’ll be back shortly.”

The door closed.

Roucouler, the Liar.

The little girl that was exploring the room dissipated. A man appeared behind Ciara’s seat, his leering grin stretched into a caricature, a mockery of what he’d worn in life. His teeth had no divides between them, making them one bony shelf, and his eyes were stretched into slants by the too-wide grin. A cartoonish appearance.

Roucouler leaned over the top of the chair, and she could hear his whispers, in a French accent. He pitched his voice to distinguish between the two.

“-cohol in there?”

“She had her shadow make it for her. She’s not the type to get drunk, and it’s more of a comfort thing than anything else.”

“A bear walks into your restaurant. What do you serve him? Anything he damn well wants.”

“There is that. What do you want, Chevalier? This is nerve-wracking enough, without interruptions.”

“Did something happen?”

“I can’t talk about my sessions with my patients. If we’re going to talk, let’s talk about your business.”

“I’m running out of time. Three days from now is too long to wait, because things take time to set in motion. I’m going to have to start making decisions, about amnesty for everyone who participated in the fight, about the hero teams, how we’re going to administrate a city that has more sheer depth than anything we’ve ever conceived of. That woman, in there, she’s at the crux of this. Choices I make in regards to her affect everything else. If I forego amnesty for her, if I have to forego amnesty for her, then I’m drawing a line in the sand, and others are going to wonder if they fall too close to that line.”

“I can’t tell you how the session is going, Chevalier.”

“I hate that you even have to say that. I’m not going to ask you to violate any confidentiality. I’m saying I could really do with you making your evaluation and then sending her on her way. There’s apartments here, we can set her up very comfortably. As comfortably as a queen might want. If she needs further therapy, you can send her there. If she’s stable enough to discuss business, be it amnesty or something else entirely, you could send her to me.”

“I understand what you’re saying. If she’s dangerous enough to warrant violating confidentiality, it doesn’t matter. If she isn’t, then I can let you know how the therapy went without explicitly telling you. I’m not entirely comfortable with this.”

“There have been more overt communications on this front in other situations. Situations that weren’t so grave. We can’t afford not to know.”

“I can’t afford to tell you, Chevalier. I just… let me think on it.”

“That’s all I ask. We need help, Jessica. I know you can’t make a full judgement in three days, not with someone as… complex… as she is. But a starting point could make all the difference.”

“I understand.”

“We’re putting the pieces back together. The scale of it is the biggest issue. All these worlds. There’s room for people to start piecing their cultures and their cities back together, there’s wilderness. Everything old is still there. Sometimes multiplied many times over. But there’s a lot of new, with more every day. It’s all exaggerated. We don’t have clout, and there are a lot of powerful people throwing their weight around. Scary people.”

“Speaking of…”

“Your patient, I’ve kept you too long. I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m wondering about someone who was a patient some time ago. Can I ask about this ‘Khepri’?”

“You can ask, but you won’t like the answer. I wouldn’t want you to be distracted for the remainder of your session in there.”

Ciara heard the Liar sigh, mimicking the woman on the other side of the door. “I’ll take your word on that. I should get back to Ciara.”

“Ciara? Her civilian name. I’m going to walk away feeling optimistic about that.”

“My lips are sealed, Chevalier.”

There was no goodbye. The door handle moved, and the door swung open. Roucouler disappeared.

Pime Abtiss, mother of the blind.

Another shadow appeared as the therapist entered the room. A blindfolded woman with a small, deformed baby in her arms, umbilical cord stretching into a gap in the robe.

Ciara could see a glimpse of the giant in the hallway, retreating, before the door shut.

“I’m very sorry. That took longer than I expected,” Ms. Yamada said, as she took her seat.

“No matter,” Ciara said. She ran her hand over the baby’s misshapen head. It dissipated into shadow, along with Pime Abtiss. She didn’t replace it with another shadow. “Forgive me, I overheard.”

The therapist reacted a little to that. There was a moment’s pause, as if she was recalling everything that was said, searching for any damning detail.

“I’ll spare you the dilemma, doctor. When we are done, tell me where I should go. I relieve you of any confidentiality, tell the Destroyer what you must.”

“I don’t think that’s what we should aim for,” the therapist said. “If we go with my theory from before, then you’ve only just started making strides on your own. You’re growing up, belatedly, and you need to start making choices for yourself.”

“You’d let me choose?”

“I think a better place to start would be figuring out who you want to be. That equips you to choose, if you feel you’re ready.”

“And what if I were to say you’re being presumptuous, that I don’t need your help? I know who I am?” There was a threatening note to the girl’s voice, a return of that echo.

“Then we can talk about something else. Or you can go, if that’s what you really want.”

Ciara didn’t move, and her shadows remained in place, poised like animals ready to pounce.

While the girl remained still, the three shadows resumed their ordinary business.

“Let’s begin, then,” Ms. Yamada said.

■

The rooftop was lined with crenelations and a wrought metal railing in a metal darker and stronger than iron. Some capes rested in the spaces between the twists of metal, while others sat with their backs to the shorter wall beneath it. The crowd had gathered around.

But the moment she relaxed, it became something else. Phantom images, a man on fire, a woman who stood half again as tall as others. Images like her own shadows, caricatures, exaggerations, powers manifested physical. Except these were undoubtedly alive. They shifted from moment to moment.

“Legend?” the Destroyer- Chevalier spoke. His voice echoed, but despite the massive size of his one suit of armor, or the slight form of his other suit, mangling the body within, the three voices were the same, only coming from different places.

A man who blazed with light stepped forward. He was a living bonfire, blue-white in color, with living etchings solid in the midst of it, white hot, a stylized mixture of flame and lightning in one shape, floating in the storm of energy. They marked the position of his head, of his chest, his hands and feet.

When the Coruscant Knave spoke, though, his voice was normal. Legend, she reminded herself.

“I was there at the beginning. I suppose it’s fitting that I’m here at the end. Maybe not right, there’s a hell of a lot I’m sorry for, but it’s fitting.”

He took a deep breath, the flame swelling. “They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. Let’s shorten this speech, then and take a second to look.”

He gestured, and heads turned.

New York, in the process of being rebuilt. Dust and ominous clouds were being held at bay by a thin forcefield, and the city stood in the center of a brilliant sunlight. Where glass had broken and where oils had risen to the tops of city streets, things almost glittered. A shining city.

For every damaged area, there were people, fixing things, scavenging and hauling things away. Tents and tarps were erected, barriers raised. Already, buildings were going up where portals had been torn between realities.

Chevalier had called it a city with depth. It was true. Most cities existed on a two dimensional level, spreading along the four cardinal directions. Buildings extended above and below ground, but even the tallest building was but a fraction of a distance compared to the breadth of the city.

Here, in this city, one could travel to one area and make a turn into another world. There, they would find the fledgling beginnings of an expansion, sprawling from that central point.

It was too much to manage. Even the smallest villains had elbow room to maneuver and manipulate.

“I’ve never been one to couch my words. I’m direct, like my lasers,” Legend said. “It’s beautiful and it’s frankly terrifying. The Endbringers are, we’re praying, dormant. The major players are busy recovering and rebuilding, giving us six straight months of peace for the first time in twenty years. If you count non-parahuman conflict on a global scale, well, I don’t know how long it’s been. It’s been a hell of a while, if ever.”

Ciara closed her eyes briefly. When she reopened them, Legend was his human self.

Tiring, to maintain focus.

“The peace will end. It always ends. When things go bad, it’ll be worse because we’ve had the break, because it’s had time to stew, and because we’re still reeling from last time. But I know you, I’ve fought alongside a number of you. The badges you wear are signs of that.”

Ciara glanced around. Like her, many of the capes wore a simple symbol on their upper arms, a golden circle with a golden dot in the middle. For some, it was a loop of cloth, for others, it was engraved on armor.

A simple symbol testifying that they’d been there.

“There’s no more oversight, for better or for worse. That means it’s our job to keep our eyes open, to watch each other’s backs, and to watch each other. I can tell you right now it’s not going to be perfect. Maybe I’m a living reminder of the fact that we can’t trust anyone. For those of you who were paying attention, the circumstances of Alexandria’s demise in Brockton Bay are a testament to what happens when the corruption runs too deep. Nobody benefits.”

Legend sighed. “Some are still angry at me. At Alexandria, Eidolon, and others, who played parts. But you haven’t spoken up, you haven’t interrupted me. I’d like to think it’s because we’re all recognizing the same fact. This? It’s our second chance. Something we’ve all dreamed about from time to time. A chance to cut out the rot and start anew, to fix things that were broken before.”

There were one or two nods around the group.”And it’s going to be hard,” Legend said. “Those who know how badly we fucked it up on the last try, who know the full story, they get why this is so frightening a prospect. We still have to clean up the messes from last time, and we have to be doubly, triply sure we move ahead properly this time. Already, there are people plotting to take advantage of present circumstances. Already, there are things going wrong. It’s an uphill battle.”

“But,” Chevalier cut in, “Like those badges we wear show, we’ve all fought in at least one bitch of a battle, and we came out ahead.”

“I’ll be damned if we’re not ready for this one,” Legend agreed.

Cheers rose from the group. Fists pumped in the air, boots stomped.

“And,” Legend said, while the cheering was present but dying down, “With all that said, we’re moving forward with our second chances. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of our Wardens. Valkyrie.”

He gestured, and the crowd parted. All eyes fell on her. When she stepped forward, she had to be careful, her longer legs unfamiliar. Staying young had come with benefits. The Crone, Schwarze Tante, had been able to give Ciara some of the time she’d stored away. The ghost of a hero called Thane had fashioned her armor, shield and sickle.

The crowd parted as she approached.

The body of a nineteen year old was an unfamiliar one, the costume even more so. Gold and sky blue. The cloth that dangled from her belt traced the insides of her thighs to her knees, the skirt stopped mid-thigh, silent even with the gold chains that traced its edges. The mask didn’t block any of her vision, but it pressed against her cheekbones and forehead, reminding her of its presence. Even her hair was longer, tied back in a thick braid.

She liked the wings, though. The wings were good. The rest would take getting used to, after thirty years as the childlike Faerie Queen, but the wings were a natural fit from the start.

“You’ve formed a new Triumvirate,” a cape in the crowd said.

It might have sounded accusatory.

“Valkyrie will be starting on the bottom,” Legend said. “She’ll earn her way to whatever rank is most fitting.”

There were murmurs in the crowd. For many, the sentiment was the same. I think we know what rank that will be.

For every two people that thought the strength she brought to the table was a good thing, there was one who was suspicious, doubting, or discouraged. They knew who she was. The figures that accompanied her made it clear enough. She couldn’t think of them as shadows anymore.

She liked debating words, the power of words, of titles. It had been her favorite part of the sessions with the therapist. The subject of renaming them had come up in the recent past, along with the discussion of what her new identity meant, and her new name.

Valkyrie, warrior women who guided the souls of dead warriors to the afterlife. These spirits were her warriors, not mere shadows.

No, perhaps two people in her camp to one person against was optimistic. There were others harboring doubts, a little slower to offer their congratulations. Given time and a night to think about it, they would start to think about what her presence meant, that they might fall in battle and that she would claim them for herself, adding to her own power.

Her vision flashed. For a moment, she might as well have been in hell. The capes here on the rooftop were inhuman, even monstrous, distorted and exaggerated. The city glowed with the distant presence of other capes, as though it were on fire.

Valkyrie resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose or shake her head. Her heart pounded long after the image had faded.

Nobody had said this would be easy. Just the opposite.

The speech was done, and the city around them demanded attention. Slowly, capes began peeling away from the group.

“Hey, Valkyrie?” Miss Militia asked.

Valkyrie turned her head.

Miss Militia jerked one thumb in the direction of a man with a massive round shield and spear. “Want to join us for a meal? We’re leaving on patrol soon, so we were going to grab an early dinner. You’re welcome to come with.”

Valkyrie opened her mouth to speak, then thought twice about it.

She was still learning to talk normally, to stop affecting the faerie noble’s manner of speech. She was getting lessons, and it wasn’t perfect yet. If she spoke, it would turn heads.

Except here, now, she almost missed the familiarity of it. The power of her old voice.

“No obligation,” Miss Militia said. “Honest. I get it.”

Miss Militia had been the one to invite Ms. Yamada in, to connect them, and give her a chance. She knew, perhaps better than Chevalier or Legend.

Valkyrie offered her a tight smile, then turned to leave.

When she walked down the hall, flanked by her three chosen warriors, her heels struck the floor. There were Wardens in the hall, talking.

“Where’s Defiant?”

“Complete radio silence.”

She was half again as tall as she had been, fit, glittering in armor, carrying a weapon and shield, and she felt more fragile than she had in a long time.

Incomplete.

Her vision flickered again, like lightning before a crash of thunder.

As the Faerie Queen, she’d had a mission. She’d been a part of something vast, a powerful engine that had reshaped whole civilizations, then erased worlds from the universe.

“We’ve got muscle now. Might be we can make headway. Retake the Eastern Queens portal.”

“Shh.” Eyes turned towards her. They talked about her like she was a secret.

Too many people. She needed to talk to the therapist, but Ms. Yamada wasn’t here. She’d come at a moment’s notice, with only one phone call, but it somehow felt like that would only compound the feeling of fragility.

I wanted to be more human.

Never human, per se. Only more human. Parahuman, instead of inhuman.

She’d spent so much time in therapy, figuring out what Scion had been to her, coming to terms with the loss of the pillar he’d become in her psyche.

In trying to distance herself from him, had she set herself on the exact same path?

Seeing the flickers in the crowd wasn’t helping. She avoided them, making her way downstairs, into an adjoining structure. Once upon a time, she’d used that other sight exclusively. In this, in the here and now, she was warring with the keeper of the dead. A part of why she felt incomplete, fragile. They craved purpose. It took a special kind of willpower to avoid using abilities altogether. Some did, but they were rare.

Using her power meant killing, it meant being around the dead, immersing herself in the gravest kinds of conflict.

Would her experiment in humanity be so short lived?

She found an empty hallway and took it. Things were under construction here, hidden behind plastic. She ignored it, taking the paths that were available to her.

Finally, she came to a large room, a cafeteria, apparently, unfinished. Only half of the tables were present, the kitchen unoccupied and unstocked. The serving area had two tracks where trays could slide. One of the two racks was behind a thick plexiglass barrier.

She sat down on a table, her feet on the bench, lost in thought.

Not five seconds in, her official phone rang.

She ignored it. I only want some peace.

This wasn’t her. Had it been madness? Arrogance? Joining the side of the angels?

Her vision was distorting. Even this far away from other parahumans, her other sight was showing their presence as a glow, as ripples. She turned her eyes skyward, but one figure streaked through the sky, well above her.

She heard voices, and turned.

“We meet again, Faerie Queen,” the voice echoed through the chamber.

She turned to see a thin man accompanied by a brutish caveman of a figure, walking on the other side of the thick plexiglass. A child was on this side, petite, blonde, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans with pink sneakers.

Valkyrie felt a pang of jealousy. She missed her old body, and the girl resembled her, superficially.

“Goblin King,” Valkyrie responded. “I don’t go by that name anymore.”

“A pity, a pity. This is my Alice, visiting our not-so-wondrous Wonderland.”

“Riley,” the girl said. “I keep telling you, it’s not Alice, Riley.”

“A mere title, not a name,” the man tittered some. It was an eerie sound, coming from someone his age and gender. Not that Valkyrie minded. She’d dealt with worse in the Birdcage.

“Nevermind,” Riley said. “Alice it is. Whatev.”

Valkyrie looked between the two. “Are you allowed to be here?”

“I’m incarcerated,” the Goblin King said. “She’s visiting.”

“Officially visiting. They’re watching me. Probably watching you, too. We’ve played nice for the last stretch, and the illustrious Nilbog gets visits as a reward, so long as he’s good. We each keep our distance from the barrier, and they don’t use the cameras to fill us full of darts.”

Valkyrie followed the girl’s eye to a camera mounted in the corner.

“As you can tell, I keep friends of the highest caliber,” Riley said.

“Yes, yes,” the man said, seeming very pleased with himself. The sarcasm appeared to be lost on him. “A fallen king is still a king, yes?”

“If he can hold his head high, then he’s more kingly than a man who relies on the crown and silks,” Valkyrie said.

“Yes! Yes! Quite right!” Nilbog agreed.

Riley was smiling, as if despite herself.

The phone was ringing again. Valkyrie canceled the call. She knew why they were calling, now. They were less than comfortable with this trio in one room together.

No matter.

“I came for my weekly dose of sanity, if you know what I mean,” Riley said. “Spend enough time with them, you need a break from it all.”

“I do believe I know what you mean,” Valkyrie said. You mean just the opposite. A weekly dose of madness. A return to the familiar. Both for comfort, and to serve as a reminder of how far they’d come.

Dangerous, perhaps. She wondered if she’d share this with Ms. Yamada.

Probably. People would pass on word. They were all being tracked, no doubt.

But would she share what this meant to her? That she felt more secure than she had, leaving the rooftop meeting and speech?

“Shall we share stories of long ago?” Nilbog asked. “Of our kingdoms, as they were?”

“We could,” Valkyrie said. “Tragedies? Comedies?”

“In my stories,” Riley said, “The line between tragedy and comedy is awfully thin.”

“I suspect my stories are mostly tragedies,” Valkyrie said. “Everyone worth talking about dies in the end.”

“Just the opposite for me,” the Goblin King said. He ran one hand along the cheek of the neanderthal figure beside him. When he turned to face the barrier, he limped, and the brutish man helped him stay balanced. “My favorites persist, they keep coming back to start the adventure anew, a little different every time. This is my helper. They allow me him, only him.”

For a man talking about comedies, he looked sad.

The amnesty still hasn’t gone through in entirety. There are snarls, like this king without a crown or a kingdom.

There were distant running footsteps, growing in volume as they drew closer, suggesting that capes were en route to intercept her.

Valkyrie glanced over her shoulder.

“I suspect this visit will be cut short.”

“Fuck,” Riley said. “Not that the goblin king isn’t awesome, but…”

She trailed off.

“Maybe another time,” Valkyrie said. She raised her hands as the capes entered the room from the far corner. She had to pick her words carefully, so she wouldn’t sound strange. “I’m being good.”

“We’d like to play it safe,” one of the capes said. “If you don’t mind.”

“I understand.”

“Another day, Faerie Queen,” Nilbog said. He smiled, bowing a little.

Valkyrie returned the bow. When she rose to her full height, she was smiling a little in turn. It surprised her.

Flip sides of the same coin.

Rebirth.

The act was an idle one, like one might move a hand inside a pocket to double check there was nothing inside it. She used her power. Bringing one of her warriors through, on the other side of the barrier.

The neanderthal reacted. Valkyrie’s warrior didn’t manifest in full, but it flowed through the neanderthal’s body before rejecting the host.

Almost. Close.

Shepherd of the dead, Valkyrie thought, as she walked away. The Goblin King was shushing his creation.

They were all parts of a whole. The Chirurgeon, the Maker, the Keeper of the Dead. It only made sense that there would be synergies between such abilities.

A way to bring her dead back, perhaps?

She could see them, in the dark recesses, waiting, loyal, obedient. The ones she’d collected, some still mending from the great fight six months ago.

She felt better now. Less incomplete. Her other half was content with this line of thinking.

She just wasn’t sure where she’d take it.

Teneral e.2

Nero leaned back in his chair, propping a boot on the edge of his desk. His lieutenants were bringing a line of prisoners into his ‘office’.

They were treated to a view of a tall, muscular man, wearing armor on his legs, shoulders and arms, his chest and stomach bared, marked with small scars. His helmet had dark slits forming an ‘x’ over each eye to allow him to see, and the metal came together in the middle to form an axe blade, extending from his chin to his forehead. His longer brown hair and beard were visible behind and below the edges of the mask.

Braziers burned on either side of him, in the corners of the room, casting him in a flickering orange-red light while filling the room with a haze of smoke. Things had been expanding quickly enough that they couldn’t give away of all of the wood they were cutting down. Some wood was reduced to planks, while other trees were stripped of the exterior bark and branches and used wholesale, forming older-looking log buildings. Problem was, every tree that came down and every tree that was stripped meant huge amounts of debris. There were crews working on producing sawdust and chipboard, but even that was work intensive. Most went into the fires.

This first winter would be the biggest test for the various settlements. Six months in, there were still far too many displaced people, and far too little in the way of shelter, despite wholesale efforts to put things in place.

The prisoners, the slaves, finished filing in with their shuffling footsteps. Many looked at him, then looked away, spooked. More than a few were still in sleepwear, a couple were less than fully decent. They’d been dragged from their shelters and homes, forced to climb into trucks and shipped here.

The resentment and fear was clear on their faces.

He took his time looking them over.

Lucan stepped up to the desk. “The product-”

“Is it urgent? Are people dying?”

“No, but-”

“Are we going to die because of problems with the product?”

“No. People getting sick. It was cut with something ugly, we think.”

“That can wait.”

Lucan nodded, stepping back.

“I am not an especially cruel man,” Nero addressed the prisoners.

They didn’t believe him. Nobody relaxed or even moved, at those words.

“You work, you get your tokens,” Nero said. He opened a drawer, grabbed one pile of chains with attached tokens from inside, and then tossed the things onto the desk. They clattered, and one or two prisoners flinched.

“This is my system. We can’t police things every step of the way. Shelter, food, supplies, it slows things down, creates too much confusion. We use these.” He stabbed the pile of tokens with one finger. “So long as you have one, so long as you earn one, you can have what you need for the week. Food, water, and shelter. Get more tokens, you get access to more. Luxuries, comfort, a chance to voice concerns to me and my men.”

He turned his gaze on each of the prisoners. “You took these things without a token in hand, which makes you thieves. If you had empty pockets when it came time to pay in a restaurant, they’d make you work as a dishwasher. I’m going to do the same. You’re getting punished, and then I’m giving you to Lucan there. He’ll work you for the week, keep you in chains and give you the bare minimum you need to get by. You’ll earn the tokens you pretended you had. Tokens you more or less stole from me.”

He gestured to his lieutenant with one gauntlet. Lucan held a shotgun, and one of his eyes was bloodshot, a perpetual beam of light extending from it. Lucan offered a sly smile.

Still, the prisoners didn’t move.

“If you try to run, you won’t escape. One of the names they gave me was Persecutor. I was good at finding things and finding people before I got powers, and I got better after. If it gets to the point where you’re back here a second time and I recognize your face? It’ll get uglier. If you try to shirk your duties and leave, it’ll get uglier. You follow?”

There were reluctant nods from the line of prisoners.

“This is the way things are,” Nero said. “You’ve got guys like me in charge because you need us in charge. Adapt.”

“Adapt?” one prisoner said. An old man, his hair sticking up from sleep and a lack of shampoo. He sounded just a little drunk. “Only reason you’re there and we’re here is you got powers.”

Nero didn’t move. “Did you have tokens my lieutenants didn’t find?”

“No tags. I worked a full nine days, and they didn’t give me any tags. How am I supposed to work the next seven?” the older man retorted.

“If you don’t have three tokens, then you don’t have the right to look me in the eye and talk to me.”

“Then punish me, but I’m going to say what I want to say. You don’t deserve this. Being in charge. You’re causing more trouble than good. We were doing fine before you came. You’re a thug who got a lucky roll of the dice.”

Nero shifted position, leaning forward, setting one armored elbow onto the desk. The posture helped to show the golden dot-within-a-circle emblem on his upper arm. “You don’t know what powers take from you, old man. What they cost us, the wars we’ve been in, the people we’ve all lost. Hell, you don’t know what it takes to get ’em. So when you find that out, when you get your own powers, enjoy them for a bit, then you can talk to me. If you don’t get that far, you’d better learn to bow and scrape. I’m better than most, believe me. I’m actually fair.”

“Your lieutenants demand two weeks of work for one week of sustenance. They demand sexual favors and help themselves to the things we managed to bring with us. Precious things. To me, that means you have to be a fucking idiot, running the day to day while they take advantage of you.”

Two teenagers in the group cast a worried glance in the man’s direction. Roughly the same age, seventeen or eighteen. Nero stared at them for long seconds as he considered the man’s words. He glanced at Lucan.

Lucan shrugged. When the gunman looked towards the line of prisoners, the red laser that extended from one eye moved to suggestive places. The prisoners shifted uncomfortably.

Hooligan, Nero’s self-imposed jester, entered the room with a canvas bag, open at the top and sides, wood scraps and sticks stacked within. He unloaded it in the brazier. Where snow lingered on the branches, the fire popped and steamed, adding to the heavy atmosphere in the room. He paused, glancing at the prisoners, then looked at Nero.

Nero raised a hand, gesturing for Hooligan to stop. “Stay, Hooligan”

He stood from his seat, crossing the room until he faced Lucan. He was three or four inches taller, which combined with his armor to make him rather intimidating.

“Sorry,” Lucan said, his voice a bit rough, “Man’s right. I’m milking you for everything you’re worth, Persecutor. Manipulating you left, right and center.”

“Tragic, a travesty,” Nero said. Then he allowed himself a chuckle, looking at the prisoners, “We’re old friends. Next time, don’t go thinking you can turn people against one another, if they’re close enough to have matching codenames. Want to try anything else, old man?”

The man didn’t show any disappointment. “Do your worst.”

“Ah, that’s not smart,” Nero said. He paused, as if suddenly restless. When he did finally speak, it was with a steadily rising volume. “Breaking my rules while living in my territory, you insult me to my face, and then you tell me to do my worst?”

The older man didn’t flinch.

“Those two,” Nero said, pointing at the two teenagers who had reacted earlier. Nero didn’t take his eyes off the man. “They were with him?”

“No,” the old man said.

“Yeah,” Lucan answered. “All squatting in one room.”

Nero nodded slowly. His fingertips drummed on the table. “Don’t touch the old man. Lock him up, but don’t touch him. His kids…”

“No,” the man said. “No!”

“They take it instead. Let’s leave no doubt they paid a price,” Nero said. “Shave their heads, then give them tattoos, nice and big, in a place where people can see.”

He raised his hand, cupping it. A device, slowly rotating in midair, began to appear, slivers flying out of nowhere to fit in together like pieces from a puzzle. A long needle, a site for the ink to be plugged in, a handle… it was soon orbited by three vials. Rather than slivers, the liquid came in as round droplets, seeping into the vials to fill them before the splinters sealed the exterior.

“Face? Neck?” Lucan asked.

“No!” the man’s scream was ragged.

Nero held out his hand, and Lucan took the device, holding out another hand to intercept the vials of colored ink as they completed one last rotation, slapping his palm.

Nero approached the youths, taking hold of one’s chin and the other’s neck. Slivers appeared, converging on a point inside them, but when he pulled away, there was nothing visible. “Face or neck will do. Both, maybe. Something like ‘property of Nero’, a drawing of my mask, or maybe a thank you to daddy, just to drive the point home,” Nero mused. “He did say I should do my worst, so be sure to give them a light beating, and… hm. We sell all the product already?”

“Still some left over,” Hooligan said. He was smiling, still holding the empty canvas bag. Enjoying the show.

“Then, as long as this merry band wants to take stuff for free, give this man’s son and daughter a share of the product.”

“No! No! Please!”

Nero stared at the screaming man. “By the time they go back to their daddy, I want them hooked enough they’ll beg to do my lieutenants favors or give my lieutenants anything of value they can think of.”

The older man crumpled, doubling over, falling as much as he could fall with the chain stretching between his shackles and those of the people on either side of him. The pair of teenagers were cowering as Hooligan and Lucan approached, but the chain limited their ability to move to mere feet.

The prisoners on either side stepped in, partially because of the pull on the chain, drawing them together, partially out of an instinctive need to provide some measure of protection to the vulnerable.

Hooligan hopped up, flipping around until he was walking on the ceiling, then hopped down, landing behind the teenagers. Keys twirled around one finger.

Hooligan began unshackling the pair. Lucan hit one of the people in the way with the butt of his shotgun, and the prisoners began backing away, stretching the chain taut once again.

“Uncle!” the teenaged boy screamed. Panic was taking over, but Hooligan was stronger than he looked.

“The rest each get a light beating,” Nero said, “Nothing severe enough to keep them from working. Believe it or not, uncle, I’m trying to run this area. I’m not especially cruel. Not in relative terms. There are much worse people out there.”

The man looked shell shocked, caught between staring at Nero and watching the struggles of his niece and nephew as they were dragged into a back room by Hooligan. Lucan tossed Hooligan the tattoo gun and ink.

“Uncle!” the boy screamed.

The door slammed, and the uncle looked like he’d been physically struck by the slab of wood.

“The rest of you, I know you don’t like me, and you won’t. But we’re going to make it through this winter, working hard even when it’s cold, we’re going to expand. If you don’t wind up leaving, I think you’ll see the fruits of what I’m doing here. We’ll be in better shape than other districts.”

They were listening, if only because it beat listening to the ongoing screaming in the other room.

“Those other districts? I can tell you now, they have crowds of people in big empty buildings, shoulder to shoulder around fires, taking turns going out to get firewood. Getting cabin fever, whiling away the days, rationing food, trying to ignore the fact that some toddler or old person shit in a dark corner or pissed in their beds because they couldn’t be bothered to go outside. We’re already better off, understand? We can work through the season because I’ve got the tools, the warm clothes and everything else we need, and it’s going to keep us sane. And when winter passes and spring starts, we’ll be a step ahead, and you’ll be living in proper apartments, head and shoulders above the new people who are clamoring to live here.”

He turned his head as he looked over the group of prisoners. “You’ll thank me. You won’t want to, won’t even want to think it, you won’t like me, but you’ll thank me for this, deep down inside, somewhere down the road.”

No response, nothing. He had intimidated them into submission.

“Take them, Lucan. Make it clear that their theft from this community won’t be tolerated, then get them settled in for the night. They start work tomorrow. We’ll talk about the product when you’ve got them settled.”

Lucan nodded. He gestured with the shotgun, and the line began moving, the empty shackles where the teenagers had been clattered. Some prisoners stepped forward to help get the older man to his feet.

The group filed out.

Nero waited until they were gone, then pulled his helmet off. He ran his hand through his hair, then scratched his beard.

He made his way back to his desk, then sat down.

The chair wasn’t in the position he’d expected it to be. He found himself falling.

A chain went taut around the bare skin of his neck. He jerked to a stop, his rear end on the tilted chair, feet off the ground, his neck held up by the chain.

When the momentary panic was gone, he reached for the edge of the desk. The chains of handcuffs clinked, pulling taut between his wrists and the armrests of the chair. The cuffs had been looped through a strap, rather than around the armor of his wrists. That didn’t make them much easier to remove.

He raised his legs, pushing against the underside of the desk to relieve the pressure. He was allowed that much. If he pushed further, rocked himself forward…

“Trust me on this, you want to stop struggling.”

He froze.

She sat on the desk, both hands on the other end of the chain. It looped up to the ceiling, through a hook, and down to his neck. She was the one holding him up.

She tilted her head a little. She wore a mask with a reptilian smile, teeth extending past the ‘lips’ at the corners, but the grin was barely visible with the heavy scarf that was piled around her shoulders. The mask had slanted eyes, black from corner to corner, and horns that curved over the top of her head. Her hair, in black cornrows, was free behind the mask. She wore a jacket and black cargo pants over a skintight outfit, all black.

“Look down,” Imp said.

He did, as much as he was able.

There was a board resting on the ground. Nails and knives had been stuck through it, jagged, irregular. It was positioned so that if he fell, it would impale the back of his head and neck in fifteen or twenty different ways.

He felt his blood run cold. If she found him too heavy, or if the chair legs slid…

How had she even done this?

“Now you’ve got the gist of it,” she said. “Now, unless you want to be a skewered little fishy, you should stay put. You and me are going to have a conversation.”

He took in a deep breath. “Okay. A conversation. I have money, though it isn’t worth much, I’ve got food stores enough to last a winter… we can stretch it thin if we have to. I’ve got territory. Good amount of product.”

“The product is our first topic of conversation.”

“You can take all of it.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to take it. For one thing, I know it’s bad stuff, people getting sick.”

“You heard?”

“I laced it,” she said.

“Oh.”

“And I heard. Thing is, I’m not interested in grabbing your stuff. Just the opposite.”

“You ruined my product so you could sell me yours.”

“Will you stop talking?” she asked. “Longer this conversation goes, the more tired my hands are going to get, you follow me?”

“I follow.”

She set the pointed toe of her boot on the front of the chair, between his knees, “Here’s the deal. You’re selling drugs. I kind of have a pet peeve on the subject, I’m sure you get my drift. Tattooing people and reigning through terror, they’re not so cool either, you know?”

“Ah. A vigilante.”

“No. Will you shut your goddamn mouth? You keep being wrong, and one of the reasons I’d make a pretty piss-poor vigilante is I’m the type of person who’d let go of this chain if you annoyed me enough.”

“I… Mm hmm,” he said.

“Plan was I’d traipse in here, fuck up your shit, leave a calling card, and then leave. Sort of a modus operandus, you know? I’m working on building a rep as a… not-assassin. A shit fucker-upper, if you will.”

“Modus operandi,” he replied, a reflexive response.

“Oops!” she said. He dropped, the chain rasping as it ran through the hook in the ceiling.

He stopped short, a half-second later. His yelp of a scream was belated, following the stopping rather than the fall.

“What was I saying? Right. Well. I happened to overhear your whole deal, and now I’ve got a problem. It sounds really, really familiar.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Supporting the territory, ruling with a measure of fear? I’ve seen people go this route. They did it more instinctively. This felt forced, right here.”

“This is how I operate,” Nero spoke.

“I don’t buy it. Look, there’s not that many major players out there. Fewer still who’ve got all the dirty details, and who’d be in a position to know certain things. Let’s stop pretending you have the memory of a goldfish. You got help. What you’re doing here, it took resources to establish.”

“My power, I can make things. Tools, raw materials, weapons. I have resources in abundance.”

“Giving you five seconds. Then I let go, and I interrogate Hooligan.”

“Hooligan?” his eyes moved in the direction of the room Hooligan had entered, but he couldn’t see around the side of the desk.

“A little tied up at the moment.”

“And Lucan?”

As if the question had prompted it, there was a knock at the door.

Imp’s eyes met Nero’s. For a long moment, the pair were very still.

“Come in!” Imp called out.

The door opened. Three youths entered. A young teenaged boy with wild blond curls, a ten year old with straight black hair, and another girl, one or two years younger with a manic grin and her dark hair cut in a pixie style. All wore black.

Nero relaxed his neck, letting his head dangle. A slight groan passed through his lips.

“Close the door?” Imp asked.

The blond boy did. Ahead of him, the grinning child ran across the room, hopping up onto the desk with enough force that she slid bodily into Imp.

Nero let out an involuntary noise of alarm, as if convinced Imp would let go.

“So, to get you brats caught up, Nero and I were talking, and I can’t help but feel like there’s something fishy with this whole business. Too familiar, really.”

“Familiar how?” the blond boy asked.

“Like he’s copying someone I knew. Except I know there was nobody like him in the area, watching and taking notes. Raises questions,” Imp said.

Nero piped up, his voice a little strangled, “There’s nothing like that, honest!”

“And he’s playing dumb, which is really piscine me off,” Imp said.

“That’s two fish lines, now,” the blond boy said. He had his hands jammed into his pockets. “Why?”

“Dudes,” Imp said, turning around to get a better look at him. “Did I finally just pull off a reference you ankle-biters didn’t get?”

The girl with straight hair crossed the room until she stood beside Nero. Her voice was a quiet deadpan as she stared down at him, “Nero, not Nemo.”

“What?” Imp asked. She turned around. “Wait, what? No! Really?”

The blond boy nodded as he smirked a little.

“No! Oh god, no! All this time spent on fucking setting up, hammering shit into the floor so the chair wouldn’t slide, getting that fucking hook in the ceiling, and I spoil it by getting the name wrong!? No!”

“Hey,” Nero piped up, “Don’t- don’t drop me. You can’t… don’t let kids this young see something that gruesome.”

The youngest girl hopped off of the desk. She laughed in Nero’s face, abrupt, a little too enthusiastically.

Imp extended one foot, catching the hood of the girl’s sweatshirt and using it to haul her back, before hooking her leg around the girl’s neck, pinning her. The girl didn’t resist.

“Really, Nero?” the blond boy asked. “I seem to recall a bit about beating and torturing that brother and sister pair in the other room.”

“You’re all parahumans,” Nero realized, out loud. It might have been the statement that clued him in, or it might have been the way that one of the kids moved, showing off the golden icon on their sleeves.

Imp was barely paying attention. “Damn it. But… who’s Nero, then?”

“Roman emperor,” the blond boy said. “Was supposedly a bad leader, which is ironic, given this guy’s choice of vocation, but that might have been historians being dicks to a guy who they didn’t agree with. Stories say he played his instrument while Rome burned.”

“Ughh,” Imp groaned. “There’s no fish in that story at all. Wait, was he the one that fucked his mom?”

“Killed his mom.”

“Definitely no fish then. Fuck!”

“No other choice,” the girl with straight hair said, her voice quiet. She pressed her thumb against Nero’s forehead. “Have to let him go.”

“No murdering, Juliette,” the boy said.

“No murdering,” Imp reiterated, as if reciting a phrase she’d said so many times it was routine. She looked down. “You going to sit still for once, Flor?”

The girl with the pixie cut nodded. Imp released her. “That’s better. Hands are getting tired enough without me sitting in a bad position too.”

“I can take over,” Juliette said, with no inflection to her voice.

“Yeah, no, not falling for that one again. So, Nero, Why don’t we get this dialogue moving, and you give me the answers I want, or you can get shivved from behind like your second favorite emperor.”

The blond boy made a ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand.

“Fuck you,” Imp said. “This witty villain banter is a bitch to do.”

“Stop trying,” Juliette said.

“I’m siding with Juliette, here,” the blond boy said. “Maybe you’re not the type for-”

Imp used her power, disappearing and then reappearing in quick succession. Not enough to be forgotten entirely.

She drew in a bit of a breath, then launched into it. “Why don’t we get this dialogue moving, then? Give me the answers I want, or the only instruments playing at the end of this story will be your voice. Screaming.”

The blond boy gave her a thumbs down.

She used her power.

“Start talking, Emperor,” she intoned, sounding just a little weary.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s really only two answers to this little dilemma of ours,” Imp said. “Either you’re lying, badly, or you’re under some crazy compulsion. If it’s the latter, you’re about a hair away from deserving a violent end. If it’s the… what?”

The blond boy was shaking his head. “Former, then latter.”

Imp used her power.

“There are two real answers to this situation, here,” Imp said. “Either you’re doing a fucking shitty job of lying, or you’re under some kind of compulsion. If it’s the former, I’m not seeing a reason to keep holding on. If it’s the latter, then I’m not seeing much of a reason to carry on with this fucking conversation.”

“Or,” Nero said, his eyes wide behind the eyeholes of his helmet, “I’m telling the truth.”

“If that’s the case,” Imp said, “I’m going to feel really crummy about this.”

“I can barely think. I think this chain might be cutting off circulation… I’ve got spotty bits in my memory.”

“Cope,” Imp said. “Here we go.”

“I don’t-”

“Five,” Imp said. “Four… three… two…”

“Teacher,” Nero said, quick, abrupt.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Juliette said, putting a finger in one ear and wiggling it a bit, as if cleaning it. “What a shame.”

“Teacher?” Imp asked.

“You forgot the part where you let go of the chain,” Juliette reminded her.

“Hush,” the blond boy said. He gave her a hug from behind. “Maybe you’ll get your murder next time.”

Nero gave the youths a wary look, then broke into an explanation, rushing a touch, “Teacher. He gave me the plan, told me what to do. So long as I follow his game plan, I get supplies I can’t get with my power, stuff you’d need forged. Documents and hard cash. He unlocked my power, too. Used to be I could only make a few things. Darts, I know where my stuff is, so I could tag people, track-”

“You’re rambling,” Imp said. “Rambling is good. Better than playing stupid. But maybe focus a bit, here.”

“Um. Uh.”

“The game plan,” Imp prodded him.

“He gave me guidelines. There’s a whole list of things I have to do, times to do them. I send in weekly reports, he sends me updated instructions. I, um. I’m not the only one. There are others. He told me he knows there’s no guarantee I’ll work out, so the instructions differ, and so do the people following them. If one of us succeeds, he steps up the rewards, helps us become even more powerful. We fail or we tell someone, and we’re on our own.”

“And, so long as someone succeeds,” Imp thought aloud, “He’s connected to someone in power.”

Nero shook his head, then nodded a second later. “I don’t- maybe. He said he wasn’t interested in power for power’s sake. That you couldn’t be the guy working from the shadows and the guy wearing the crown at the same time.”

“He’s not going to say that to the guy who wants to wear the crown,” the blond boy said.

“I don’t know,” Nero said. “I- I’m not disagreeing. I’m, I really don’t know.”

“Anything else?” Imp asked. “Trust me, you don’t want to hold anything back here.”

“What- what do you want to know?”

“The drugs. Who from?”

“NY-C.”

“This really isn’t the time to act clever,” Imp said.

“Clever? No. No! Not New York City. New York C. There’s a cartel based in that dimension, on the island.”

“Powers?”

“Yes. The leader’s a trump. Even the Wardens are leaving them alone, ’cause of it.”

Imp nodded. “One of you three remember that for me.”

“And by one of us three,” the blond boy said, “You mean me.”

“Why Samuel?” Juliette asked, in her characteristic deadpan. “I’m trustworthy.”

“More details, Emperor. Be inventive,” Imp said. “Dig deep, come up with something I want to hear.”

“I… no. I can’t think of anything.”

Imp sighed. “Right. Then I suppose we’re done.”

“We’ve been talking too long,” Samuel said. He glanced down at Juliette. “He probably won’t forget the whole encounter if you use your power.”

“That’s fine,” Imp said. “Let’s use Flor, then.”

All eyes fell on the girl with the pixie cut.

“Um,” Nero said. “Who is she?”

Flor turned, as if to double check it was okay. She couldn’t even stand still, shifting her weight from foot to foot, fidgeting.

“Go,” Imp said.

Flor virtually leaped onto Nero’s chest, grabbing the chain to avoid sliding right over his chest and falling on the far side. Imp was left to reassert her own grip on the chain before the added weight could drive the villain down into the ground and the waiting nails and knives.

“Fuck!” Imp swore, when she’d fixed her grip. “Damn it, Flor!”

The girl straddled Nero’s chest, her eyes over his. She grinned, showing all of her teeth.

“Is she- is she going to eat my face?” Nero asked. “She looks like she’s going to eat my face.”

“The rules,” Samuel prompted Imp.

“Rule one. No drugs,” Imp said. “I don’t want you to look at them, talk about them, hear about them, touch them, use them or trade in them. No more poisoning families and ruining lives.”

Nero twitched, then burst into song, full volume, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout!”

“That’s not quite the deterrent we had in mind,” Samuel said. “We-

“Here is my handle, here is my spout!”

Samuel relaxed a touch. “Oh, he’s doing the full song. That’s a little better.”

“When I get all steamed up, I just shout!”

“Listen, Nero,” Imp said. “Every time you-”

“Tip me over and pour me out!”

“-meet the criteria we set, you’re going to do this all over again.”

“I’m a very special pot, it’s true!”

“Oh, wow, there’s more lyrics?” Imp asked, her train of thought temporarily broken.

Nero’s eyes moved from person to person, clearly alarmed as his lips worked without his volition. “Here’s an example of what I can do!”

Imp nodded, “Carve a guy’s face up with a knife, you get some crazy face-stitchy nemesis, and his cred goes up-“

“I can turn my handle into a spout!”

“-but if you turn him into the guy that sings the teapot song-”

“Tip me over and pour me out!”

“-he’s going to have a hell of a time in the villain community.”

The song was done, and Nero was left panting.

“Especially if he’s doing the dance along with it,” Samuel commented. “His hands and hips were wiggling there.”

Imp sighed. “Flor. Let us finish explaining before you decide what the rule is.”

Samuel added, “You make another guy sing ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’ and I’m not sure we can get them to stop, this time.”

“You can always get them to stop,” Juliette commented, quiet, “But that breaks Imp’s rules.”

Flor only grinned, staring down at Nero.

“Rule two,” Imp said.

“Please, no.”

“If he breaks it, Flor, I want him to throw away any weapon or phone he has and then launch into reciting aloud from a copy of the Iliad for an hour. Before he attacks.“

“No,” Nero said.

“Rule is, no attacking anyone, and no giving orders that lead to anyone or anyone’s belongings getting hurt or lost.”

“No!” Nero shouted. “You’re killing me, leaving me defenseless!”

“We’re declawing you, old man,” Imp said. “You figure it out. Sam, help me get him down?”

“Being the only trustworthy one sucks ass,” Samuel said. “Move, Flor. Leave the poor bastard alone.”

Flor hopped down. Nero yelled as the chair rocked a little.

Sam kicked the board of knives and nails to one side, and Imp lowered Nero to the ground.

“You’re done,” Imp said.

Nero backed away, freezing as he found himself beside Juliette, who had picked up the board of spikes and was holding the safe side against her chest, her arms having found safe spots.

Imp looked down at the armored man. “You’re fucking with an old friend, using her schtick, taking it ugly places. So it looks like I have a bit of a hobby, now. If you get in touch with Teach, or vice versa, then let him know I’m not cool with it, and I’ll stop being a thorn in his side the day he stops cribbing from someone else’s game plan. Capiche?”

Nero couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“It’s about legacies,” Imp said. “Kind of important. She’s gone, so it’s up to us to protect her legacy. Now here’s another. Desk drawer, bottom right.”

“You won,” Nero said. “You won the moment you had a chain around my neck. You took my ability to fight, you prevented me from… certain avenues of business.”

“Fast learner,” Samuel observed.

Imp crossed the room to the doorway that Hooligan and the teenagers had entered, rubbing kinks out of her hands. She opened the door. “No need to watch him anymore. Go.”

The two teenagers fled.

“Desk drawer,” Imp said, when they were gone.

Nero edged over to the desk, then opened the drawer.

When he raised his hand, there was a stuffed doll in it. Crude. A figure in white with a silver crown and ruby lips.

“I’m going to check in on you from time to time,” Imp said. “I’ve got a rule. That doll? It’s in your care. It stays pristine, you get it? If anything happens to it, if there’s the slightest scuff, then I’m going to be pissed.”

Nero looked down at the doll. “Why?”

“Because I’m mysterious,” Imp said, sounding very lucid, and suddenly tired. “I’ll be in touch, to check in on you and that doll.”

She turned to leave, then stopped. “And no mentioning the fish thing, or you’ll see me really pissed.”

Nero nodded slowly.

With that said, Imp led the way out of the office, leaving the former villain staring down at the poorly made doll.

The three kids grabbed their jackets from beside the door, pulling them on.

They collectively ventured outside into the darkness, the cold and the snow. The snow had frozen into a shelf of ice above powder, crunching under their footsteps. Flor reached her arms out to either side, as if trying to embrace the wind. She nearly fell, up until her brother caught her.

“That doll? Was that supposed to be Regent?” Samuel asked. He adjusted his scarf.

“Yeah.”

“Gotta ask. Why?”

“Legacies,” Imp said. “Memorial went kablooie when Scion hit Brockton Bay original, which bugs me more than it should. I mean, okay, going on a tangent here, I had a shitty childhood, y’know? You guys can relate, I’m sure.”

“What tipped you off?” Juliette asked.

“Gut feeling,” Imp retorted, “Most wouldn’t guess, I know, given how well adjusted you rugrats are.”

“I’m a couple years younger than you,” Samuel said. “Why am I a rugrat?”

“Anyways,” Imp said, ignoring the question, “I had a shitty childhood. You go through that, and the people who matter end up mattering a fucking lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” Samuel said, at the same time Juliette said, “No.”

“Sucks to fade into the background, let me tell you. Not even talking about my power. It really… sucks. And I think, you know, I’m not very good at taking care of people. You lot excepted, almost all of those people who mattered are gone, one way or another.”

“Mostly the one way,” Juliette said. Samuel elbowed her.

“Mostly the one way,” Imp agreed. “And I can’t do much. I’m not the type to take flowers to graves or anything like that. I’m not the type to cry, and sometimes I really wish I was.”

“You make sure they’re remembered,” Samuel said.

“That they don’t fade away or get ignored. I’m trying. But how do you even do that? I gotta go with my gut, and my gut says that one friend ought to get a fair shake, after the fact. So maybe I do my part, make sure history isn’t a dick to her. And for your brother, well…”

“Making people take care of puppets?” Samuel asked.

“I feel like he’d get it,” Imp said.

“That’s good,” Samuel said, “Because I sure don’t.”

“He, I don’t even know… he liked irritating people, needling them. Shad- schadenfreude?”

Samuel gave Imp a thumbs up.

“Yes! Woo! Schadenfreude. Pronounced it right. So he’d get a kick out of making people miserable over something so minor and silly. I dunno. It was one of his better points. He was a magnificent asshole.”

“Aisha was a big fan of Jean-Paul’s asshole,” Juliette said. “You catch that, Flor?”

Flor nodded, grinning.

“You guys are dicks,” Imp said. “That’s not what I said. Gross, no, and fuck you.”

Samuel fixed Flor’s scarf to cover her face, then fixed the scarf in place by clamping the earmuffs down over scarf and ear both. “Close enough. We’ll be sure to inform the rest of the gang about your fetish when we get back.”

“You probably would,” Imp said. “How do you even know what a fet- nevermind. Dumb question. Cold is getting to me.”

“Right. The cold.”

Flor was starting to struggle, being the shortest member of the group. Imp picked her up, swinging her around until she had her in a piggyback position.

The snow crunched underfoot. Though it was nighttime, the light of the sun reflected off of the moon, and the snow reflected that light in turn. It was more fitting to twilight than midnight, now that her eyes had adjusted. The buildings looked grim, stark and utilitarian.

“You’re the only person that isn’t family that has ever had the guts to touch Florence,” Samuel commented.

“She’s not that bad.”

“Not at all,” Samuel said. “Except, you know, the time she compelled a complete stranger to slap his forehead any time he wanted to talk. There was the one cop that had to bite himself hard enough to draw blood every time he made eye contact with someone. Or the time Nathan, one of our unpowered brothers, yelled at her, and she made it so he had to turn around ten times before he entered a room, and had to count backwards from a hundred before he could put food in his mouth.”

“He got thin,” Juliette said.

“Nathan was almost dead, last time we saw him.”

Imp ignored the chatter, but she felt a little more at ease than she had earlier. Sam said something, then elbowed Juliette, who offered only a comment, inflection free.

Imp watched them to make sure that no weapons were drawn, literal or otherwise. It was in the process that a blur caught her eye.

A shadow in the distance, perched on a building.

“Do you sense her?” Imp asked.

“Her?” Sam asked.

“Guess not.”

“Trouble?”

“Don’t know,” Imp replied. She let Flor down to the ground, then faced the figure head on. With a broad gesture, she beckoned for the figure to approach.

The figure didn’t move.

“Bitch,” Imp muttered. “Gimme a minute.”

She stopped suppressing her power, and she could see the faces of the others change. Confusion.

She felt a bit sad, seeing it, but she could see how they banded together. It wasn’t the most healthy sibling dynamic, but they were together. There were more back at the headquarters. Her family.

She turned to go. Trudging across the snow, passing between two buildings because it was the fastest route, stopping because the angle was different, struggling to use the falling snowflakes to gauge if the telltale blur was there or if here eyes were playing tricks on her.

It took minutes, but she found her way up the scaffolding at the side of the building.

She kicked the pile of snow to the ground below, then sat down beside Shadow Stalker’s blurry form. When she was settled, she suppressed her power.

Together, they watched the trio of Heartbreaker’s children make their way down a road that was buried beneath snow.

“You touch any of them, you’re-”

Shadow Stalker was reacting before the sentence was done. Imp remained where she was. Too close to be shot. The bolts took time to phase into reality.

A moment later, Shadow Stalker had leaped across the roof and was frozen there, weapon pointed.

“As I was saying,” Imp said, not looking away from the hills and trees that glittered with snow, “You touch them, you’re really going to regret it.”

“I was thinking of taking you down,” Shadow Stalker said.

“Even dumber,” Imp replied. “They’re pretty scary people, and I think some of them even like me. I mean, really, do you want to fuck with that nest of hornets?”

“Doesn’t matter. Situation didn’t call for it.”

Imp shrugged. “All the villains out there, and you pick us? There’s a reason.”

“Some stuff was left unresolved,” Shadow Stalker said.

“Regent stuff? Oh, hey, if you really want to get into that stuff, we could bond. Paint each other’s nails, do the frozen bra sleepover thing, I always wanted to do that. I could talk about how fond I was of him, and you could talk about wanting to kill him, and then we both commiserate over heartbreak, in the various forms it takes. Then, if we’ve had a few drinks along the way…”

Imp trailed off.

Shadow Stalker didn’t move a muscle, her crossbow trained on her.

“No? Not game?”

“He told you, explained it?”

“Explained what? No way! Did you really have a thing going?”

“What? No!”

“Oh. Damn.”

“You’re fucking with me. Trying to put me off balance, taunting me with the lesbian innuendo.”

“I taunt everyone with that kind of stuff. Geez, you’re tightly strung.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m your friend, and we won’t have a problem.”

Imp sighed, watching as the trio of Heartbroken made their way down a road without cars.

“You’re wearing that fucking thing on your arm.”

Imp looked down at the golden circle the survivors of the Scion fight had taken to wearing.

“Every time I see it, I can’t help but imagine it’s a bullseye.”

“Pisses you off?”

“We didn’t earn our victory, and people wear that shit like it’s a badge of honor. We were puppets, we got used.”

“By her,” Imp said.

“Wasn’t her power.”

“Was too. Trust me on this. I saw it unfold.”

Shadow Stalker looked away. She holstered the crossbow. “Fuck it. Not worth the effort.”

“Awesome,” Imp said. “You know how many people underestimated her? Right up until the end. I’m glad to be underestimated.”

“You’re trying to irritate me.”

“You’re fun to irritate. And you know, it’s cool. In the end, you’re one of the people that’s going to remember her. Someone that’s left, who knows the general story. I don’t think she’s the schadenfreude type, but I think she’d appreciate that it’s true, and that it nettles you just a little.”

“It doesn’t,” Shadow Stalker said.

“Right, ms. ‘Unresolved’. You aren’t holding on to the past at all. It doesn’t unsettle you or leave you feeling like you want to hit something when you think about it too much.”

“It doesn’t,” Shadow Stalker said. “You want to keep putting words in my mouth, I’ll put a crossbow bolt through yours.”

“Yeah, you’re not bothered at all.”

“I’m alive, she’s not.”

“In the rest of your years, even if you try, which you won’t, you won’t make a fraction of the difference she made. You’re going to keep living this solitary little hunter-stalker existence, picking off a few bad guys, getting your jollies, and people are never going to wear a badge on their sleeves for you.”

“That badge is not for Hebert.”

“Maybe not for everyone,” Imp said. “It means different things for different people. A planet they lost, an ordeal they survived, I dunno. But it’s a reminder of Taylor to me, and it’s a reminder for you, too. Every time you see it, now, it’s going to make you think of her, remind you that she did something big.”

Shadow Stalker drew the crossbow, aiming it, but Imp was already using her power.

Shadow Stalker stood there in a daze for a moment, then holstered her crossbow. She fidgeted, pacing back and forth, then snarled aloud, kicking at a lump of snow at the edge of the roof, sending it up in a relatively pitiful flurry.

Anger with no outlet.

Imp smiled, getting to her feet, then made her way down.

She trudged the distance to the car, parking a distance away. Samuel was leaning against the passenger door. She jerked her thumb, ordering him to move.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re driving.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Learn fast,” Imp said.

“It’s ice and snow everywhere.”

“Four wheel drive. Don’t care if it takes a while to get there. Besides, you can sense people, worst thing you can hit is a wall.”

“You say that like it’s only a wall. Whatever. Any reason for this?”

“I’m in a mood to read.”

“Read?”

Imp shrugged. Samuel relented and walked around to the driver’s side, while Imp climbed into her seat. The two younger girls got in the back.

It took him a few seconds to get the car started successfully. The vehicle lurched into motion. Very, very slowly.

Imp brought her knees up to her chest, then draped a blanket around herself, getting her book-reader out. A quick check showed she had a message from Tattletale.

A meeting?

“Aisha’s legacy,” Imp said. “Becoming a cultured, badass supervillain, phase number… something.”

Samuel offered a wry comment, “Hearing you talk like that, I feel reassured. You’re obviously well on your way.”

“Focus on the road, brainiac. I’m not in a rush, and I’m gonna do this right, if I’m going to become a villain awesome enough to match up to who the original Regent and Imp were going to be as a pair. What am I reading?”

“Twenty thousand leagues under the sea,” Samuel said.

“Gotcha,” Imp said, looking down to the book too quickly to catch his smirk.