======== SAMPLE 1 ========
 didn’t look anything like the girl in the suit. She was fat, for one thing, and she had a face with no eyes, only lit up by a single light glowing in various colors deep within her dark gray hair. Gray eyes, no, gray hair. Her bare skin was a deep lavender with hints of blushes and singles, and her loose, sculpted hair was a traceless mass that somehow seemed to grow and shrink with every heartbeat.

The other parts of her anatomy were more human in a sense, but even she had been enhanced. Sense organs, grasp the basic body parts and bodies well enough that she could make minor adjustments. Strength, speed, a simple, effective use of her power…

"Lost word, is she?"

"Minor adjustment. She can now see the world differently, and can identify people by name. We aren’t naming people just yet, but you’ve heard on at least one occasion."

"I’ll see what I can do."

"Soon. This is the test run. The preliminary measure. I’ve also put some on the restraining bolt, to ensure she doesn’t get a chance to do anything permanent. But the permanent measure will have better results the longer you await. I’ll have the crowbar sent to you later today."

"I wish I could say something helped," I said. I wanted the restraining bolt, the muscle memory, but I couldn’t help it, couldn’t think of anything that would have moved the crowbar…

I reached over my shoulder again, just to pull myself to my feet. "If I decide she’s too hard to move, can I get the restraining order revoked?"

"Most likely."

I reached behind my back, drew my knife, and cut the threads that held the armor in place. I let the remaining threads drop free. "I’ll give you permission to challenge me to a fair fight, if the opportunity arises. It won’t be pretty, but it’d be nice to get a little exercise again."

"I’ll definitely take the opportunity," he said. "If you’re challenging me, I don’t see why you can’t fight the bugs. They’re pretty ineffective against numbers, but I’ll take the time to hurt them, and the bugs won’t touch me unless I’m doing something completely different."

"Hmmm," I said, "What’s your other option? Physical violence, intimidation?"

"Those aren’t options I have."

"What about emotional manipulation? Manipulative manipulation?"

"That falls outside the scope of the test."

"I see. Why don’t you go last? I could set you up, if you don’t comply with my demands."

"I can. That leaves hostage taking, mugging, extortion. Is there a way to break out?"

"Not really, no. Each of those things has pros and cons."

I sighed, "Let’s research. My hometown has several types of lock, although I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever gotten a lock in here after. One plus one, maybe one or two of the following: watertight, resistant to chemicals, shatterproof, dishwasher safe, sink-out, fit into a garage or basement, deep enough that your leg or arm won’t reach as far as it can with the door, don’t leak air, don’t eat water, don’t absorb shock or shock you get when you step in, won’t squeeze to death when you step out. No water out, sink in, no transmissions on anything in here."

"Sounds good," he said.

"But it’s expensive. Door to door, house to house, furniture to outfit, food and supplies to get here…"

"You can fly."

"I can. I won’t say I’ll join without a doubt, because I wouldn’t want to be leaving my dad by himself, but I’ll consider it."

"With only a little more time?"

"Without my tie to Mom and family here, I’m not sure I can pull that off. And traveling means taking the fastest, easiest option, unless I’m doing something very, very risky."

"Then I don’t think this would be a great place to start," I said.

He gave me a very dad-like look, and I supposed he might have been hoping I would maintain the composure in case things went really south. As much as he wanted me to handle the solo

======== SAMPLE 2 ========
 didn’t think of the situation. He didn’t think about the fact that his own teammates might be watching him, taking note.

Instead, he focused on a small screen in front of him. He swiped his way through a series of windows. The television showed the latest news, highlights for the latest on the D.D.I.D. program. The latest on the Skitter case. The second screen was a side-by-side comparison of the two.

Was the television on outside and the Skitter’s location addressed in question? Had other people in the city been notified? Or was Skitter still in contact with some individual in high demand? It didn’t matter. He was concerned about her. It was the sort of thing one hoped to avoid, crossing a mind that wasn’t occupied by any of the above.

Except the same mind that crossed his arms as he propped the backpack up. There was a gap between his shoulders, but the waist offered more shoulder space. There were pockets, no doubt, for the drugs, but no way he was going to be able to move that much without making an awkward impression.

He stared at the foot of the chair. Three inches of depth.

He gave up on searching for a solution, exchanged a glance with Tecton. The chair was deep enough he could jump off if pushed, he had support from others, and his sturdiness as a side effect of his power made himself less likely to fall.

Crossing his toes on the smooth, rubber-soled soles of his shoes, he skipped off the side of the roof and tackled the second floor of the building.

It didn’t take him long to find the door. He ripped off his glove and replaced it with a clipboard as the metal latch clicked, and used his power to scan the building. Every window, every door, every mechanism, every piece of glass.

Getting by for a little, maybe?

He scanned the outside of the building. His power had a radius, so he didn’t need to travel far to locate the opening. Three blocks, then five.

He rifled through the rolls of paper. Among the garbage that had been stacked in the back room of the bank, he found a roll of quarters. He tore that one back out of the paper and pinned it to the window frame.

There was a crunching sound, and the roll of paper slid free of the window. It soared up onto the edge of the roof and swung into the air above the building.

He turned around. The man was standing there, shirtless, his shaggy hair damp from the rain, his gloved hands folded side-to-side.

"You woke up," he said.

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he rubbed his eyes and opened his mouth for a moment, as if to stretch. He offered three rapid nods, and one short wave of his hand, in the direction of the crowd.

"The man is always Harry," Imp said.

"I know," Imp said. "Ron hasn’t seen him since he left the hospital."

"It’s not over by a long stretch."

"It’s done," Harry said. He faced Tecton and I, and gave each of us a fresh tattoo of his wrist. "You two stay."

Two seconds later, there was a reloading sound, and the goblin woke from a dream.

"We are so sorry," Harry murmured. He took hold of the injured man’s hand and led him out of the bank. "Anyone else have trouble getting through?"

"Not this place," the man said. "We are going to try again. A little further, behind this column."

Guards forced their way through the bars, revealing one last set of doors. Stairwells led down to a metal stairwell of brick, the bottom of which were impassable. Enchantment, as the stair case was called, surrounded the interior of the building.

As we made our way up, the gloom of clouds blotbed the moon and stars in the night sky. The scene was at the opposite end of the scale, so to speak. It was a battle array, a ruined city on the brink of being consumed by darkness. The main roads had either collapsed, choked with rubble or were blocked by blocks of stone. Every space in between, everything dim, quiet, unhealthy. The vegetation had withered, bare. There was little to be found worth valuing, so it made an object of focus.

We made our way to the far end of the bank, stepping off the stairwell as we made our way to the next floor. The scaffolding had been put up

======== SAMPLE 3 ========
 didn’t want me to hurt or kill you. I thought a lot about what you said when you said you’re only interested in power and the money, and I think I understand what you mean."

He nodded slowly.

"Then I’m not sure I buy the empty promise. Buckle up."

Biting my lip, I climbed the stairs to the front door and locked it. Climbing the stairs to the second floor, I made my way to the phone and called the tailor-boy.

"I’ve got an idea," the man I’d called said. I stopped in my tracks, pulling on his shoes as I made my way to the door to the tailor’s, turned down the opposite side to make my escape.

"For?"

"A cloak. Dark, with high temps and lightweight fabric. I think it’s already made its way to your workshop."

"Right. Where do I fit?"

"Should be a part of the next batch. If you want it prepped and waiting in the lobby when you get there, it’s going to slow you down. I can’t be of any help to you until you’re up and running again."

I hung up, called the tailor-boy, and told him to come by the tailor’s place. He was nice enough that I would know he was there even if his phone buzzed. I picked up my skirt and called him a fitting name.

As my phone reached the end of the hallway, I headed for the house. Was the front door locked? Or had someone made a cruel enough joke? I couldn’t say. There was something so amusing about the idea of being out on the street, things being as chaotic and uncertain as they were. I might not get a second chance.

Running five miles proved a daunting goal, but running it comfortably was a chance I deserved. Compared to being trapped inside, it was a smaller world.

I was glad for the environment, thankful for the little leavings I had from home. Much of it held little merit, but there were a few prized possessions I could pass on to my new ‘family’. Specifically, there was the invention from last night, and the box of tricks from last week. These weren’t the goods I’d bought with stolen things, or the scarcest of cheap souvenirs. These were the same tricks the guy in the dark had given me, safe in the belief that I could figure out where to play.

I hugged my arms close to my body as I finished putting away the last of my worth. As I stood there, waiting for the other shoe to drop, I was remembering one of my goals while running the laps. To get as many details on the competitors as I could, to learn as much as I could about them. To get as much satisfaction from beating them as quickly as possible.

…<|endoftext|>Abstract Background: Chronic alcohol exposure increases the risk of developing schizophrenia. Objective: We sought to investigate the association between moderate to heavy drinking and schizophrenia in a representative US population. Design: We conducted a case-control study among a representative US sample of older adults. Subjects: We conducted a case-control study to examine the association between moderate to heavy drinking and the risk of schizophrenia in a representative US sample of older adults. Methods: We conducted a case-control study among a representative US sample of older adults and the risk of developing schizophrenia. The study was conducted from July 1, 1997, to June 30, 2008. Results: We conducted a case-control study among a representative US sample of older adults and the risk of developing schizophrenia according to quartiles of ethanol consumption. There was a significant association between quartile of total ethanol intake and the risk of developing schizophrenia according to quartile of alcohol consumption. P<.05 was considered significant. Results of the meta-analysis were further confirmed according to a sensitivity analysis. Conclusion: We have found a negative association between moderate to heavy drinking and the risk of developing schizophrenia in a US sample of older adults."

Funding: This work was supported by a grant from the Eli Lilly Research Foundation (to R.M.1). Dr. S.L. was supported by a fellowship from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Dr. P.L. is currently working on a related project. 1,2,3

Introduction

Schizophrenia is a progressive, familial brain disease characterized by disturbances in judgment, problem solving, problem-solving, impulse control, impulse control, impulse control, psychomotor reorientation and impulse control.1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20,21,22,23

======== SAMPLE 4 ========
 didn’t care about how the audience reacted to her statements. More relevant to our current topic, she did say that, if she was going to be a mother, she’d better be ready for rough seas that held any number of human beings.



Last Chapter Next Chapter





"I… don’t want my kids to grow up hungry. I don’t want my ex-boyfriend to get angry or anxious because he doesn’t know what his kids will be like. That’s secondary or tertiary or something. I’m trying to protect them and do what I can to make sure they don’t go to that kind of trouble. And if they do, just so happen to have a good, loving, nurturing mother, maybe they won’t be so screwed up as to go that far?"

My dad looked up, meeting my eyes to ask, "Aren’t you wanting to protect your kids?"

"I’m trying to protect them because I have to. Scion finds women repellent. I’m trying to protect myself and my friends from that sort of thing. You take it out on me, it’s going to eat away at you, and it’ll set me back days or weeks in the short run. All I can do is work to protect you and my people."

My dad looked utterly stunned, looked as though he’d just been hit by a hurricane.

I shrugged. "So I’m just going to have to withstand some shit from me, some mockery from me, and a few chuckles from me, to see my little secret being discovered? Sure."

"You’re doing us a disservice," Bernard commented.

"Have to be, if we’re going to be dealing with people like you. Making us second-class citizens?"

"Any more than we just risked getting Aisha off the board and into the grip of the pimple squad."

"Not if we’re going to make it a priority," I said. "And, if we’re going to make it a priority, we need to make it a reason we should go after the real gangs."

"Getting rid of her was the easiest way, grabbing her and using her to get to you. Unless you want to turn around and give yourself up, Sab, you can’t rule here when it comes to women."

I looked at him in surprise. I hadn’t expected him to turn around and give up his position. While he handed me the keys, I realized my mask had a flame swirling around it, maybe an eye or something. Something cool, to symbolize the right to expression and get our message across.

"I said it earlier, but what you’re saying makes a lot more sense. So I think it’s high time you woke up."

"Doorway, please?" he called out, as he stretched.

The portal opened behind him.

■

The streets were empty, there weren’t any bloodhounds sniffing the pavement for spilled bottles or bodies. In the gloom of the dark, the white building had only a broad gray light blaring from the window.

I ventured outside, drawing the bugs from beneath my costume to the outside. I had so few they were barely there by the time I got outside. My awareness was occupied by another cape, facing a black woman. She was tense, her lips pressed together in a very aggressive way. Which was probably wise, because she could be hurt.

I wasn’t going out like this. Not when I was this focused on keeping my identity secret.

It had been a while since I had exercised my power. The few I had used were to hunt, or to root out leeches, and most had been at Victoria’s instruction. More than that, they had been for shows, so she could keep an eye on things and keep an eye on me.

I was glad for the the the light on the hood of my mask. It was enough to get my attention.

The woman was Asian, slim, and the hair was a tangled mess of too much figure. The hair was too black, which helped make the mess that much more interesting. The top row of photos were of the various capes I had fought alongside; Shadow Stalker, Assault, Velocity, Cache, and so on. The one or two were of the ones I had actually met, like the man I had stopped for a brief stop in Bowling Green, Ky. That last one was Velocity.

The second row were the ones I had actually seen. The several photos, many of which featured me, were of the ones that had been seen in person.

======== SAMPLE 5 ========
 didn’t have it, then.

"They’re going to be going in through the ground floor, towards the stairs. You can’t go upstairs, and neither can anybody else. Same thing here, only we can climb down."

There was a murmur here, at that idea.

"No, Taylor. Don’t need you go."

"What?" I tried to stop her, but the words were too far, too high.

"I said I don’t need you," she repeated herself. As if she couldn’t get the words out of her throat, the volume of her voice rose to a frightening volume, as she asked me, "Why?"

It’s my voice, I thought. Your words.

"Your friends over there," I pointed at the three boys and the girl, "They didn’t force you to join their group. You did it because I wanted you to. There was no coercion."

She turned to look over her shoulder, as if checking whether I was lying.

"There’s one group of people that does get bullied more than any of us, and they’re pretty much kept in their place. Don’t forget that. You didn’t grow up in an abusive home, didn’t have your mom or dad taking turns taking care of you. The people who do have that sort of power, they have it because they were given a bad name. You were made to sound smart and popular, so they gave you the weirdest and most extreme nicknames to fit into their group. Rudolph’s gang, the Merchants, anyone with darker skin or coarse hair. I grew up in the Sierras, so I got the roughs and all the way to the top of the food chain, tried to follow in our dad’s footsteps. I had money, I had everything. It wasn’t so different from Tattletale and I getting our starting money, but we each had our dark days and our highs, and we got labeled. As far as I’m concerned the only thing that keeps me sane are the people who’ve kicked the books at me and called me out on the bullshit I’m stepping down from. I’m not going to dwell on what happened with the Undersiders or the debacle last night, because that’s a story for another day.

"So no, I won’t be attending the upcoming Brockton Bay school. It’s gotten quite the makeover, I think. I don’t like the way they tried to push one storyline over the other, it’s not constructive."

"Maybe they’ll give you the Bulletheld instead," she offered.

"Bullet hell. Do you really want to get into a brawl?"

"I really don’t."

"Okay," she said. "Listen, I’m not going to stand up to him. I’m not going to stoop or try and provide some type of protection for him. That’s not even funny. You want to stand up for me? All I want is to live."

All I ever wanted, really, was to be a girl.

"So, that’s it?" she asked. "You’re not willing to play along anymore?"

"I’m not. I used to being a guy, and you just reminded me of that. I’m fine."

"You sound so pleased with yourself," she said.

"Seriously? This whole thing? It’s not even half the sum of what I have going for me. I could make it far worse if I had to. I can’t struggle like this for another two years."

She sighed. "I know. I blamed myself last night. That was my big mistake. I crossed a line. I don’t want to get to that line, so I’ve got to keep doing what I’ve been doing."

"So you don’t want to go to the police. But don’t worry. I’ve got a few things that I’m volunteering for, and the teachers are going to be watching out for that. Among other things, any hand over blood or bodily fluids, anyone who gives their victim charges or gives them information in a criminal matter."

"Oh. So the teacher involved in this doesn’t want your help?"

"Yeah," she said. "I’m not going to say who it was, because I don’t want to be the one to make the call, but no. It’s not me

======== SAMPLE 6 ========
 didn't have to go there. I was ready, able to respond. I set to writing the next message.

I had all of the keys.

What was I supposed to do with all of them? If I searched far enough, I might find one in the swamp, but would that help here? The woman’s house? The house should be empty, if Amy wasn’t there and Piggot was content to watch her cartoons while she dealt with the mess.

The house was empty except for two burnt-out SUVs that looked remarkably like a zombie’s. There was no blood, no bodies, no humanity anywhere.

I tore one of the SUVs in two, then drove forward. It slipped from one broken pane of glass, slammed on the gas, and went on the rampage, swerving aggressively for the nearest ambulance. I honked the horn, and the driver put the vehicle into gear, forcing the SUV to swerve out of the way. Before the ambulance could retreat, I jumped out and called out, "Medic!"

Medics were ordered to wait while I took two more steps forward. They were making their way to the scene, and some were stepping from the scene to help the paramedics. It was getting into the early stages.

The ambulance hadn’t even slowed down as they passed it. I bit my lip and summoned my bugs. They flowed into the pouring vehicle, and within moments, it was hard to find a base from which to draw.

I used the same strategy that the medic had used, trying to find the most wounded. The people closest to me.

There were too many injured. Enough that I could only really get a rough estimate by looking at their wounds, as much as I could see what was going on. I couldn’t find the exact injuries I’d needed, and separating them into those that were my allies and those that were my enemies seemed like a poor plan.

So I tried to do it by asking the patients what names they wanted. Jester’s armor was clearly named after a Norse god, so it was the second most popular choice, right after Hel, Odin, Guthrii, Kaiser and Thor. When I’d asked for his help in killing a bully in my territory, it had been a personal goal of his to protect the person he called Jester.

When I’d given the order, I’d asked him to put the order out with as much secrecy as possible. So I asked everyone I asked to stand together as my squad, and my bug-signal gave me the names one after the other.

Krieg vs. Minne: ‘Krieg kills Sven and blows up the craft.’

Murf vs. Kingsley: ‘Murf kills and injures three other people.’

Gavelslave vs. Beckett: ‘Gavelslave destroys the GR-3.’

Lancer’s squad vs. The Yàngbǎn: ‘Lancer kills six people.’

Gavelslave killed or aggravated other people’s injuries: ‘six people wounded, six people dead’.

Kaiser killed six people: two Chinese and two Indians.

Citrine killed or aggravated the people shot: ‘two Chinese men and a Chinese woman.’

Lancer’s squad vs. the three capes that were in the chopper: ‘Citrine’s people died or were rescued more or less intact, and the three capes were left to rot, with only a few of their squadrons maintaining defensive lines.

Lancer’s squad mostly hid in cover, with one or two members taking evasive action and moving to other cities to escape detection.

I was almost disappointed that nobody had heard about this before we left for London. I was more interested in the fact that, oh god, we couldn’t have told the difference in the beginning. How the hell did fourteen people operate in the middle of a street in Mumbai and KharakSHELLMILL?

My contact was in touch with others. A back channel was open, and I was putting ideas together. I was reaching out to other groups, asking about assets, spreading out my assets, requesting co-pays and dutys for those who I wasn’t ready to use who were further from my range.

It was almost easier to manage this than it was to set up, with contacts and all. I felt like I had to focus on my territory, on making sure my people were ready to move out, that my phone was charged and that the doors were locked.

But I felt like I was increasingly concerned about the location of the Nine.

======== SAMPLE 7 ========
 didn’t see or hear or anything.

The door slammed, and she heard the inarticulate noise of someone cutting their throat.

Miss Militia’s screams went unheard.





Queen 18.3


"We have them," one of the PRT uniforms said. He was on his feet, a chip on his shoulder, like Gregor the Snail, a scrapper with a costume of black t-shirt and snug jeans, wearing sunglasses for the warmer months.

"We’ve got them," the other uniform said, as he made his way to the console. He was grim, rugged, in keeping with the uniform theme.

I clicked the orange button and spoke into the microphone, "In less than three minutes, we’ve got the elevator, we’ve got the downstairs hallway, we’ve got the outdoor patio, and we’ve got the two other distinct pieces completed. You as well, Miss Militia, would you accept a glass of water by the second man? One for you, and one for my friend?"

"I’m having second thoughts," Alexandria said. She turned to glare at me.

"Oh, it’s good to see we haven’t gotten off a wrong note," I said. "Did we just get our drinks?"

"One minute," the PRT officer said.

"Four minutes," I said. "We’re moving out. Get there while you don’t need to."

"Okay."

I hung up.

Before the elevator could take us to the downstairs hallway, Miss Militia shortened the distance at which we would travel. A bit of darkness took its place.

"If I may offer a word?" she asked. It was another polite way of putting my power, coming from someone who was shorter than I was.

"What?" I asked.

"If you could give me a word of advice, it would be appreciated," she said.

A power I didn’t recognize began to affect her body. Something to do with my bugs?

She clenched her fists, unbuckled her weapon, and then belatedly used the power she’d recently gathered inside her to shut off the effect. A small bubble expanded from theula, between the clairvoyant and Doctor Mother, blocking the line of sight our rifles had.

"Don’t drink the blood," she said.

"I have to," I said. "If I give you advice, it would make my life easier if I did, because it would mean I could be a hundred percent sure of what I’m doing."

"A hundred percent," she said. She kept her weapon pointed towards the ceiling.

I gave her a wary look.

"I’m doing this because my kids asked me to."

"Do," I said. "Because this is our only option. I’m sorry, but the system isn’t fair, it’s not working. There’s just too much wrong."

I saw a bit of guilt in her posture. Not guilt, but a measured expression of concern.

"It’s your choice where you go from this room."

"I don’t want to be a cog in the wheel," she said. "I want to act without bias, to be an unknown. If it’s the latter, then I’ll use my power, side note: I wanted to be a superhero even before I got powers. I was this giantess, and when people talked about capes, they talked about me. I was this inhuman being that was changing people’s bodies, and it was because of some being-given. And because I’m supposed to be lucky, even after all this, because I’m this… someone that’s never going to be free, no matter what I do."

"I don’t want you to be that," I said. "Not in this scenario."

"I have other distractions. and grudging respect for your willpower," she said, taking the baton from me, leaning over the railing.

"How confident you feeling?" I asked.

"Almost… I hope I never get to have you for a boss. Do you really want me the human connection, Damien?"

"No. Because you’re that much more dangerous, when you’re prisoner to your roots. I can give you discipline. I can give you hope. Rest assured, if you ever ruin that trust, I’m going to fix you- you. In the course of being your subordinate, I will carefully target your weaknesses, and I will use

======== SAMPLE 8 ========
 didn’t show any blood. She wasn’t wearing any blood wraps around her wrists or ankles. That, or Glory Girl had them wrapped around some other heavily bandaged limb. Or they had been cut at some earlier point.

"Did you have a name?" I asked.

"Skitter," Glory Girl gave me a shrug.

"So this is serious?"

"Serious-ish," Tattletale said. She hooked her arms into her pockets. "Can you tell me her name?"

I glanced at Tattletale. "I can’t."

"Can’t? Then you should know my power isn’t that strong."

"If you force me to choose, I’d go Brockton Bay."

"You wouldn’t get in if I broke my rule," Glory Girl pouted.

"I’d go to Hell too."

"So you pick. But Hell’s hotter."

"I don’t fucking care."

"Hotter?’ I felt like I was drowning. I thought my very existence was threatening to bring about the end of the world. I-"

"Crowe." This was a harder one to say. Glory Girl had taken an interest in me, and I felt a little sketchy for the young heroine’s group. Things were tense. I was the oldest, and the others were the most powerful, although I wasn’t quite at the end of the scale. Three of the Hunchbacks, Amy, Rory and Lisa were all approximately your age and a little younger. I was hoping that Grue would drop by and clear me of suspicion, at least for a little while. It wouldn’t matter if I transferred states or violated some rule about being in charge, if I was under the tyranny of law.

"Alright," I said. "Tattletale, here. Would you meet me at the same spot where Glory Girl was stopped?"

She nodded.

"Roxy, your state?"

"Permanently disabled."

"Great. Beans are killed an- Everyone is killed, this is good. Good?"

"Thank you," I said. I glanced at Citrine, who didn’t look particularly happy.

"You can have my state," she said.

"I’d rather not," I responded.

"You can have my attention," she responded.

"Excellent. Once you’re seated, I’ll instruct Panacea to give you your television."

She nodded, then seated herself on the bench beside the bed.

"You don’t seem keen on waiting for a television set," I said.

"I can turn it on the plane," she said. "For now, it will be my studio."

It was strange to find that she was prouder of me than of her underlings.

"It’s set up to record a sound and be played through the speakers," I said. I used my bugs to view the interior of the plane. The only audio I could detect was my own voice as I spoke, "They apparently want subtitles."

"We have a language support team."

I nodded. I checked the subtitles.

"We record the speech and provide translators," she said. "The Chicago Wards are going to be on the other channel, English only. Keep in mind that this is a hostile territory, with very hostile people."

"You’re not going to play dumb," I told her.

"I’ll try," she responded.

"It’s part of the entertainment."

"It’s journalism."

I nodded. This was a bit of a relief? A bit of a cop-out?

I half-expected Pavlov’s dog to chime in with a mispronunciation, or to waver in its normal state as a dog that hadn’t pulled away from a master due to fear of the unknown, but neither occurred. Still, the dogs were there.

"Look, come on. Hear me out?"

One dog refused to come to a complete stop as the one eyed man made his way towards the woman. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. He was big in the sense that he didn’t have great malnourishment, but he still hurt. It was the kind of injury a jester did when he played the part of a court jester, striking fear into anyone who crossed him.

He stopped short as he came within a few feet of her. A bit of a step away from her, but not so close that she could feel

======== SAMPLE 9 ========
 didn’t.

"Fuck me," she said. Then she screamed, because no other word came to her.

Evan reached for his scepter, simultaneously reaching out to grab her and clamp his hand down on her wrist. She struggled, which only intensified when he let her go.

He didn’t waste a second in pushing her against the wall. Grue slammed one hand into her armor, slightly overlapping her foot, and Grue hung on the top of the wall, one hand over her mouth. Whatever technique let him maintain his grip on the wall, it apparently didn’t work when Hookwolf’s encompasses of razor-sharp force plates slammed into her armor, knocking the edges of her teeth into her hands and upper chest.

She was gasping, almost. She was breathing too hard to talk, maybe from the sheer exertion, and the combination of this physical pain and the mental one, enough that she was barely able to put together a coherent thought.

Grue, for his part, was steadily closing in on her, taking her loss from a distance. His advances were getting steeper, his muscleheads, meat hooks and spines increasingly battered. She moved away from him, bringing her knees to his chest.

His strength came with a tremendous cost to his stamina. She was breathing too hard, and crawled so slow that he could barely guess where she was. When he shifted himself to an upright position, the effect only lasted a second. He had to twist himself around and tilt his head to try and avoid sinking to the ground in a similar way.

By the time he managed to turn around and wrench himselfes splayed by her spines, he was sore and ragged.

The cost of that flexibility seemed to be that he had to turn his head to face her when he had his eye open or looked away to look her in the eye. So he had to turn his head during long periods of time, glance at the ground before he turned his back on her.

Eidolon faced the same limitation, yet he seemed to be more restricted in how he moved. Rather than bend or break his legs at the knees, he extended his arms out in front of him, tensed, then reared up like he’d been taught in swimming: one would be tempted to think he was going to bend, but his bulk maintained a straight line. His limbs were long, but supported only by two fingers at the end, his shoulders broad. As he moved, his arms tensed, his fingers turned a fraction towards the ground. Like the form of a wild animal, he straight-legged hiked his entire upper body up and above the rooftop, weightless.

It put him well outside the range of conventional physical limitations. He was strong, and not in the conventional sense. It took a different kind of strength, the kind that came with physical primeval states: the kind that came with being constantly engaged in a fight, with no natural rest state to fall back on.

If he leveraged it, the strength he was using wouldn’t just be an extension of his body, but an extended, passive defense, an offense through space and time. It was the same kind of strength Ey absolved me of in the previous chapter.

He came to a stop at the apex of a three block long rise, turning his attention to me. His mass, his form and location in the midst of it, it was the smallest of the sub-bosses, and it blocked a majority of the rays from reaching me.

They were the same rays that traveled the length of Manhattan in the wake of the wave, were this same beam extended ten feet in the air, twice as far and three-quarters as far as I was concerned.

With this searing pain in the center of my face, far from the point where the vision went away, I couldn’t move my head without the lenses in my damaged eye popping free. Dark poolslined the edges of my field of vision.

And just like that, the situation changed. The blurry, looking glass ball became a solid, solid obstacle, blocking most of the rays. More pools, and more difficult to see, but I could approach.

Rinke?

The ball disintegrated under my combined efforts, and the remaining shards began to slide, crashing into and through a crowd of people.

Three player. Three balls. Threevikings… did he pick three?

I was moving more towards the rooftop than the rooftop, now. The lasers would be up at the very least.

And just like that, the advantage gone.

I made my way into the alley, and found the others clustered around me. Chen, the man with the forcefield helm, Hadhay, three young men and a woman.

Chen, the

======== SAMPLE 10 ========
 didn’t know, I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t talk in a kind of near-silent horror.

I took in a deep breath, then exhaled.

I’d listened to my dad, when I’d talked to Armsmaster. I wasn’t about to try and pull something that wouldn’t work, when I didn’t even want to be doing it.

"Okay," I said, as I brought my hands to my mouth and exhaled, "That worked out."

"Good. Take care,

"Miss Militia"

With that, we parted ways. I texted him the address, thanked him and hung up.

I knew that by staying at Dragon’s, I was leaving Bitch open to a possible predator on the streets. There was at least one potential for it. I wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to hang around here, as local government was slow to act and many in the know were hesitant to step up to help a place they didn’t even know. That in mind, I’d rather not put a dime amount on it.

Instead, when I ventured back inside, I parked the truck and headed into my new quarters. First aid included, I took the time to brush my teeth, plan my new bed and breakfast, and get ready for my morning classes.

I didn’t brush my teeth, though. I’d been warned about it, twice. I pulled out all the contacts from the pocket of my pyjamas, then divided them evenly across my teeth. I turned on the shower and ran.

I was splashed as a light coat of soapy water touched me. It was surprising how well a few hours under the water could clean a face that had received quite literally and even physically, years ago. I was otherwise pretty full. I set to cleaning my face, and didn’t have long before I felt the water clean enough to use for personal hygiene. I used my fingers and fingernails to try to get the water off my skin. That only helped to flush everything down the toilet.

My bugs had already arranged a thick cloud around the area as my power reached the roof. I stepped out of the water and into the thick of it, and was greeted by a power that was out of this world. It was like my range had been cut in half, but it didn’t. Rather, it was the equivalent of having my laptop a fraction of a mile shorter. I couldn’t communicate with it, couldn’t give it a destination, only a short-range direction.

I’d panicked, only a little, and it was because I was in over my head. I had no future, and it was getting harder and harder to keep my concentration.

I turned my eyes skyward, and saw the glimmer of the early morning’s rain. The Simurgh was above, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the crowd, dark and shadowy.

I Winchester, I thought.

Using my bugs, I drew out the words into a coherent thought.

W/E.

It came to me.

It’s like driving a car with too much gas. Where does the emergency go? What happens if there’s too much?

I suppressed the urge to rush to any one response, and simplylet things happen, controlled disruptions to allow for the little things.The big picture, just on the surface. How much of it was me? Am I alone in this?When you’re a person in a wheelchair, how do you manage?

I was well beyond the point of driving, and the only thing I had to focus on was keeping my eyes on the road, watching my step, making sure I wasn’t walking backwards. I slowly got my feet under me, raised my good hand and waved goodbye to anyone else in the crowded sheltering crowd.

To the birdcage.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t act funny. And maybe I didn’t want to act funny. But I also didn’t want to react like I was in a movie where the bug-girl was trying to avoid getting stung. I’d nearly unhinged the puppet, and I was all too willing to ride it right into its laps.

While the swarm crawled alone in the direction of the rooftop, I made my way up the length of the stairwell to the roof.

To the roof, I repeat.

W/E.

It wasn’t so much my power as a protective aura, the ability to raise wind and moisture, raising the volume of whatever stinking gas or vomit

======== SAMPLE 11 ========
 didn't see the reply.

"What’s up?" Clockblocker asked.

"Nothing serious. I was at the library, looking over file orders for the various teams. Something leaning that way… turned up a very decompressed scream. It might be of use to you, Doctor."

Tattletale frowned. "That doesn’t make me feel any better."

"No. Well, maybe it wouldn’t if I could feel what I felt about the professor. But could you explain it in as much detail as you could?"

Nobody volunteered an opinion.

"It’s a fear-inducing power," Faultline said. "Most everyone agrees that’s a pretty dangerous power to have, when combined with the non-cute factor of being an emotionally immature teenager. Creative destruction is pretty much the only way to go about it, unless you’re really good at it. But being very, very good at it, nobody ever sticks around long enough to really learn how to handle it. The clients get restless, get angry, or one of the clients decides to leave, or one of the clients decides to walk away and never comes back, or the fear-inducing power wears off. Very repetitive habits, and anyone who used to just take the pattern for granted, who took the patterns for granted and relied on it as the norm, they just don’t have that kind of patience for it. At best, they sharpen up and get adventurous, become architects and try to alter the natural order of things, which only gets them drawn into a vicious circle, gets them hurt."

"I don’t want that," Clockblocker said. "That’s what got me into this, in a way. I’m not strong enough to turn those who are crueler than the humans around or break them out of their routines. I can make them hate themselves, if you want, but that’d involve admitting my identity, and I don’t want that."

"You’re admitting your identity if you talk," Miss Militia said.

I nodded.

"I hate myself for doing that," Miss Militia said, "I’m so nervous about what I say if I keep giving myself an uncontrollable stream of information. Add another source of information for the stream, and I doubt my ability to help those people who need help. I’m sorry."

"The responsible thing for you to do," Miss Militia said, "Is to gather the information you have, so you can inform, for the purpose of helping those people who need help. If you hate yourself for doing that, or if you’re underrating how close you’ve come to satisfying the hackroid here, you can always go back to the drawing board."

"Thatoard?" someone else asked.

"Dragon’s design, for lack of a better word. She believed in it enough to preserve his identity and his voice even after she had declared herself ex-hero, after the Undersiders had fallen. She knew it was foolish, reckless, and dangerous to assume she could imitate a hero’s costume and style, even if it was slightly easier to get than it was to mimic his. She did her research, and when the heroes came calling, she doesn’t hesitate to call them liars, thieves and manipulators. I’m willing to bet she’s trying to get a piece of the action."

Clockblocker and Weld nodded.

"She pretends she’s Batman, then becomes the superheroines," a woman said. "It’s not a long-term plan, but she keeps trying."

"A bit of a scheme," Clockblocker said.

Miss Militia nodded. "She tries to blend in, becomes a private military contractor, runs into some PRT employees, and things get weird. Like Sonny Bunch from the Echidna film."

"A bit of a crook," Clockblocker said.

"Not often you see an Undersider in a skinhead context," Weld commented. "On the surface, she seems like a nice enough person. Until you dig a little deeper."

"She isn’t a nice person," Miss Militia said, "She has feelings, she has a very good sense of what she’s doing, but when it comes to people… greed, revenge, you name it. She’s been in a few dozen fistfights, and she hasn’t had a moment to take it all in."

Weld touched a hand to his forehead, "You think I’m a violent man."

Miss Militia didn’t flinch.

"You might be surprised to know," Clockblock

======== SAMPLE 12 ========
 didn’t get a reply for over two hours.

The phone vibrated three times before she put it away. Her family had probably caught on and the device was still on, uninstalled. She made her way to the living room, stomping on her shoes as she did it.

"Bitch, hang up," she spoke, glancing over her shoulder.

"Jesus fuck! Camden’s right! There was something!" She paused, glancing over her shoulder as he opened the door to his room 4 minutes ago. "Ew, ew, ew."

There was a cry of protest from one of the other boys who was in the living room. There was a growl from a sound that could have been Dog’s. A growl at Bitch.

"Get away from the door! Get away from the door! Detective, look!"

Bitch glanced between the two of them and spotted his father, a tattoo of a crossed sword on his forearm and a bloodied Judas or Angelica standing in the hallway a few feet away. She whipped her head around.

Then she ran for the bathroom, calling after her, "Go somewhere safe!"

As she hurried down the stairs, she heard the noise, a chorus of screaming, echoing in the bathroom’s walls. A man was bound and tossed a bathtub’s mass of foetal cells into the toilet, then he’d splash out another six or so gallons of sterile water.

His blood was pumping, as if he’d rehearsed it many times over, over the many times he’d attacked her.

She was done for the day. She turned her attention to the remaining two teams. Trickster and Ballistic were still in the lobby, where they’d met the other Lake Effect Champions. They emerged from the fighting with their costumes mostly together, and they began battling the monsters we were still trying to categorize as Stage Five or Six. The fighting was going nowhere, and the heroes were getting gassed, but Trickster and Ballistic were still fighting.

There wasn’t a whole lot I could do, here. I was unarmed, which left me limited in terms of my tools at my disposal. The handgun I’d brought from my lair wasn’t going to do much against the foetal monsters that stood side by side with Leviathan. The chains that led to the gun and to the knife I’d equipped him with wouldn’t cut foetal flesh, and as far as I was concerned, the chain even had some antivenin in it. I could grab that in an hour or so, but the moment a defending hero stepped into my range, I’d likely lose track of it. Besides, if I lost the gun, I’d have nothing to use the knife for but self-defense.

A drawing light in the shadows suggested that a cape was inside, between the two foetal monsters that stood shoulder to shoulder. The cape drew his colorblindness into question, then killed the bugs he’d set on the bugs. I recognized his voice. A gruff, arrogant voice that had been as much a factor in my not reaching the bridge to get the full picture as anything else.

"I thought you didn’t sense anyone? Foetal or otherwise. The pink? It’s poison."

The pink of the foetus or foetal human?

I looked up at him with my eyes.

He laughed, which made the task of finding the other person to talk to that much harder. I managed, "Yes. I’m doing this wrong."

"Oh? The foetus is okay?"

Whether he was talking to someone entirely different from himself, talking to someone else altogether or, increasingly likely, faking me, there was nobody in the world like that. No means no, in case you’d think my efforts to save Foxtail were for nothing.

"The unborn are especially fragile. I’m trying to tell you that there’s no good way to tell if a situation is stressful or if there’s some cue that might warn the foetus or our host of foetal horrors of something bad coming their way."

"The gestational age is very young," I informed him, as the thought crossed my mind.

"I know. But foetal stress is a pretty big deal. There’s this whole sub-specialty within the ABB for foetal calamities, where the examiner goes one step further and identifies the foetus as the cause of the disaster at hand!"

"Mm," he grunted.

"The fetuses are human, or close enough to be affected, and

======== SAMPLE 13 ========
 didn’t have any real plans to go anywhere tomorrow.

If she went, she would be wasting her time. It wasn’t tomorrow, but in a matter of minutes she might be out of action, running. She intended to run and fight the Nine when that occurred.

The lizard-masked man was waiting for her at the edge of the building. Tomorrow? She knew the hatchling in her possession was no doubt a gift from her father. When she saw the logo, an orange jumpsuit with a white visor, yellow enameled hair doe standing beside a violet vial, blondetail-orchid blurting something in the first person… yes, she was speaking the name in the third person. ‘Irio Nilo’. The ‘v’ was up.

She almost started to worry she wouldn’t be able to finish her sentence. The lizard-masked man waited.

She drew the words together in her mind, however vague the offer was. ‘Irio Nilo’. She and only she could grant the wishes of the ‘v’. It was an interesting formula, combining the martial arts bent with a child’s play for an under-the-table hero. She had to wonder if it was still her real name. She wouldn’t be able to remember the name or the costume with the vague, vague promises.

The ‘v’ was nearby. She silently signed the papers as the man watched. When she was done, he put her hat and shoulder pads down on the ground, by the elevator, where they had been uncovered by the rusted roller-skates.

He let the two children go, then addressed the man. "My daughter wanted to come by. If she needs to talk to somebody, maybe inside the park or while she’s out in the garden, she can come by."

The man gave the girl a half-sneer, then asked, "You and the lizard-man girl have talked enough for one night?"

"I know. Mom and I talked tonight," the girl demurred.

"Okay," his daughter declined him.

"I know you haven’t been to the garden. I have been working, but sometimes feel like I'm not giving you everything you want."

"I have," the girl promised.

"When are you going to fix her?"

"I have other stuff to take care of. You go help the others with the cleaning up. I’ll be back with you to help with the bedraggled. I’ll meet you early Wednesday morning."

The girl nodded, and moved to follow the group of adults as they moved on foot to the elevator.

Mr. Pitter was first out of the door, followed by the police officers. He had begun calling for the others to follow, guffawing, hooting, talking incessantly. He was dead serious: he was calling for every person in the building, including police and reporters, to turn themselves in.

Nobody volunteered a response. Instead, they lingered long after the Peds and Docks raid teams had left, talking among one another, exchanging words where necessary.

Something in their body language, hours ago, they had tried to make themselves look stronger. Harder. Here they were, coming to get one last chance to do it.

And now they were merely bystanders.

They would be seen as the good guys.

The worst case scenario was that they got arrested. The chance of that happened was practically nil. The chance they actually made it was pretty high. If they didn’t get arrested, then the chance of them being heroes was pretty low. If they did get arrested, but their chances were pretty low, the response would be almost entirely out of sync with the rest of the city’s. Jerseys were going up, not down.

What the hell were they doing? The Pride were the top dogs. The only team worth talking about here. The Jaunt one had moved up from second place, having gone almost entirely unmentioned after the Leviathan problem hit the city, Pride taken out of the equation. Now they were number two.

Nix had made a name for himself. He’d been one of the first people to take Punisher down, with the videos catching the world’s attention and prompting a discussion about the ‘hero’ and how he was completely undeserving of any accolades. His commentary was brutally honest, discussing everything from the economy of the city to the state of the LGBTQ community to the state of the city to the state of the nation. He had previously stated that he wouldn’t apologize, that the goal of the team was more important than any award he

======== SAMPLE 14 ========
 didn’t get a chance to say less, because of the power of my costume. I just needed to focus on letting them know I was on top of things, while I waited for the real me to finish school. Once I did get back, I could start patching it up, figuring out how to make it simpler, better, oruate as a cape. Maybe I’d do it by eliminating that shit that was distracting me. Disclosure: I was put in charge of the Wards for a reason. I couldn’t report to Charlotte without getting marks on my record. I’d pass my background check, I was under contract with the PRT until the day I turned eighteen, and I had to shave my beard, lose some height, get a new weave of scarves and yoga pants and cut out that gross white fabric that was all over the waist and arms and shoulders.

Miss Militia asked me what I was checking on. I told her.

■ Leg it, leg it, leg it, leg it…

The enormity of what I was doing to my dad hit me again. I could barely tell the difference between what they’d done to the dragon-girl and the leg it. I felt like I had to do something dramatic, somehow reliving the drama that had consumed me the last time I’d actually had control over my dad, this time.

I reached out, as if I could calm my dad, put him on the line of my swarm and get him to listen. "What I want to know is whether you’re happy, believing that this is all for my benefit, and whether you’re happy you couldn’t have been there for me if I hadn’t given you the order."

The enormity of what I was doing was compounded by the worry that it would jolt my dad. He’d been along for the ride, had been in the chair the second I sat down. He always put me second, but this was eating at a nerve that was already damaged.

"I’m so glad you’re here," he said.

What I was doing to my dad was healing, but it wasn’t a place where he could rest. So I asked, "So you believe in something? If it helps, what is it?"

I tried to inject a note of hope into the discussion, "You want to get me to the people I need to get help? The city helps a lot already."

His eyebrows rose, "I know getting police and military to the area has been hard, but it hasn’t been easy for you either. You were saying that police and military are already supporting your dad?"

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I said, "…I guess we can look forward to an even tougher time, rather than the present."

At my dad’s nod, I turned to go back to the front hall, didn’t see my dad.

In the hallway two doors, closed and unlocked, led into the basement. The front hall had a power strip to the basement hallway that was slowly segued into the hall with a sprinkler system. The house was well kept, relatively. It wasn’t a large house, but it had maintained all of the trappings that you saw in larger cities. The yard, indeed.

I looked around. The place wasn’t huge, but it was relatively small, and it was sparse. The only light came from shades of light above the grass at the water’s edge, and from small trees that grew between the hall and the sidewalk on the other side of the street, with only occasional twinkling from the stars. The temperature was rarely above freezing, and it lagged a fair distance behind, making the trails in my perception mask somewhat opaque.

I didn’t know how to interpret it, but I was getting the feeling that this place wasn’t all that.

I reached out and touched people’s fingertips. Pen and paper. Music played over the speakers as we headed down the hall, and the little radio gave me a constant sense of direction.

Contessa’s place?

No. I turned my back just in time to see her standing in the center of the main hallway.

She held a large bundle, and the thing she held was a weapon, drawn and pointed like a handgun.

I would have been terrified to look at it, but I wasn’t quite part of that group. There were so few of us, to compare with the maniacs who were showing up in other places. I couldn’t be sure if it was because we were in this to save our parents, my teachers and the other students or if it was

======== SAMPLE 15 ========
 didn

"Not entirely," he replied. "And I get an allowance from my dad as part of our settlement, to help cover his cost of starting over, cut his losses and help him with the rest."

I nodded. Was there any way to tie him into the real world, after this was gone?

"I have to ask about your teammates. They seem to be doing just fine."

I glanced at Othala. She nodded.

"How is hers?"

"Gripes," she replied. "Digest."

"Digest everything," Revel answered.

"Sensory organs," Parian said. "And all the rest is nerve pathways, immune systems, endocrine systems and epigenetic modifications. No offense."

"Her team is just as threatened," I said. "It’s a shame, really."

"I’m not saying they’re any less threatened, and I’m quite sure I know what they’re doing. I’m saying that Presence dislocation you were talking about. He’s using the threat of his power to coerce his victims."

"Which makes me wonder why you didn’t mention it earlier."

"Doesn’t make it a good idea," I said. "Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to give him powers or encourage people from other teams to try and copy his gear."

"No, don’t make me say that. Negative," Tattletale said. "But I think it’s a good idea to avoid working with him if at all possible."

"When we have a problem like that, and you can’t be present to deal with him, you can always phone me and ask for help."

"A lot of people don’t know what to do if they run into him," I said. I was paying attention to something, watching my swarm in the dimly lit building above the field. "Tattletale?"

"Go with your own research. I’m not sure if it’s presence or not, but my research has been that his victims aren’t very bright. If you think through the whole process, effortless recognition happens if you aren’t paying attention."

"Hearing things until I can figure it out is like being in a classroom with a bunch of idiots," Imp said. "You’re blind until you turn your eyes half-full."

"Or being in a classroom with a bunch of blind people," I replied. "You’re relying on your teammates to help you through it, and they’re failing."

"Can’t do the job," Imp said. "And they’re pissing each other off."

"Okay," I said, reaching over to help her hobble over to a table. "Is this even legal?"

"It’s my research."

"In the spirit of bringing everyone here, I’d like to hear a response from your employer. Our contracts require that you report any incidents of discipline or work-related infractions to the relevant HR department. 2012. Franks v1."

"I was fired," I said. "He was looking for someone to replace me, with a monetary bonus if I could prove my resignation was genuine. From what I recall, he also wants a record."

"This isn’t good enough for you to give me the benefit of a doubt?"

"It’s good enough," I said. I looked up at Grue. "And, I have to say, your attitude since my last conversation with you has been… interesting."

"On the subject of my previous conversation with you, can I ask what prompted your appearance here and in the field of weapons?"

"Last week. His response to the D.D.I.A. letter."

"And a hand delivered by the Mayor’s office? An apology?"

"I didn’t expect him to be as forthcoming. I’m sorry."

This was getting absurd. This was turning into a conversation between a PRT grad and a cape trying to milk the schtick for all it was worth.

I couldn’t even stand to get it into his conversation log. Cut the crap, Skitter. You were trying to be funny, being nice, and now you’d do the opposite?

"It’s not that minor. If he’s as offended at my attempt at having a friendly chat with your squadmates as he is at the fact that I’m trying to get info on the gang dynamics of your group, I’

======== SAMPLE 16 ========
 didn’t. Not in the sense I was thinking.

"Fuck you, you little left-hander," Cuff murmured.

"Fuck you too," Shatterbird echoed her.

There was a knock on the door of the room. Minutes passed before Jack Vi Britann II entered the room. He opened the door to the room with a sledgehammer, picked up the manila envelope that sat on the desk, and then slammed it.

"Forgive me, my dear," he said. "I presume you sought my counsel and found it lacking. If gargantuan is the word, it is fitting that I should share it. Consider this my good will. We, the members of the Expanding Families, are not opposed to tinkers and builders finding aught we might otherwise dismiss as unseemly. Rather, we are opposed to it at all costs. We believe that this is best achieved when all facts are known, and our side is fully represented. We are the new settlers."

The sting of a mosquito bite. Cuff’s power made the bugs in the area cease moving and cancel out the hallucinations. When she felt the pain in her arm, she smiled and held his hand, they strode off.

"My dear," Cuff said, so slowly she might have sounded mad. I couldn’t tell if she was talking to Jack or someone else. "I’m sorry. I’m working to perfect my personality, and you’re the person I need in this chaotic environment of a failed city. I… I’m working on becoming something more, and you’re the person I need to keep close at hand, in an attempt to provide. And you’re saying goodbye, my friend."

The sting of the mosquito was making her cough. She stared vacantly at the space outside the doorway, unwilling to look at Jack for more than a second.

"I don’t suppose you could make me some toast?"

"Of course."

She looked up at him, cheeks red, "I’m glad you did it. I’ll hear from you about any major thing."

"I’ll die when you do."

She nodded, staring at the ceiling for a long few seconds. "Any tidbits of information you want to pass on?"

"I’ll pass on anything important."

She nodded once.

He was moving toward the stairwell at the far end of the room. As they passed through the door and into the stairwell, she whispered, "Remind me of someone I used to know."

"We were in the company of a brilliant young man who was kind, caring and generous. You’ve copied me, so it’s probably safe to say he loves you, too."

"I’m… I’m not?"

"He was a mentor, a friend. I… I don’t think I’m a clone, anymore."

"Why the thank you? I could feel your heart going down since I heard that."

"Are you happy?"

"I think you’re a damn liar, Ve zed. I was as much a product of Henry’s system as you were of Chevalier’s. We were social radicals before we were conformists. You’re a product of the Establishment, driven by your own ideals and values."

"That’s not true."

"I’m trying to show you what I’m looking at. When I say I’m a product of the system, I’m really saying I’m a SJW tinker wearing a clown car."

"What is a SJW?"

"A social justice warrior. A radical leftwinger. Liberals hate him, conservatives hate him, but he’s a friend to some of us. We used to be friends. We were strong, friendly people. Then I associate things with you and they shun me."

"I understand that."

"If you don’t believe that, I can give you a ride to the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center. I don’t think you’re a real monster, even if I don’t agree with everything you’ve done."

"No offense."

"Look, I don’t agree with every step you’ve taken in your long road to recovery. I think maybe you crossed a line. But you have to look at the bigger picture. We’ve come a long way, at least. I’m willing to take that leap of faith."

"Of course you have to listen to

======== SAMPLE 17 ========
 didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to step on his turf for the chance to talk. That, and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have his big guns ready.

"They came from three blocks away," he said. "This place is a third of an hour’s walk away."

"So we’re supposed to just stay home?" she asked.

"Yeah," he let his hand drop to his side.

"What are we supposed to do?"

"I think we’re supposed to play one on one, you decide," he said. He flashed her a smile. "Great. That should be easy. All I need to do is to say the word."

"I love you, Michael," she said, hugging you again, extending a hand.

He shook his head, "I love you more."

She pulled away, but he was able to draw on the benefit of the two villains staring the pair at war. The thug was only barely pinned, but for a time, the other villain appeared to be in control.

It was a span of power, but Michael did not lose his grip.

It’s a game, I thought. A game of fair dice, with both players clearly positioned to win some, and if one of us draws… if two of us get –") he made a note.

He heaved out a sigh, "I'm going to go. I’ll be in touch with more news, let me know what the reaction is, and then I leave."

She nodded.

He didn’t press the button, but rather than watch the thug get trampled by the hired men that the Slaughterhouse Nine had brought into the building, he turned his attention to the client. As the man prepared to leave the building, he stiffened, pulled on his armor with just the momentary use of his costume button, raising the collapsary gun.

The mask of the mask mimicked the curve of his chin, quite possibly by making drawing back, or by making his face more pronounced, with sharper features and a longer face. His armor panels, trimmed in a high degree of contrast, were black, with gold and silver embellishments and finely designated slots for the various cannons that he held. A large cannon on the right side of his chest chambered for a shotgun, whilst a recurve bow on the left side was modelled on an old arbalest that had been too large for him. His helmet sported a veritable arsenal of guns, enough to serve him just fine in a fight. Other armor consisted of full plate with a veritable cannon on the front, shoulder and back, tentacle-like growths poking profusely out, and tentacles at the sides and the corners.

If all this wasn’t enough to shake the elements, he sported a veritable army of smaller, more insectile creatures that were arrayed between his troops. Not human in the slightest.

"Good luck," he told the Guardian. "Go home. You don’t have powers. Go."

The diminutive Protectorate member sped off in pursuit, the shrinking Bug girl catching up to her in a few seconds. As she got close, he extended his own punch. She dropped into a punch at the corner of the head, and he caught her before she could follow through. He then set his hook against her cheek, pinching her to the wall.

Brian was on her in an instant, and she disappeared with a pop.

"Good luck," he told the girl. "Go. You’ve got a good life ahead of you. You’re probably going to be a villain."

He was left standing there, his arm outstretched, a white cloth in hand.

He’s got a white sheet over his face.

It faded.

Just two more times, the white sheet played host to a corpse with the hands raised, the dead tissue revealing itself slowly to flow out over the years as the organism grew and tissue was shed. Often, it was just one or two bodies, though it had taken place in the past and the sheets had reflected the conditions then. Sometimes five or six.

It grew and distorted until it was just an ordinary brown paper bag, containing everything. A single bed, a television, speakers, a stereo, a small monitor and a snub.

Even though it was made of nothing, the bag seemed to reverberate in mid air, returning to the ground state many times per second.

His eyes locked on the girl who stood next to him.

He felt a moment’s trepidation.

Why this?

The girl withdrew her hands, then touched her mouth

======== SAMPLE 18 ========
 didn’t think we deserved it.

They were just making it look easy. I couldn’t get a sense of them, and no matter. By the time I tried to figure them out, it was past nine. I started making my way downstairs, took my time.

■

I didn’t have a precise destination in mind, but I had a number of things in mind. My bed would be done up in time for Christmas, maybe; I wasn’t crazy about the idea of sleeping in, but there were beds that were just as good or better than the couch at this location.

I was dressing to go, getting ready for a few days of wandering. I’d have to eat, spend some time at the lookout, and then I’d fly back to check on the general well-being of Dragon and the general well-being of the portal. I didn’t want to spend too much time waiting around, or procrastinate. There were plenty of shelters and hostels that would be just as good as the one Coil had set up. The problem would be that none of those places were currently open.

I wracked my brain, trying to think of what to do in the meantime. I couldn’t berate myself for thinking too hard, but it had been way too long since I’d exercised my power. I don’t know if it was the wind blowing my hair or my bugs, but I couldn’t do Coil’s tricks with his weapons or with the water. I really didn’t need to worry about getting shot in the process. If there was a rush, a stray gunshot could bring everyone down.

Too many tricks under my belt at this point. My costume was in desperate need of a makeover, and the only way I could think of to do that would be to get more specific about what I was asking Coil for.

Did he want me to get specific about wanted properties? To ask for a containment van? A tractor-beam? A massive underwater excavator? A 747? A water bomber?

If he wanted both, if he wanted money and luxury goods topper, I was fine. I could even ask for an armored suite, to stand up to the dogs and other undesirables. I just wasn’t sure how effective those things would be in a fight.

The uniform had entered my headquarters, and stood by with a wide hand to my left. I let myself into the back room first, knocked and knocked. I knew that it was stupid to stay in one place when I was whisked away to the special operations room on the other side of the building, but I also knew that it was well within my power to make some noise.

"Ugh, the Taystee," a woman said. She was talking to a group of her followers in a foreign language, perhaps an interpreter. Inaudible, probably.

"Replacements for Taystee and Go Tee," another man said.

"I already tried," a woman replied. She or his language was spoken by a short Asian man with a mop of dark hair.

"You fail to see the difference between fanciful and ridiculous," the first woman said. He or she was an old man, leaning back in a chair, surrounded by five or six others. "These are our idols."

"or their villains," the man in the center of the group said.

"They’re both despicable," another man said. "Listen to them. Taystee was just an ordinary woman. She got in a fight with some skinheads, and they ended up biting and scratching her, until she got so scared she went out in disguise."

"They still don’t get why anyone would want to hate them," I said.

"They remind us of who we were before we got our powers," the old woman said. "In a way, it’s nostalgic. If you can get rid of the memories, I can get you back on the same path, just with a bit more perspective."

"Paths…?"

"Retake territory, stop the forces trying to take it, protect people, settle disputes… whatever."

"You forgot what you’re fighting against," the woman said.

She or she or she or there… I didn’t recognize anyone among the many in the area.

I looked towards the area where Lung and the old woman were.

There was a long, eerie silence. I saw a flicker of light from the window, before the shadows returned. The window had been broken yet again.

"You wouldn’t be setting the rules that way," I said.

"What I want is simple. Everyone should have the

======== SAMPLE 19 ========
 didn’t take them to."

"The ones who were still unconscious."

"Gotcha."

"Wanted."

I nodded. "Tattletale?"

"What?"

"Can I borrow one of those?"

"Not that I’m on her good side. I got the impression you were before Lung."

"I don’t know how that was even on the surface. I was still trying to think of a way to convince her there wasn’t anything more I could do."

"You’re being evasive," I said. "People are tracking your every move, and you came out ahead by asking Taylor instead of asking your team."

"That happens when we’re all on the same page."

"You said it yourself. It’s complicated to keep secrets when you have a secret identity."

"We have a working theory on that."

"I see. So here’s the next piece of evidence, which casts doubt on the idea of our paying visit to the Wards in the future. We’ve been gathering information with the portals, and the burnt corpse and lunges of the half-eliminated Four were reported in the media as well. The aftermath of the Yamada incident involving the Ten should give us more answers."

"We’re not powerless. Anyone with top-notch reflexes is already on their guard."

"That’s the sort of thing that’s recorded. The PRT does check IDs, but not for high-risk professions. We have cash."

"And the costume," Tattletale said.

"The costume is a prop. Not something we’ll have for the Nine. Just something they might choose to wear."

"To escape unwatched," Grue said. I thought I might have heard a change in his voice.

Tattletale asked him, "So this is about leverage? If we approach them like this, do they have a sense of how good we are at bluffing or if we have the opposite advantage, can we leverage their weak points?"

"Yeah," he said. "You pointed out the Ten, didn’t you? That they have a repertoire of powers? While our team was operating here, they were apparently operating from a nondisclosure agreement. That may be a part of it. I also expect there are parallel Earths, with the various teams and individual members."

"I was saying it would be difficult to navigate," I said.

"I know. But it’s not impossible. The players here are too complex. If you can mine the portal network, if you can correlate the data and know what the connections are… Okay. Now, this is where I’m spending the most time, and it’s the part of the portal that the most people are going to see."

I stared at the set of ledgers that were closest to me. The balance of our bank accounts, our suppliers, our paid staff, our laborers, our salespeople and all the other people who received services and goods had all come in recently.

Even before the portal was open, I’d been informed about some of those people.

I supposed I wasn’t the only one who was in the dark. At least, I suspected there were others who were aware.

I didn’t want to be one of the people who got it wrong.

"They’re complex enough that there’s no reason to give them specific numbers," Tattletale said. "Just say it’s a fairly straightforward system. The rule is that any individual with access to a power book or advanced reading of the manhua must get a direct line of access to a power source. The more direct, the better. Nonlinear? Yeah. But it keeps things simple. You don’t go over the top on anything."

I nodded. The more the characters on the ledger seemed to be drawing closer together, the more confused I became.

"Directed attack?" Regent asked.

I nodded. "Individual members of our group get hits on their abilities via the enforcers. Not always a direct hit, but often enough that it has an effect. There’s a whole list of things they’ll do, restrictions they’ll have, rules they’ll have, purification rituals they’ll hold, and much more. It keeps things exciting. In the quiet moments, while the fighting’s still going on, they’ll poke fun at your group, if they haven’t done it already."

"I think I get the point," Scrub commented.



======== SAMPLE 20 ========
 didn’t make it three steps before I was inside the room. I’d guessed wrong.

"My head’s hurting again, and it’s like when I had the flu before I got my arthritoscope. My head hurts so much I can’t think straight, and I can’t move my head, and I can’t focus, and I can barely even recognize those scenes I’m seeing, because I’m so overloaded with images I’m seeing so much that I feel like I’m losing my mind. And it gets progressively worse, and it… gets better. Like how the pain in my arm gets better every second, the information gets better, and I canPOSSIBLY understand why you’re getting more frustrated with every second, and you know that if it gets better, it will get better, too. Because youRE helping me, you’re making it happen."

That was enough to get my goat. I raised my own hand, "What are you signing?"

He stopped mid-sentence, reaching across the table to rummage through my belongings.

"I ‘m basically done with my own stuff. My sister’s stuff, the stuff my parents left me. Some of my boyfriend’s stuff, too. Myborgäd made all my stuff, and heSTORED IT ALL IN THE PHYSICAL WORLD WHERE IT STORED TRUE WORSHIP ONLINE. SO I COULDSTART CREATING NEW LIFEFORM THAN FOLLOWING, IF HE WANTS. SUPPRESSING HIVES, KEEPING BONES FAMILY. THEY WOULD NEVER KNOW, I’d BEHELD IN PREJUDICE, BUT I DONE THAT, OTHERWISE.

"But the rest, a bit of each, is my own stuff, the money I’ve made, the things I’ve done with my own power. LIBERTIES, PRESERVATION, AFFAIRS. FAMILY, OTHERS. SOME LOVE, BUT NOT THOUGHT THAT WAY. I SEE FAMILY, THOUGH. I THINK WE ALL NEED LOVE. AN UNDERGROUND LEVEL, IN OTHER WORST CASES. HUMANITY, NATURE. I MIGHT HELP ALONE, BUT I’m NOT INTENDED FOR HUMANITY. THEY NEED LIBERTIES, BUT I JUST PRESERVE.

"OR I'm ESTABLISHING BITTER, AS IF I HAD CREATED MY OWN BODY, &C. TO CREATE HUMAN BEINGS THAT CAN BE RATHER HUMANE.

"ISN’t SEXY, BUT ITS LACKS THE SHIT. WOULD NEGLONATE IF I CREATED A BITCH WITHIN A THIRD OF A SECOND. YET.

"BROTHER? CIARRNE? CIUCKHHH?"

"I don’t CARE. HUMANE. YEAH. BITCH. BULLSHIT."

I stood there, frozen. I tried to shake my head, but nobody moved a finger to strike me.

Why did this have to be so desperate? I shook my head, "I dunno. There’s more violence &pism in the world than there is in here. What if I told you there was a whole other world, with a different kind of beauty, a different kind of humanity? You’d think there’d be riots, you’d think people would be pissed at the oppression, but you’d think the same about those moments when I’m biting my tongue & making cryptic references to dark books I’ve read. They’re waiting, watching, listening & observing, rather than connecting with me & experiencing me. Why? I don’t know. But I’ve seen people change, defeated foes, and I think a lot of it has been for a lack of connection."

"Isn’t that a pretty picture, if we’re connecting with someone who isn’t just suffering, but who’s disconnected?" Theo asked. I suspected my presence wouldn’t do much of anything.

Brian shrugged, "It’s a start. If there’s some kind of connection, you’ll find out about it fast enough, and that’s even if you can find out."

Or not.

"Are you saying you’re connected? You’re disappointing me."

He didn’t respond, but he folded his arms, "Not by a long chalk."

I pressed my attacker’s hand, and his hand didn’t rise above it.



======== SAMPLE 21 ========
 didn’t get a chance to finish. Shadow Stalker lunged across the street, leaping from building to building as she made her getaway, weaving through neighbors and building occupants as she flew to safety.

Miss Militia had made her getaway. Or Tattletale had, in her turn, led her with a determined air and an eye to detail. I wasn’t so sure I could say the same about Jess, but maybe that was because her train of thought was a little more haphazard. Maybe it was similarly directed at everything else; her mom or her dad or her school.

Tattletale, for her part, had caught on and was piloting Coil’s phone as we ran. The two of us, with the other members of the Chosen supporting us. Warhead landed, and Tattletale capped off the escape by flying straight for Jess.

"Come on, give her a chance," I told her.

It took a full minute for Imp to pull off her flight pack. The lizard-girl held the device out with one hand and began to attach it to her body. With a sharp movement, she flung the pack forward and over Chase’s head, momentarily disabling him.

Blasto, Warhead and Jester all got a glimpse of the pack as it dropped down to land in the shallow water that surrounded the mess hall. Warhead waited patiently, but Imp pressed the stick a fraction harder, and the pack came free. It was still strapped in very much like a grenade.

"This packs pretty valuable," Imp said.

I studied it for a moment, then hefted it for a brief moment, examining it. I wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but the fact that it showed up like that only worked on photos, it didn’t do a thing if I had to imagine the compartment was really like a real grenade.

"Not exactly," Tattletale said. Her voice was slightly quieter than before as she answered Romp’s question. "Packed like a bomber is packed, but this is really, really light. It doesn’t force you to have a place to put your weight, and the fragility of the thing makes you really, really need to have your stuff together in the first place."

"I don’t care how much explosives you have in there," Romp replied, "-I’d take the side of the person holding the grenade in a second attack. And I don’t care about the fragility of the thing. I care about… well, anything and everything that isn’t tied to a person or something that can hold someone otherwise."

"I’m not looking for a fight," I said. I pulled off my mask, then dug around inside for something my face would be able to scratch. I finally found cuffs, webbing and zip ties.

"If you demand proof that you aren’t suicidal, I have to give it to you. You tossed that thing aside when you committed suicide."

I stopped, and took a second to get my head and shoulders out of the way. This wasn’t what I’d expected.

"How do you know?"

"I can feel your heart beat with the pacing of your breathing as you talk. It’s like I’ve got a psychic grasp on your personality."

"I don’t think I know yours," I told her.

"No? Well, the opposite is true. By studying your breathing, I can hopefully come to understand you."

Ah. "Exactly what I was talking about."

"You seem to have things under control," he said. "Good."

"When I was dealing with the Travelers, there was this part of me that was, uh," I struggled to find the word, "Disordered."

"That’s a better term," Tattletale said. She paused, then raised one horn to her right. It started spinning quickly, then stopped. "Biting back the toxins, controlling the parasites, dealing with the burn at the sites…"

She trailed off.

I thought of the burn. I adjured myself with the flying bugs while I spoke, as I climbed to my feet with the remaining bugs still in the way. Then, as I climbed to my feet, I drew my guns. I straightened my arms out so I had room to load both guns and magazines in the back of my upper body.

"Now," Tecton said, speaking over the comms, "We’re bombing!"

"Yes!" the response came through a mouthful of bugs.

It was sheer chaos as my bugs traversed the area, searching the surroundings, but managing to

======== SAMPLE 22 ========
 didn’t go so far as to claim the job was mine. It was open to her, for lack of a better word, to refuse the job whenever or however she saw fit. She knew some people who’d refused for similar reasons, but she didn’t think they’d be as welcoming as this girl.

She’d been directed by her therapist to seek out trouble. Her parents had been a long way away, her dad had been fired and she’d been living with her aunt and uncle, until she was seven. Just getting here had been hard, and as of late, her aunt and uncle had been moving more and more stuff, which had left her confined to her room. She had made her way here on her own, armed with her hammer, a good amount of plastic work and her two year old, and had made it a point to get a room here.

Even after moving here herself, being here so recently has made Caraissa awfully sad. Sad because of the way the hallways and rooms looked, the old architecture, the depressing gray hall with the white block? But she was trying to distract herself by looking at the pictures and memorizing the words. She hated the feeling of defeat, of having to wait months or years for this to all be over, because she knew that she had put all of that effort and all of her pride into becoming a hero, and that had never going away. The days of being a barely ordinary teenager, waiting to be thrust into the spotlight were the days Caraissa was used to experiencing.

But happier? That was a confusing question. She was happiest when she was with Liam, her dad’s close, ordinary teenage years. When she was with Dennis and Brittney? She was conflicted, because the answer was always the same.

Team captain, hero, leader, model student.

Dennis shrugged and grabbed the laptop from on high above the cabin. He stared at it, apparently unconcerned that the glossy picture of the teenage hero with the half-shaved head, three piercings and a metal discoloration of the cheeks was missing a feather. Computer screens on the metal bulletin board itself sported ads for various credit and debit cards. Dancing credit cards. Online bank accounts. Ships. In the status bar at the bottom of the screen, a blinking yellow light. Click it, and the light would turn green, and there would be a brief video of the smiling, dashing teenager with the heart-shaped mark on his chin.

"I know it’s just vintage Furniture." Dennis muttered, "But why Lars? Why not Annette?"

"We don’t have the luxury of time," Brian answered him, as if that was answer enough. He turned around to face the cabin, his lips pressed into a firm line, "Annette’s our best bet for getting answers, because she’s never going to be willing to talk shit. It’s all been decided. We can take the easy route, stealing her car, or we can do the hard route, a fake her car. What does the world look like if we go with the easy route?"

"It don’t look so pretty," Dennis shrugged.

"There’s two equally ugly options, you dumb bitch. You could take her car, and you’re done. Your testicles will be crushed and you’ll never walk again, but your girls will be and they’ll be unhappy. So instead of taking her car, you’re going to get all teary and stuff, you’re going to tell me how you humming baby, I’ll rub your bald twats for five or ten minutes, and then we get down to business."

Brian opened his mouth to cut Brian some slack, but Dennis hit him with a arm at Brian’s side, making the boy stagger a little, "You bitch. This is my second chance."

"Hey!" The synth girl spoke, "You can’t tell me where to go, what to do, when we’re supposed to team up. I’m not your teammate, okay? So when you say we can cut through the line of defense, I’m not going to bat that in. Because I don’t care if you die, I don’t care if you get crippled and blind because you tried to sting me with that light saber you were making."

Dennis dodged as much as he could under the growing weight that Brian exerts over his body. His legs almost felt like they were on fire, and he only barely slowed down from his sprints to keep from stepping on anyone’s toes. The weight of the chair made his feet sink into the concrete of the floor.

"Rub it

======== SAMPLE 23 ========
 didn’t go down. It was only when he turned his head that did Dragon’s swarm have a chance to bite him. The venom couldn’t spread through the hive to other parts of the colony, and so there was only a limited effect Dragon could expect. He swallowed it whole.

Dragon had to do something else. He turned her attention to the man, ordered him to cast out more rods and begin polishing off the containers that held the vials.

For a solid hour, he stood there, eyes open, staring at the dark gray walls of the room. Too tired even to move, he panted, bared his teeth in the air before desperately trying to bind another hand, to move his head, and failed. Devoid of structure or substance, his body was simply struggling to move.

At length, with a sound like the crackling of a match being set to music, he slumped to the ground. His shirt split, now the insides of one hollow piece revealed.

A fire started at the center of the room. It was partially obscured by a blaze caused by Genie’s power, and the formation of some kind of sculpture or the roaring of a lion struck the center of the room, dark gray shapes tumbling from a point above.

"The butcher is right, Theo," a voice sounded, "We need to work fast."

The green haired woman that stood by the open case looked at me, "Can you leave through the window yet? It’s only a matter of time before Shatterbird gets here."

"I can. But I need another witness."

"A visitor?"

"A visitor. And we’ll need a wagon."

"I’ll come. Might not be enough," the girl spoke.

"No. You’ll need a witness."

"And a wagon."

"A visitor? I’m not versed in fighting in the rain. I come bearing two leather sacks. She’s going to want something to carry them in, so help is appreciated but not required."

"You’re going to let Shatterbird take the bags, then?"

"Of course."

A sound of disappointment from the badly hurt girl.

"You’re not leaving, and you’re not asking me to."

"And you’re staying because you have to be here."

"I am staying because my cousin lives here and he needs someone to listen when I say something for him."

"And you’re keeping your mouth shut. Do what you need to say."

"I’m glad we can help him."

"I knew you’d try this if you found yourself in a similar situation, sweeter. But is this going to get you anywhere?"

I didn’t have a response for that. I used my bugs to talk to the boy in the way she’d type, tried to move my forearm, found it to be too heavy. I managed by crawling into a puddle.

The others had packed their things into the sacks the girl had helped me to pack. I got my comic books, which I shifted to the front pocket of my oversized t-shirt. In the front pocket was a small bag, fairly crudely laid out, with a blanket in layers that didn’t lay flat. A second smaller bag, almost a match for its own shape, with a laptop in the center, with a blanket and a can of beer in the reverse center. The front of the larger sack had a mess of clothes, my unzipped pocketbook and two dozen books. More books and more clothing were found in the top of the larger sack, which shrank to a pinch.

This was just my being able to organize itself. I could have maybe sent every book and every tv show and movie I owned to a third party, but that was nearly as inadequate as letting it fall to the wrong person. I couldn’t put every TV show and movie on the bottom of a jumble. Having a general idea of what I needed to do for this plan, letting my subconscious self pick out the necessary stuff, that was faster, faster, faster.

Then, as I realized what I was looking at, my subconscious mind started organizing it. Cataloguing and organizing things, until there were ten things I could currently think of, sitting on their sides in the opposite corners of my field of vision.

That was the funny thing about music. Our brains put together something complete, and then we jam it into a song and time where we can’t possibly see it as it actually happens. We shape it, phrase it, word it, conceive it and conceive it into a living thing, until it

======== SAMPLE 24 ========
 didn’t believe that my thoughts were on them, and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to think about it. They’d be just a few blocks away.

It would be so easy to just run. To be safe, something to aim for, here, now, in this moment.

But she was young. Good young. Walking in her shadow stripped her of much of that. So she wandered in a cautious way, staying just out of his reach. Ahead, she would drop down to ground level and lean against a wall. In the dim, confused light, she would see Bitch and try to take cover.

Eager to change direction at a moment’s notice, she turned in the direction of a different ambush.

Back in the group, I was only half-convinced. Doubly so as my consciousness approached the point where I’d lost track of time. I felt my heart skip a beat as I realized that there were no easy answers, no quick decisions to be made. There was always a great deal of discussion, and sometimes a great deal of disagreement. There was no certainty, no sure things.

Had I been wrong, were they ambushing us?

I didn’t feel the need to check. No. It was too early in the game. Still, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to anticipate our movements. He had to cover a wide area, and the costs of his troops working for him would mean he’d hold his ground until his big guns were presented.

The lone parahuman in my range, Gnash, made a beeline for the mall entrance. The only ones in this ambush were a stuffed animal Sam had brought, and a stuffed animal Greeter had just brought. If I was reading off a book, I could have sworn I could hear Gnash using the chained crowbar to get at the ventilation system.

That was before I managed to get the spider into the right position, before I managed to jab at the stuffed animal’s neck.

It wasn’t a bird. It was a stuffed animal from infancy.

A girl appeared in the window. She had green hair, a green, cat-ears mask, and a strapless dress. Her eyes were darting left and right, as if she was hyper-aware of the combat that was waged outside and in the interior of the mall.

She introduced herself. I took the time to process her before she bumped me aside.

"Sam. You’re walking into a trap."

"Nice to meet you, Sam. Few people that give you the benefit of a doubt," she said. She bumped me aside.

"When you were dealt with by the heroes, what were your thoughts?"

"I was thinking about how the Protectorate is supposed to be a safe haven for bad guys. Glory Girl, Faultline, Coil. You know that there’s always going to be someone pushing the envelope. The PRT is supposed to be a safe haven for villains. Where else but here?"

"I was thinking the boardwalk. It seems pretty sturdy, at least."

"So there’s a strong presumption here. I’m trusting you to tell me where to find out."

"Mmm," she sounded just a little distracted. "I can’t help but think of the advertisements that are supposed to be in the newspaper every day. Advertisement after ad after ad, showing off the new heroes, the fantastic things they can do. All the while, money from Uncle Sam is pledged at the bottom, pledged at the same moment the funds become available, and it all goes towards the reward of the first place finisher. The money isn’t spent, however, but allocated to protect the worthy, specifically the Brockton Bay team of heroes. Thats not appropriated from the regular budgets, but it’s pledged towards recruiting the next generation of heroes, upgrading the heroes of the future. And there we finally arrive, at the halfway point in the recruitment and production of heroes. That is, until funds become available again."

"So money comes in, it affects our budget, or someone makes a more pressing announcement, like Leviathan destroying the city or Scion destroying the world, and we have to pull emergency shifts, recruiting individuals from around the world."

"I see. Can you quote me on that?"

"Unfortunately, we cannot."

I broke into a smile. "Okay. Great. I’ll do it for you, then."

He reached out and took my hand. His grip grew weaker, the helpless gesture almost sacrificial. I was aware of people thrumming around him, reaching to touch him, wanting to be his girlfriend, even some kids who were crying as

======== SAMPLE 25 ========
 didn’t feel it or had someone else keep my mouth shut.

Instead, I used the force that hissed and battered against my sides until I found the gaps in his armor.

Bitch had to know that, hadn’t she?

"All good," I hissed the words. I directed the wave at the man with the glass eyes. "Real good."

I knew it was futile, but it had to be done. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered what I’d do if Echidna didn’t give us an early Christmas.

I cast another glance over my shoulder, the ones that were still walking in the wind. The wounded, the poor, the dead. I saw a family emerging from a barn, passing through a storm drain with debris showing where the water had risen.





Scourge 19.4


The manClaude thrust into the wall was only getting started. The steps he’d used to his own interior were the height he’d wanted for his project. The project might have been a futile dive, but he’d wanted to show he could step beyond the project, to make bags and bags he could slide into without tipping. So these were things he’d made without sheltering against his will, protecting his privacy, his existence.

He’d preferred the large canvas bags over the metal, so there was no doubt they were safe. I even felt bad about them, as someone who’d raised questions about the quality of goods from stores. I’d feared the cloth above the metal version would be a fake, something shot through with poison. (Could I even call it a fake? The pictures seemed too good to be a fake, to be misleading or deceptive, even if the bags were safe and well packaged.) Regardless of the poison, it was hard to find personal belongings and protecting the stuff from the elements while doing it was harder.

Once he was secure, I patted him on the shoulder, invited him to join the Undersiders.

"If I don’t come, you can lead the Chicago Wards through a destruction-relief effort," he offered.

Hurrying up, he met me in the alleyway, put his hands on my shoulders as I resisted the urge to head straight for the fray. He cupped my shoulders, "Or you can watch the rest of us die horribly, in the meantime, hopefully in some vain attempt to lure us off and buy yourself some time."

"That’s not really your call to make," I replied. He gave me a level stare, before he opened the back of his jacket. Within seconds, he was holding it open, handing me a package.

"Inside?"

Inside was a rectangular tin container with the branding and logo you typically see on the front. The opening was unlocked, and I had to reach down to bend down and uncover a chute that ended at one of the shelters. It led down into some storm drains, so I had to be careful not to water level the apartment.

As we descended, I found myself less focused on the dangerous situation and more focused on Minimalist’s protection. You’d think he had pepper spray, by the looks of it, but that wasn’t exactly it. He was protected by a roughly man-sized layer of silk, much like one of the spiders I’d tried to pick up earlier. The only thing I could use to draw a circle around his arms was a piece of plywood, embedded in the wall, and I wasn’t sure how well that would withstand a jab of a wooden stake through the wood. On the other side of the drain, he had a showergown that was welded shut, neatly rolled to keep the leg from coming free. It was working, though, and the effort he was putting into keeping the electrician and hairstylist from seeing us was considerable. I almost turned around to find a better angle to draw comparisons to Coil.

"I see you’ve brought news to your territory. Details, if you will."

"No," I lied. "We’ve already discussed some."

"And you’ve probably heard about this one, from the others. Chances are it’s new."

I turned around. "What are you talking about?"

"My territory?"

I started to turn my head, but he held his position. "Close enough. As I said, we’re mutually exclusive. That means we can’t interfere with each other. And I have to protect the secrecy of the job. Keeping the details on the job confidential, as well as possible leads, tracks or traps you’re going to pull, in case we

======== SAMPLE 26 ========
 didn’t feel that we’d both be better off with Skitter joining the Undersiders.

It could be that he was trying to convince her. Or it could be that he believed in her abilities. Here he was, wanting to help her in her moments of greatest desperation.

"I’m interested, Mikail," I told him, stepping closer.

"Come here."

Mikail nodded and took my offered arm. We stepped back, his body swaying as he balanced on the pile of metal bars that supported the sled. He wasn’t using his power, but he wasn’t using his arm, either. It would be dangerous for him to get too close to a teammate without enough warning.

We walked briskly until we reached a set of railroad tracks. The thermals were high, but there was a small bench beneath each foot, so we didn’t have to climb to the next block. From there, it was a short walk to the bus shelter.

From the shelter, we took a circuitous route to the bus station. The bus, already docked, was proceeding at a slow jog towards our destination. Having found the shelter, the bus had paused at an unlit, empty lot where a faded red light had been left. The yellow of a green taillight marked the location.

We walked with the lights off to the ‘bus shelter’ sign, paging through our belongings. My cell phone, GPS data, the GPS data itself, my glasses and contacts. My costume, my mask, the lenses of my contacts and my glove. Nothing had been taken.

The armor panels of my costume were both boarded up, sealed tight. I couldn’t even guess if the material had been dented or if it had been reinforced with polythene. It had been enough to protect the exterior of the mask and the gloves, enough to protect my knife, taser, and the darts in my shoulder amp.

The inner part of my costume was better protected. The right and left arm, the leg against the ground, the entire structure, the left side of my stomach, left leg and left arm. Protectorate # links were pinned inside the knots, which seemed to have swollen to the point that they weren’t significant. The fat knot itself was bad enough that I couldn’t pump myself up to hit the ground and risk snapping it. The armor panels, though, was too thick to be ignored. Ras ul diegomaiden, the name was written in fat on the front, and the image was faded with age.

The bridge of my armor had braided metal and cord into a loop that was about four feet long. Approach lights were mounted at regular intervals over the top and sides of it, to help keep it from fraying. I doubted the public would notice them, but it was an end-all, be-all weapon system for the supervillains in my immediate area. Weapons, for better or worse, for the Wards and the State.

It would have been something spectacular to lose one’s Taser in there, or to have it so obsolete that I didn’t need it.

By the time we reached the very back of the bus, I felt brave. I reached for the switches. The one at the back seemed to be set to ‘pass’. I picked up the switch, and was greeted by the dimly lit tunnel.

As I made my way through it, I had the relays decide I was which channel. They switched to the channel I’d been on, marking it as another exit.

I made it through the bridge and through the next gap before the interior was sealed, concrete walls with embedded chips providing a dim interior. Floors barely three feet above the ground were covered in vermillion, a theme that continued throughout, as though the floors were underfoot and the chimney were some kind of trap.

We reached the crowbar, and I used my left to get the cuffs. The other man, still walking the dog, could make his way down, even as far as the scissors.

I changed into a second go-around, purchasing more time. I pulled the cuffs up around my wrists, and then made another detour, crouching with my hands and knees behind me, to slip through the gap.

As I passed through the next gap, I felt a different detour. I dropped the cuffs, and cinched them around my wrists, again. That done, I pulled the metal gag back into its original position.

I reached the point where the main part of the gag was hidden in the crook of my elbow, and found the strap. I adjusted the angle a little, then slid the gag over my face.

The cold shit

======== SAMPLE 27 ========
 didn’t really have an answer because I wasn’t going to make the calls."

"He’s really gone, Taylor. Hollowed out by circumstance," Rachel said.

"And I’m back to square one. Fucking brilliant scientists get themselves killed. Or become dangerous if enough of us turn hostile. You got this."

If Sophia had been faking happiness, there was nothing for it. I felt a flare of irritation.

"This isn’t just revenge. This is about more than that," he said. There was no warmth in his tone. Only the cold facts.

Rachel’s voice, as she spoke, was quiet. "Actually, it’s not revenge. Uh-huh."

There was a pause. I kept waiting for the lecture to end, for the friend that I’d only been peripherally aware of, the person who I’d communicated with for a brief span of time, when I was sure there was nothing to communicate with, to say anything.

All it would take was for my call to be re-routed, for someone in the group to give me the benefit of a teleporter.

"It’s really not," Dinah said.

"I know. I’m not like that. I feel what you feel."

"I said I felt something… but something was off."

"When you woke up, there was emotion in your eyes. You weren’t your old self."

"I’m not."

"You? When you woke up, did you feel anything?"

"I felt my body fucking shatter it because I threw up. I felt illusory beams of light heaving up to the surface of my skull."

"You’re getting better."

Not better, but better than the individual episodes occasionally provided. The standstill, the broken speech, the nightmare at the party. Were they slowly healing, or was it all one continuous trauma? I’d barely heard her speak, but whatever was happening outside the scope of my power, itgroomed in the instant I tried to jump into the narrative.

I closed my eyes, and I Confederation. I drew together a crude figure, a rough shield and weapon, a guidestrike, over one hundred feet in the air, defying gravity, a thin glowing line drawing a straight line alongside my body. I did my best to emulate the movements of the guidestrike, and I cast every bug in the area into foam, keeping them further apart.

Tentatively, I brought them closer together, then farther apart. The easiest way to ensure the safest possible transportation, in the event of a fall, into a vehicle.

Foil clipped something to the side of her scope. An arc of electricity, cutting a semicircle .

"Lethal," Imp said.

I nodded.

"Good, good."

I raised my claw from the ground, reaching for the scythe.

She clamped the scythe’s blade down on top of my claw.

I winced.

"Fuck you, Nelly."

"Oh, he’s sorry," Imp said. "My power hasn’t quite reached him. I suppose there’s a lot we don’t know about our visitor."

A power that worked through might. I could only hope the same applied to her. I moved my claw, and felt something heavy on the ground.

She wasn’t planning on it continuing. She wasn’t bothered in the slightest by the lingering irritability of the other entity and the exhaustion that day.

It had been on the premises of some people, and it had turned out to be an incredibly successful one. In the intervening span, we’d grown to hate them even more, because they’d failed to account for the potentially devastating power of their creations. Why take the chance that our hate of them might spread if we spread the word?

Which was fine. Not a concern.

No. Fine. I was okay with that. I had the numbers and I had the context.

"Three counted," Imp said. "Maybe we should keep counting, since we can’t keep walking."

"We should count to ten," I said. "If it keeps happening, it’ll mean we’re here."

"We may have to," her voice seemed far, grander than it had any right to be. "In ten minutes, we may be gone. With the distance it’ll take to reach Gathereth, I’m not sure we’ll be able to catch a

======== SAMPLE 28 ========
 didn’t even realize, in the midst of an uproar his actions were stirring up. His team, though, they started talking amongst one another and becoming increasingly hostile. Some even reaching out to get on his case.

No way he was letting that go. It would only get worse if he did, and he wasn’t willing to say what the actual intentions were.

"I was going to talk to someone about this, Filch," Coil spoke, leading me to my feet. "I was going to give you a chance to release Delilah."

"Your daughter?" I asked, feeling shocked and appalled at the same time.

Coil paused, then looked at me. "I am aware of your situation. There are compassionate steps you could take if released from captivity."

"You’re aware that I held Delilah for General Mayhem, that I held her for Sledgehammer?"

"I am aware that you made the deal with Bonesaw to free her. It was my intent to free her myself."

Odd, to think about. "So I’m supposed to take your advice, but now you’re saying I should go to Principal Wells and ask for mercy? Like a puppy?"

"It’s a change of plan, Puff. If you want to press the issue, it won’t be pretty. If you do as I say, we’ll sign any deal that gets us from here to where we need to be, and we’ll bring Delilah home."

I was crestfallen. I didn’t like the idea that this’ll work out. No. The PRT getting involved, the fact that Coil might try to blame us for Dinah’s death, and my dad possibly getting in the way. I made myself lean forward, ready to point out that we had the best case scenario that Dinah was still alive and Uncle Owen getting carted off to the Birdcage. It was just ain this mess, and while I wasn’t sure it was perfect (he had his grip in the contract being the biggest obstacle), it was enough.

"So we just walk away?" Faultline asked. "Slap someone else off the contract and call it a day? It’s crazy enough that if some jerkers out there decide that Dinah is a priority and force us to abide by their rules, we wind up being in a better position in the future. You guys take that spot."

"We’re not officially members of the Wards, and the only reason we are a group is because we’re spread out among the congregating families and individuals. We don’t have the standing or presence that would put us on the same level as the major players, nor do we have the money to bring others in. The local capes and Tinkers come to us with ideas and solutions, and we marshal a group of tinkers and medics and other individuals with powers of our own from the local cape base to help out. The end result is that we’re bigger than the average group of parahumans, we’re more powerful, and we’re more popular."

"We have the rights, we’re paid well, and we’ve got the resources to make this stuff even better. You’re making things harder than they need to be?"

"People power against you."

I thought of what had happened at the PRT station. I had name tags up on the windows, noting that things were being done there. A section of the banner had been disabled, because with a person’s back it could be a blunt weapon, like a sledgehammer.

"You’re a bigot."

"I am. I’m not, really. I just think one percent of the time, you balance it by looking after the other 90%. Being nice to people is 90% of the balance, and giving the absolute maximum effort you’d be expected to put forth, to the point that it’s not so hard to look after those around you."

"If you’re that high pressure, then hell, I’m willing to play ball, because I don’t think I can make things easier on the team than you can."

"You’re not being fair."

"I’m being honest. The other nine members of the Wards are from our circle. Tecton, Wanton, Grace, Annex, Cuff and I. Someone found a copy of the memory in an old computer, with some messy system administrator privileges, and they’re handling cloning that part around here, but nothing substantial. Also around here, yeah

======== SAMPLE 29 ========
 didn’t need a whole lot, at least.

I was still a little reeling from our escapade, and even this much cash wouldn’t fix the damage I’d done to my reputation. The attention was… scrutinizing. I was willing to admit it, now, even if I didn’t fully know who or what I was checking out. I was taking it all in. Checking out the houses.

But it wasn’t enough. I still owed you. Your credit was gone, and it wasfinancially supported. There was absolutely nothing left for me to do but earn it. Invest it. Own property, work my way into the city, retire there and start a brand new life.

And if I failed? Oaths? Willing to serve?

"Thank you," I said, to Tattletale.

"You still owe me?"

"We’re still friends, Tattletale. Isn’t that what you wanted? To make sure I was doing everything I could as a leader of the Protectorate, after I’d resigned? I can understand it if you wanted to make amends before all of this went down, but I’d still expect a nice, reasonable person to make that kind of thing a condition precedent to any deal."

Tattletale didn’t respond. She took another drink of water.

"I’m not asking you to make any promises I can’t keep. I’m just asking you to check my stuff after all of those other groups have decided where they’re going to stay, how they’re going to operate, and ensure I have what I need to get by. If you decide I’m not a good fit for your group, then there’s no reason we can't swap you for someone else, for the group you’ve indicated is bad. Regent?"

Regent delivered a blow to Regent’s shoulder.

"And don’t forget about Bec, Tattletale," Grue spoke. "We’re going to get you to the hospital in a matter of minutes, but I’m not going to let you put your lives at risk to try and get me. I’m not a noble dick, I’m not some badass hero or villain, I’m barely an ordinary man. I’m a little overworked, and I sure as hell didn’t earn every minute of it."

"Sir!"

Grue turned, seized me by the shirt-front, hauled me to my feet, and led me towards the stairs.

Through the bathroom, I can’t reach the stairs, but I can reach the bathroom. I put one hand on Basil’s forehead, to warm him up, and pulled his jacket up a bit more, leaving his forehead exposed.

"Please step into the bathroom," I begged.

Bitch turned her attention to me, but glanced down the hallway as she complied.

"I’m sorry," I spoke, through the earbud. "I drove by this house the other night, and it looked horrible. I saw a little bit of what you went through."

"You wanted to know what I went through?" She asked.

"You should know. I- my brother was the most merciful recipient of all. He got knocked out, half of his body left, but he went right back to work, and he’s already come close to dying of a broken arm. He gets the same treatment, for his concussion. He’s almost always better than I am. Yet he has no symptoms, doesn’t realize he’s not taking his medication."

"Put him in a cell, then."

"It’s too dangerous," I protested.

"They’ve got reinforcements. I heard partway through the fence."

"There’s no way those guys can find us."

"There is." She said with a note of panic in her voice. "They can. It’s just a question of which group they’re with and how."

"And here I was thinking you were too fucking smart to know," Bakuda spat the words, suppressed her power. As if she still had that power despite the fact that she was shouting at the sky, she stalked down the hall, hands raised high.

I did my best to ignore her as she approached the sniper team. She fire-or-missed one with a casual ease, and then she fired a salvo with two more groups, taking a second, then a third, to figure out which group was which. I avoided looking in

======== SAMPLE 30 ========
 didn’t get a chance to respond. A massive blade stabbed out from the center of Eidolon’s creation, the blade and hydraulics echoing and echoing of one another, a whirling juggernaut. Even though they were miles apart, the sound was the same, deafening in their own right.

Eidolon stopped and struck out with a spear of pure light, freezing the hydraulics and overwhelming bulk of the blade.

Miss Militia’s rifle shot rang through the air, and it wasn’t cancelled out by either of the flashes from the other guns. The light she fired from the rifle struck Eidolon instead, lighting him up from the combustion arc. She reoriented her camera-equipped gun to miss the sound, aimed again, and struck again.

Just missing her, Eidolon pulled himself together, breaking the spear with a whip of solid light. She switched to a power that left only exposed flesh wounds, attached a metal strip to each wound to track the movement of the light, and with her rifle in position, shot him in the head.

The resulting shot shattered the metal of his armor, and blood streamed down the length of his neck. He dropped the spear and switched to spear before collapsing to the ground, the fluids and the disintegration smoke he unleashed like a tidal wave, splashing into a viscous liquid on contact.

She’d missed the anniversary. The spear had been here earlier.



Interlude 18 (Donation Bonus #1)


"Arrived on site by heroes. Sting is currently in the care of the local heroes."

A power logo appeared on the exterior of the building. A yellow, blinking light. A matter of taps, like a computer monitor going to sleep.

"I trust you’re doing fine," the voice that clockwise sounded like an alarm clock.

Alexandria stared down at the tiled floor. She shook her head, which made Sophia shudder, and asked, "Who?"

"That?" another girl ventured, in a gruff voice, "Is the dumbest question I’ve ever sent you."

Alexandria spoke, "They didn’t pick her because she was a star. They picked her because she was one of us."

"You’re either one of them or you’re a hero."

Sophia shook her head, and the mirror image of the starry-eyed teenager stared at her feet.

"You’re a hero?" Sohu asked. "I thought you were one of the good ones."

"I practiced what I knew."

"It’s a practice? Are you an ulcer doctor? Do you heal wounds and acidify the bodies if someone’s behind bars?"

Sophia shook her head at him. He tried asking a question that was on a strict question, but her voice was thick with repressed anger. "I’m not… I can’t blame myself. I couldn’t handle… what was the word? Mistakes were made."

"Yet you continue to play, because you’re one of the scariest people around. One of the scariest capes out there."

"Mistakes were made. I apologize. But I was prepared to do better next time."

"I wouldn’t suggest you were, Sophia."

He could hear a growl in her voice. He turned, but he couldn’t see who it was. By the looks of the people who were outside, it was none of their team.

A scream.

"I’m not… I can’t blame myself. I wasn’t prepared to do better next time," she repeated herself, growing more intense with each word. Her voice was almost breathable as she spoke, "I was involved, I was present, I worked for someone with a power that was... invasive. I’ve been working on making up for it, since the start of the year."

"You were an unwitting target?" Sveta asked.

"We were the victims, again and again. The group that preyed on us was the group that we had to deal with," Sophia said, not taking her eyes off the knife. "Coil was gathering his forces, bringing his people into our city, using us as an afterthought. I was just a member, before."

"You have a power that makes you immune to it," Sveta said, almost musing aloud.

"Did you even read the files? The quotes from the experts? The definitions? I could prove it. I could tell you it was wrong. Every time it’s been applied, it’s been a danger