Chapter Text
A handful of shabby images had surfaced online. Skitter was alive. The pictures were all obscured by smudged lenses or poor lighting, or in some cases the image was just out of focus. But it was concrete proof that Skitter was still alive and kicking. She was attacking various ABB locations with different mixed groups of villains.
Director Piggot was pissed. It was understandable. The villains’ coalition could provoke an act of desperation from the ABB. Not to mention that it made us heroes look bad. I wanted to continue my nighttime patrols, hoping that I might encounter Skitter during one of the villains’ stings, but Piggot had a different plan for me.
A voice came through my earpiece, “Return to position D-five and collect the pylon there for redeployment.”
“D-five,” I repeated, “Where is that again?”
“Face the coast.” I did. “Slowly turn left… stop. That direction.”
My technician guide was tapped into a small camera temporarily mounted to the side of my mask. The PRT had scrambled in an attempt to make progress, and increased pressure had been put on Armsmaster and Dragon for a solution. The Tinker pair’s work was only partially complete but was being deployed anyway. Pylons… they were little radio towers that emitted interference waves to block Bakuda’s bomb signals. The pylons could connect to each other and form a ‘deadzone net’ over the targeted area. That is how it was explained to me, though I couldn’t wrap my head around the finer details.
“You’re halfway there,” came the technician’s voice in my ear.
Being more mobile than the rest of the Wards, Aegis and I were assigned to pylon delivery duty. Kid Win was enlisted to help put more pylons together. The other Wards were held back with the National Guard line. The higher-ups wanted us kept out of harm as much as possible for this operation. Our Protectorate team were the only ones allowed inside the perimeter.
These pylons allowed us to push into the Asian Bad Boys’ territory and overrun the opposition, right? Wrong. The pylons were individually weak. Only several working in concert with overlapping areas of influence would work. Their individual effective range was miniscule, and under the time constraints, very few had been fabricated. Thus I was zig-zagging back and forth to reposition the pylons whenever our forces cleared ground. It was menial labor, and I felt like a headless chicken.
“God, this fuckin’ blows.” I muttered the complaint under my breath, but apparently my earpiece’s integrated microphone was more sensitive than I thought.
My contact said, “Uh, keep comms clear, Shadow-” Then he cut himself off.
There was a bump in the audio like the microphone was being repositioned on the other end. Then an authoritative voice came on, “This is trench warfare, Shadow Stalker. We win by pushing and taking back one inch of the city at a time,” Director Piggot paused for dramatic effect, “and time isn’t on our side. If you have enough breath to complain, then you’re not moving fast enough. Get going.” There was some fidgeting noise as Piggot relinquished the microphone on her end.
“I’m back,” said the technician, “the pylon you’re looking for is on top-”
I interrupted, “I see it.” There on a flat topped building.
The pylon was a shiny metal cylinder three feet in length with a five inch diameter. It was damn heavy with an outer casing made of cast aluminum. I didn’t know why they couldn’t be made of plastic. A skinny antenna crested the top, and tripod legs extended from the bottom.
I twisted a segmented ring in the middle of the shaft and hoisted the gadget up while it retracted the antenna and legs into the casing. To haul the pylons I had been given the repurposed carrying bag for a collapsible camping chair. Cutting edge technology. Into the bag and over my shoulder it went.
“This pylon’s destination is at F-six.”
I turned to face the coast.
“Turn right… keep going… slow down… stop. That way.”
This was my contribution to the fight: moving the pylons forward by a few dozen yards each time so that our defensive line could creep forward. Combined units of PRT, SWAT, and ARNG infiltrated each building as we made progress. Everyone found inside the perimeter was detained, and their bodies checked for implanted bombs. Guilt and innocence would be determined later.
Our slow push met minimal resistance. ABB fighter cells, what few actually remained, were disorganized and demoralized. In truth, much of the work had already been done for us. This wouldn’t look good if word got out that the bad guys had done a lot of the heavy lifting, so we were in a scramble to deal the final crushing blow.
It was nearly a twenty-four hour operation. Lung was captured and incapacitated in an overwhelming ambush early on. Apparently his eyes were in the process of regrowing after having been carved out by someone, and he was effectively blind. There were no sightings of Oni Lee, though some captured gang members admitted to having seen him with a debilitating leg injury.
Under the stress of being pressured by the combined might of all of Brockton Bay, Bakuda had gone to ground. But not before sending out asinine threats of blowing up the whole city. The bite behind the threats had less and less teeth as the ABB’s position fell apart and many of Bakuda’s bombs were rendered inert.
Bakuda herself was found early in the morning behind a shack at the edge of the bay. She had locked herself in a lead lined refrigeration unit that had been buried on the beach with half a million dollars in cash, a bunch of drugs, and a collection of Japanese porn comics. When dug up and taken out of the refrigerator, she was so high that she was barely conscious.
Upon questioning and with minimal provocation, Bakuda had revealed that her ‘final farewell’ bomb was in a warehouse and that it was nuclear. The psycho gave assurances that it was big enough to ‘kill everybody and leave my mark on the world!’ The warehouse was locked up tight with a preposterous amount of traps and tripwires that could manually detonate the bomb if anyone tried to infiltrate.
Vista and Clockblocker were the perfect remedy. Vista’s power let her feel the layout of the vacant warehouse and the location of the bomb inside; she very carefully manipulated the space to bring the bomb close to the entryway. Armsmaster cut a tiny hole in the door, and Clockblocker stuck a finger inside and touched the bomb. Our bomb squad determined that the device wasn’t nuclear at all, nor was it even rigged to explode. It had been a bluff.
The gang leadership was eliminated. Two of their capes were locked up, the third was crippled and in hiding. Nearly all of their manpower was arrested. Some would evade being criminally charged, but not nearly enough to form a new organization. That was the end of the Asian Bad Boys.
Guess who had to go around and collect all the pylons.
At midday I was finished and thoroughly exhausted. I shared a ride to PRT base with Dauntless, who had been nice enough to help me grab the final handful of pylons. He was fully decked out in his enchanted gear except for a pair of flip-flops on his feet. His sparkly glowing boots sat in the space between us in the backseat.
“They’re so uncomfortable,” he was telling me, “I can’t stand to wear them for more than a few hours.”
Dauntless’ power could enchant a few pieces of gear each day. By repeatedly charging the same object with his power, its potential could increase indefinitely. His charged boots let him move faster and fly.
“But I’m already committed to these.” He motioned to the magic boots. “They’re just a cheap crappy pair of boots from Wal-Mart. I’ve had them since I started as a cape. I’d like a nicer pair to start over with, but I would be throwing away more than a thousand charges worth of speed. It would be a waste. And I’ve tried prescription insoles, but the power in my boots shreds them apart.”
I empathized, “That sucks, dude.” As a track runner, I knew how important it was to have a quality pair of athletic shoes.
“It blows!” he vented.
“Maybe you can find a Tinker sort of uh… what’s the word? A foot expert?”
“Podiatrist?” Folgers guessed from the front. He was minimally participating in our conversation while driving.
I snapped my fingers, “Tinker podiatrist. One that can make a special set of insoles compatible with your power.”
“Hmm…” Dauntless seemed to think about it.
Folgers spoke up, “We’re here,” and he stopped the vehicle at the front courtyard of the PRT building.
Dauntless and I got out. I called, “Thanks for the ride, coffee man,” and Folgers threw up a hand in acknowledgement. The vehicle went around the corner to enter the underground parking deck.
Dauntless had his boots tucked under his arm, and he asked me, “Why’d you call him that?”
“Because his name is Folgers,” I explained, “like the coffee.”
“The drivers have names?”
“Yeah. I was surprised too.”
The PRT base of operations was supposed to be one of the most secure locations in Brockton Bay, but before we even started up the short stairs to the front of the building, we were ambushed. They came out of nowhere and took us by surprise in broad daylight. “Dauntless!” I tried to warn, but they were already upon us.
Two people, a woman reporter and her cameraman, intercepted our path and blocked our progress. The reporter looped her arm through Dauntless’ arm and whirled him around to face the camera. She plastered on her ‘news face’ and said into her held microphone, “Channel Six, News at Noon. I’m Gabbie Gale, and I’m standing outside the local Parahuman Response Team with Brockton Bay’s finest, Dauntless. As well as one of our city’s beloved Wards, Shadow Stalker.” She held her microphone away and spoke to me in a lower voice, “Come closer, sweetie. Squeeze into frame with us.”
I didn’t budge, but she moved and corralled Dauntless closer to me, and the camera turned with her so that we were all in frame with the big PRT sign behind us. If the local villains were as sly and determined, Brockton Bay would never have stood a chance.
The reporter commanded, “Give us an update about-” She stopped when her cameraman tilted the camera down at the ground. The woman followed the direction and saw Dauntless’ sandaled feet, and then took notice of the boots tucked under the hero’s arm. She pounced on the new potentially scandalous subject, “Is something wrong with your boots, Dauntless? Are you having trouble with your powers, or are your feet injured?”
Dauntless grimaced. I was ready to bolt, but Dauntless wouldn’t be able to move very fast or gracefully while wearing flip flops. Escape was a long shot. I decided I would follow his lead, whatever he decided. Comrades don’t abandon comrades.
Dauntless cleared his throat, “Nevermind that,” and he maneuvered and held his boots behind his back. “I have something very important to share. The Asian Bad Boys have been defeated. The criminal terror campaign that besieged our city has been dealt with.”
The reporter’s eyes lit up at the goldmine scoop. I was surprised that he was so desperate to change the topic away from his feet. The PRT had been waiting to get absolutely everything in order within the city before making any announcements. The brass didn’t like the heroes taking initiative in addressing the press. Piggot and her little administrative squad would have wanted to craft a professional statement.
“The operation only recently concluded,” Dauntless continued with natural easygoing charisma, “Our Protectorate Captain, Armsmaster, developed a breakthrough in Tinker-tech that rendered all of Bakuda’s bombs inert.” He tilted his head at me, “Shadow Stalker here was crucial in securing the perimeter so our forces could advance.”
“Everyone did their part,” I quoted from the PRT approved script of things we were allowed to say to the press.
This is pretty good. We could give everybody a little glow up. The spontaneous setting and informality would lend honesty to the interview. Then I identified a hungry adversarial glint in the woman’s eye. Having a bone thrown her way wasn’t enough; she wanted the meat too.
Thinking she was about to push him into a defensive corner, the reporter asserted to Dauntless, “There is substantial evidence that a coalition of Brockton Bay’s villains battled with the Asian Bad Boys on multiple occasions. That was at a time when the Protectorate was unwilling to engage.” She proffered the microphone and had a contemptuous smirk on her face.
True to his name, Dauntless wasn’t stumped for even a second, “Bad guys feud with each other all the time. Their contribution to the overall fight isn’t noteworthy. No,” and here he looked directly at the camera, “the gross assault on our city was overcome by a united effort from the local police, the army, the PRT, and of course the Protectorate.”
I chose another approved quote to add, “Teamwork won the day.”
Dauntless continued, “Our effort culminated in a final confrontation with ABB capes Lung and Bakuda, and after diffusing a superbomb that-”
The reporter’s eyes bulged, and she latched onto the buzzword, “Superbomb?!”
Dauntless smiled and leaned into the presented opening, “Yes, a superbomb. Our Wards, Vista and Clockblocker, easily took it out of play long enough for the bomb squad to break it down.”
She was hooked, “How dangerous was the superbomb?”
Not possessing any technical knowledge of demolitions, Dauntless stumbled to find the right words, “Umm, what’s the big measurement for bombs…” He looked up and away in thought, “Ah, megaton! It was about a megaton. Just shy of a whole megaton actually. Wouldn’t you say, Shadow Stalker?”
“That’s right,” I said. “It was about ninety percent megaton.”
“Yup,” Dauntless continued, “To break that down…” he keeled his hand back and forth like he was doing some complex mathematical estimation in his head, “that’s about nine hund-, no, nine thousand kilotons.”
He looked at me for validation. I nodded my head affirmative, though I had no clue what megaton and kiloton meant. The incomplete ‘superbomb’ we had found didn’t even contain a functional payload.
He talked over the reporter when she was about to speak again, “I’m sorry, but we have to go. An official statement will come out soon.”
We promptly turned to leave, and Dauntless’ flip-flops loudly slapped against his feet as he took the steps two at a time up to the PRT front entrance. I followed close behind to try and position myself so the camera couldn’t see his stupid sandals.
Once inside I told him, “I hope you knew what you were talking about back there, because I didn’t.”
“Nah. But the News loves numbers. They’ll eat that up.”
“There you two are.” Armsmaster was stepping out of the elevator in the lobby.
“Hey Armsmaster, do you know any Tinkers that specialize in feet?”
Armsmaster ignored Dauntless’ question, “We’re reorganizing tonight’s fundraiser to better capitalize on the ABB’s defeat. That means we need a large Protectorate turn out. Everyone drew straws for attendance. You two are the last, and there’s only one small straw left.” He held out a closed fist with two thin circuitry wires protruding.
“Didn’t have any straws?” Dauntless teased.
“I didn’t,” Armsmaster responded without humor.
“You go first,” Dauntless told me.
I reached for the wires clutched in Armsmaster’s fist, intending to take the wire on my left. Just before my finger and thumb closed on it, Armsmaster turned his wrist the barest amount so that I touched the other wire instead. It hadn’t been an accident. I took the wire that he clearly intended for me to have. It was long.
Armsmaster held up the remaining shorter wire for Dauntless to see, “Tough luck. You’ll be working the beat with Aegis, Kid Win, and Browbeat.”
“Stuck with the kids, huh?” Good natured, Dauntless said with a shrug, “Ya win some, ya lose some,” and to me he said, “Have fun.” He walked away.
I returned the wire to Armsmaster, and then I figured I should get started on my paperwork in which I would be detailing my thrilling adventure of picking up and putting down pylons. Then a shower. Then a nap. Yawned. Maybe a nap first.
“A moment, Shadow Stalker.”
I stopped, “Yeah?”
We were in the lobby, but the room was scarce of people, and we had the center of the floor to ourselves.
“Your performance these recent weeks has been exemplary,” Armsmaster told me. “Though many of your efforts will unfortunately go unacknowledged by wider audiences, you ought to know that you are an excellent cape. I’m proud to have you on my Ward team, and I’m glad to know I can rely on you when I need to.”
Under my mask, my mouth hung open.
“I know you weren’t thrilled with your limited participation is this latest mission, but time moves quickly, and you’ll be a fully fledged member of the Protectorate before you know it. Then we can fight side-by-side on the front lines.”
I brightened under the rare praise, “Kicking ass and taking names?”
“Exactly,” he agreed and smiled. Actually smiled. It was small, barely an upward tilt of the corners of his mouth, but it was still there. And I felt a small pang of guilt for having no desire to stay with the Protectorate after I became an adult.
Back at PHQ, a knocking on the door of my dorm room startled me awake.
Hannah halfway stepped inside, “I’m heading over to the Gallery early to oversee the organization and to do a little media work.”
I grumbled with a sleepy voice, “See ya,” and then I rolled over in my bed and closed my eyes.
I heard the jingle of keys, and she asked, “Would you like to drive?”
I took a quick shower. During that time Hannah had very kindly cleaned my grimy arm bracers and shin guards. I put on a fresh body suit and cloak, and I was itching to go when Hannah admonished me about my boots, which were showing a fair amount of wear and tear. A visit to the surplus supply room for a stiff new pair, and I was ready to go.
A small garage was built underneath Protectorate Headquarters on the oil rig. Miss Militia and I strolled past a few PRT vehicles and Kid Win’s defunct cannon. Each Protectorate member had a custom motorcycle that matched their costume theme. They were a special Harley-Davidson model designed for police departments and further upgraded for Protectorate use. Wards weren’t given one until they graduated to the main Protectorate team.
Dauntless’ motorcycle was white with minimal gold accents. He infrequently used his power to enhance it. As a result it emitted a faint glow like his costume pieces, and it was the fastest and most durable bike of the fleet. I could recall an occasion when Dauntless had intentionally crashed it into Hookwolf. The enhanced bike had only suffered popped tires.
Battery’s had a lot of bodywork to look more sleek. It had a gray finish that resembled a carbon fiber texture, and glowing blue lines traced along all the contours.
Triumph’s was gold. A little too gold for my taste. The fairing around the headlamp was in the shape of a roaring lion’s head, the headlamp seated in its mouth. Triumph had only received it a few weeks ago, so the tires still had the vent spew whiskers along the walls, and the leather still had that new smell. Not that I had sniffed it. I definitely had not sniffed it when nobody was around.
Armsmaster’s was a heavily modified silver and blue hulk that more closely resembled a two wheeled tank than the original model. It was a wonder that it could even balance on its two wheels.
Velocity had donated his fancy red motorcycle to charity a long time ago because he obviously didn’t need it.
Assault had wrecked three motorcycles and had never been given a fourth, instead being condemned to forever ride pillion with Battery. I wasn’t sure which of them was more put out by that arrangement.
Miss Militia’s bike was the least modified and lacked many of the extra body panels present on the other bikes. It had a more classic look. She kept it mint from the manufacturer with a stars-and-stripes paint job on the tank, fenders, and hard-sided panniers. Sexy as fuck.
I swung a leg over and mounted, sitting down heavily to make the suspension bounce beneath me. Other than aesthetics, Militia’s bike was my favorite because it had a kick start in addition to an electric start. Everyone else only had an electric start on theirs. I inserted the key, flicked on the power switch, and then put my right foot on the kick start lever and gave it a hard push. I twisted the throttle a few times to bring the engine to life with a roar that reverberated louder in the enclosed garage.
I said in a mock deep voice, “Hop on, babe!”
Militia shook her head, but I could see the amused spark in her eyes. She mounted behind me and lightly held to my midsection. I pushed down on the shift lever to go into first gear and lightly applied the throttle to slowly propel us over to the garage lift.
To make efficient use of space on the oil rig, the garage had no ramp up to the platform. It instead had a large elevator lift. I stopped the bike at the lift control and hit the switch to bring us topside. The lift rose, and the ceiling above parted to an orange and pink sunset sky behind PHQ.
I eased the bike around the building with my legs out, all too aware of my passenger and the additional weight to balance. The stop/go post at the hardlight bridge was lit up green indicating there was no traffic coming the other way. There was a slight bump as the bike transitioned from the platform to the bridge. I shifted gears and gained speed. Militia released her hold on me and leaned back to get more comfortable.
I was always bugging the older heroes to let me drive their motorcycles. Militia most often let me if I had been well behaved. Assault had been pretty generous with his last bike too. I had learned by making laps around PHQ on the oil rig platform. Assault had tried showing me a trick one day and he dropped his bike off the platform edge. His third and final bike was currently resting at the bottom of the bay.
The Forsberg Gallery was a short ride away, but I smiled the entire trip there. We garnered attention. There were lots of flashing cell phones taking pictures and pedestrians waving. I was far from a perfect motorcycle driver, and countless people saw how I had to take corners much slower and wider than a more experienced rider or how I sometimes struggled with the timing of my gear shifts. But I was having too much fun to care.
We stopped at a traffic light, and I had to slide to the side a little to plant my foot down on the asphalt. As motorcycles go, this one was quite large and heavy. Given that I was taller with longer legs, it must have been even more awkward for both Miss Militia and Battery to balance their bikes at a stop.
A police cruiser stopped in the lane next to us. Technically there was a justifiable cause to stop us and issue a citation. Motorcycle laws in our state required minors, but not adults, to wear helmets. I also didn’t have a driver’s license yet or even a learner’s permit. The cop rolled down his car window and waved at us, which Miss Militia returned. Perks of being a hero.
The Forsberg Gallery was a glass walled skyscraper. A giant expensive building. Made of glass. In a villain infested city. Against all odds it had somehow remained standing for several years.
The mayor at the time had tried to justify the immense cost by pitching it to the public as a symbol of Brockton Bay’s culture. What kind of message did that send, that we’re all snobs and fragile like glass? Greased palms had probably been involved. That guy had been voted out of office in the next term. I had heard that every insurance company refused to insure the building. The municipal government probably would have set up a dirty job to destroy it and collect an insurance payout otherwise. With the city’s failing economy, not even foreign investors would touch it.
The bottom two floors were a parking deck. The third floor was a public art gallery. The fourth floor was rented out by a software firm. The following twenty floors were completely empty. The top floor was used to host private events that were only really accessible to the city’s wealthy and elite. An economic expert had speculated that the building wouldn’t recoup its cost for nearly a century.
A long elevator ride brought us to the top floor. Miss Militia met up with some PRT media representatives, and I was left alone to wander around. Disregarding the moral decadence and financial misuse, the top floor really was spectacular. The glass walls afforded an excellent panoramic view of the city in nearly every direction. Even with the glow of the city, stars could be admired through the glass ceiling on a clear night.
Rows of circular tables with pristine white tablecloths were arranged on the floor space. Streamers and banners of regal design hung from the ceiling and columns. Fancy carpets and rugs had been rolled out on the floor. A long and wide stage occupied one end of the room.
The fundraiser was a sort of charity dinner. Guests, if they could secure a ticket or personal invitation, paid a couple thousand dollars for a dinner plate. A high-end restaurant staff was catering all the food. There would be mandatory hero-civilian mingling. Followed by a five star meal that would likely come in laughably small portions. There would be a children’s raffle for ‘Spend a day with Armsmaster!’ I was certain our captain was dreading having to spend any amount of time with somebody’s pampered brat. Lastly there would be an auction for a bunch of donated junk that rich people might like.
Near the back end of the floor was the kitchen for event catering. Just outside the swinging kitchen doors were some wheeled carts laden with hors d’oeuvres on expensive looking silver platters. There were spinach crostinis, smoked salmon cicchetti, caviar canapés, figs with mascarpone and prosciutto… I only knew what the fancy snacks were called because there were little title cards placed with each platter.
I was still trying to decide if I wanted to spit out the caviar canapé or keep chewing it when I heard glass break in the kitchen. A voice yelled and called somebody a ‘fucking donkey’. It wasn’t any of my business, but I had nothing better to do.
The ass chewing abruptly halted when I stepped into the kitchen, and all the catering staff stared at me like I had walked in on something that I wasn’t supposed to see. Most wore a white buttoned cook’s shirt and apron with black pants. A few were more smartly dressed like waiters with a vest and tie.
A shattered glass was on the ground, clear frothy liquid strewn about the floor. A woman cook was kneeling and plucking up pieces of glass and dropping them into her cradled apron. A man, the head chef by the authority in his voice, was standing over her. Everyone else held a stemmed thin glass filled with what looked like white wine.
“Can I help you?” the chef asked me in a marginally polite voice.
I didn’t respond, and instead I studied the kitchen’s occupants. They still behaved shocked at my presence. A couple of them were darting nervous glances to one side of the kitchen. Innocent people didn’t act like that. Something else was going on, and they weren’t just enamored by the sight of a costumed cape standing in their kitchen.
The head chef said to me, “I hope you didn’t walk in here and expect to instruct me how to talk to my staff.”
I didn’t give two shits how he talked to anyone. Except to me. If the woman didn’t care about getting berated like that, why should I care for her?
I singled out and approached the most conspicuous cook in the room, the one that some of the others were sending nervous looks towards. He was a young guy, maybe not even twenty years old, and he refused to look me in eye. A chest cooler was set on a countertop, and he had his arms resting over it in what he probably thought was a nonchalant manner. It actually looked markedly defensive.
“You,” I said to him, “what’s inside?”
The chef raised his voice to speak, but the young cook gave a too quick panic answer, “Cookware!”
The chef huffed and said in an irritated tone, “Yes, it’s pots and pans.”
“Step aside,” I told the cook.
He looked to his boss for instruction.
“Step aside,” I said again, and this time I slowly stiff armed him away from the cooler.
I unclasped the lid and looked in. There were a bunch of unopened wine bottles in the cooler with bits of Styrofoam inserted to keep them from bumping. I reached in and took one out. It wasn’t labeled. Actually… there was a bit of sticky residue on the bottle where a label might have previously been attached. Another glance into the cooler confirmed that all the matching bottles had their labels removed.
It was deathly quiet. Everybody seemed to be holding their breath. On the other side of the island countertop was an opened wine bottle, presumably the one that the cooking staff had poured their drinks from. I brought the unlabeled bottle over to compare. They were the same shape and size. The opened bottle still had its label. It was champagne, and it seemed to be a very expensive one.
Dozens of empty champagne flute glasses were nearby on some platters, waiting to be filled and distributed when the guests arrived. Next to those glasses was a long metal bin, like a trough, filled with ice. Many more champagne bottles were being chilled in the ice.
I plucked a chilled bottle from the ice bin. It had the same fancy label, but the bottle was of a distinctly different shape and size, as well the cork wrapping was notably different. I pulled another from the ice. Identical label, but this one’s placement was slightly skewed on the bottle like it had been applied by an amateur.
Not many people knew this about me, but I liked to read. Sherlock Holmes novels were some of my current favorites. There was an elaborate puzzle here that demanded solving, and I was certain that all the pieces were laid out before me.
Unfortunately reading mystery novels did nothing to improve my critical thinking skills, no matter how much I liked to pretend that it did. I was about to dismiss the entire thing and return to the snack cart when the young cook chose that moment to cave.
“The label tampering was his idea!” he pointed at his chef.
The chef yelled, “You shut the hell up!”
Another cook joined in the accusation, “He said we’d be fired if we didn’t go along with it!”
I crossed my arms to look tough and waited for someone to explain what was going on.
The chef shouted his people down and restored order. He addressed me, “Shadow Stalker, right? Listen… behind that mask, I know you’re a real person. You work hard for what you have. I’m sure you don’t appreciate being paraded around charities and galas for the rich pricks to gawk at. You’re a hero through and through, and this fundraiser is a waste of your time and talent.”
I whole heartedly agreed with everything he was saying, but I kept up my silent glare.
“All of our illustrious guests tonight don’t know what it’s like to have to work. They can’t truly appreciate high quality because they’ve never had to settle for low.”
He delicately picked up and cradled the open bottle they had been drinking from, “The fundraiser management supplied us with a whole case of this magnificent vintage.”
Then he took the mislabeled bottle in hand, “We swap it with this cheap shit. If it costs less than a thousand dollars a bottle, it isn’t worth piss, but the rich assholes can’t tell the difference.”
“Therefore,” he returned the cheap bottle in hand to the ice bin, “tonight the rich assholes shall be served piss,” and he patted the iced bottle for emphasis. “We with more deserving palettes will go home with the finer quality beverage. And maybe earn a few dollars on resale.”
Hmm… what did I care if a banker or insurance CEO got duped into drinking low quality swill?
“Whatever,” I said, “Do what you want.”
The chef smiled, “Excellent! How about a drink, hero?”
A cook objected, “I’m pretty sure she’s a teenager, Chef.”
“Shhh,” he hushed her and handed me a clean flute and poured from the good champagne, “If the girl can fight super villains, then she can have a little bubbly.”
At the Barnes’ house Emma and I had been allowed to have small amounts of wine under her parents’ supervision. I wasn’t crazy about it, but it was fun on occasion. Champagne was new to me.
He raised his own flute glass up to eye level and indicated that I should do the same with mine, “Hold it up to the light and examine its color. Watch the carbonation dance along the glass.”
I did. It looked like regular white wine but with bubbles.
He held it under his nose, “Smell its fragrance.”
I did. It smelled like juice.
“Now drink,” and he made a twirling motion to everyone else. The chef and his kitchen staff all turned their heads to avoid a direct line of sight and afford me some measure of privacy.
I pulled my hood back just a little bit then slid my mask halfway up my face to uncover my mouth. Tilted the flute to my lips and took in half its contents.
“Dammit girl, it isn’t liquor!”
I had planned to take a large gulp and swish it around in my mouth to coat every surface and spread the flavor. The chef’s sudden exclamation startled me and caused me to swallow fast and miss out on the full experience.
Several of the cooks laughed, and one cried with tears in his eye, “She threw it back like a shot of Fireball!”
Embarrassment warmed my face. Chef told me to drink again, but to sip this time.
I did. I had heard people describe champagne as ‘crisp’, and that seemed an apt description now. I would also call it clear, refreshing, lightly sweet, and causing a fizzy feeling in my head not unlike a cola. It was very pleasant.
I left my new fraudster friends and resumed touring the venue. We heroes would sit among the guests during the speeches, raffles, and auctions, but during the dinner we would be given places to sit up on the stage. There were two round tables surrounded by privacy screens so we could remove our masks to eat. Namecards on the tables indicated assigned seating. It looked like Assault was relegated to the kids’ table with me, Gallant, Vista, and Clockblocker.
I took the opportunity to adjust the cards and determine who I would be seated next to. Gallant was the obvious choice; I put him on my right. Assault was like a weird uncle, but his company was preferable to that of Vista or Clockblocker. Assault’s namecard went on my left.
“What are you doing?” Militia had come up next to me.
“Picking who I sit next to,” I explained without concern.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, and then went over to her own table and began adjusting the namecards there. Given how long she held and pondered the cards, she seemed to be putting significantly more thought into her decision than I did mine.
Our teammates arrived. The mayor’s entourage arrived. The guests arrived. The place was packed with costly dresses and suits. I had to shake a lot of hands and answer a lot of generic questions about being a cape. Pretty standard fare.
Waiters were handing out flutes of sub-par champagne to the guests. I listened to a fat old guy who had gold jewel-studded rings on each finger inquire about the champagne’s origin. The waiter fed him a few superfluous lies, and the man nodded profusely and praised the quality of the drink.
Eventually Emma and her parents made their way over to me. Alan and Zoe Barnes had secured tickets through the social connections they had made through their law firm. They shook my hand like any other guests and pretended to not know me.
“Shadow Stalker, I’m such a huge fan,” Emma laid it on thick, “What sorts of things do you like to do when you’re not fighting crime?”
“I like to hang out with my best friend,” I answered.
“What is she like?”
“She’s a dumb bitch.”
She muttered, “I walked right in to that one.”
Director Piggot was absent; she never attended evening events unless it was an emergency. Deputy Director Renick gave a nice speech in her stead. Armsmaster had some straightforward words of his own to share. Then Mayor Christner got up and rambled about some stuff. It was all focused on emphasizing the PRT’s importance to Brockton Bay’s security. I ignored most of it.
When it was time for dinner to be served I sat down at the screened stage table with the other Wards and Assault.
We were served chicken with some kind of sauce. The sauce looked like baby food… or maybe diarrhea. Tasted alright. I wasn’t afraid of vegetables, but the leafy thing on my plate looked like a miniature tree. It was a big green leaf with a stalk that was bright red and as big around as my index finger. I couldn’t tell if it was food or decorative garnish.
I glanced around the table. Assault had pushed his green things to edge of his plate and ignored them. Gallant was eating his, though he seemed to have a tough time cutting through the stalk with his knife. That’s one for, one against.
Vista was still working on her diarrhea chicken and hadn’t yet touched the greens. Clockblocker was in the same boat as me. He had one of the greens stabbed on the end of his fork and was considering it.
He caught my eye and nodded towards my plate, Try it.
I shook my head and nodded back towards him, No you.
Clockblocker held his right fist up. I did the same.
Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!
My scissors cut his paper.
He begrudgingly bit off a piece of the green and chewed. His eyebrows went up, and he gave me a satisfied nod. I tried mine and was pleasantly surprised.
Partway into the meal Assault excused himself, and when he came back he had a champagne bottle. “Hey kids, look what Uncle Assault smuggled out of the kitchen. And judging by the label, this is the good stuff.”
I stifled a laugh.
Clockblocker perked up, “Are you saying we can have some champagne?”
“Sure, if you can keep a secret. Nobody can see us through the screens around the table. If anybody asks, it was just sparkling grape juice.”
There was a slim vase with a fake flower in the table center. We all dumped our glasses of water into it, and Assault set to pouring our glasses about halfway. He hesitated when he got to Vista.
She held up her glass, “C’mon Assault, I’m not driving.”
We all laughed at that, Assault in particular got a kick out of it, and then he poured her glass a little less than ours.
Clockblocker said, “We should toast something.”
“To us,” Gallant suggested.
Our voices around the table echoed, “To us.”
Assault said, “And how about this, to all the dumb villains who did a big chunk of the work for us.”
“To Coil.”
“To the Empire.”
My mean streak flared up, and I toasted, “To the Undersiders… for making you guys look like idiots at the bank.”
Assault quickly added his approval to the shift, “To their scary smart Thinker for planning the bank heist while me and the others were outta town.”
Vista chimed in, “To Skitter for making Clock eat bugs.”
Clockblocker made a fake gag then said, “To Grue for giving Shadow Stalker somebody to hate more than me.”
Gallant said, “C’mon Clock, Stalker isn’t like that.”
I corrected him, “No, I’m a pretty hateful person.” And to Clockblocker I said, “You’re still a close second.”
Then we drank. Even if it was the piss champagne, it tasted good to me. Everyone had the sense to sip their drink, except for Clockblocker who threw his back like a shot.
“Idiot,” I said, “it isn’t Fireball.”
A while later and the auction was underway. Listening to rich people compete against each other for a name plaque on a park bench wasn’t very entertaining. Emma texted and told me to meet her in the stairwell.
The stairwell was in the back hallway past the elevators, past the bathrooms. I pushed open the access door, and the noise echoed in the long concrete shaft. I looked down over the railing and immediately felt a flash of dizziness at the endless looping stairs.
Emma called to me, “I’m down here.”
I traveled down two landings and found Emma standing by the access door to a lower vacant level. I miscalculated the final step before the landing and nearly tripped.
“Clumsy bitch, that last step’s a doozy.”
“Eh, shut up. What’re you doin’ down here?”
She held her hands behind her back, and when she brought them around she had two flutes of champagne. “I flirted with a waiter and got him to give me two drinks. He said this is top shelf stuff.”
“Yeah, I bet,” and I took the glass from her left hand.
“Wait, let’s do this, it’ll be fun.”
Emma made me raise my arm, and she looped her arm with mine at the elbow. Then we drank from our flutes like a groom and bride at a wedding.
Emma smiled, “Mmm, that’s good.”
“Yeah, I like it a lot. The bubbles make it way better than regular wine.”
“Molly is coming home tomorrow for the weekend. There’s some more incentive for you to come to the barbeque.”
Molly was Emma’s older sister who attended college in Boston. I liked her a lot.
“Don’t worry, I’m going. Assuming you provide the goods, of course.”
“Dad’s off tomorrow. He’s going down to Lord Street to check the seafood vendors there. You’ll get your fish.”
I joked, “Did you ask Hebert for her preference?”
“Haven’t said a word to her. She doesn’t talk to me either.”
We sipped our drinks.
Emma said, “You’re gonna be nice on Saturday, aren’t you?”
“Nice? No. Mean? I’ll reign it in.”
“It’s crazy how different Taylor is now. You can even see it in the way she moves. She walks taller and straighter in the halls at school.”
I added, “She’s definitely not afraid to make eye contact anymore. Bitch glares daggers at me nonstop.”
“And she eats in the cafeteria now.”
“When she doesn’t skip,” I amended, “She dips out at lunch every other day and doesn’t come back.”
Emma asked, “What do you think she gets up to?”
“Drugs maybe.”
But I didn’t believe it. I’d been watching Taylor as closely as I could while at school. Her complexion didn’t show any signs of drug use, her nails weren’t bitten down to little nubs, she wasn’t dirty.
The weather had been getting warmer. Spring was picking up. Despite that, I had yet to see Taylor wear anything less than long sleeves. Maybe she was cutting herself. Did she like pain? Was I the cause of that? And of course she always kept her neck covered.
“We’re done hounding her though… you’re not changing your mind, right?”
Shook my head, “I’m done with her. Don’t want anything to do with her.”
But my words weren’t true. The craving for that sensation, the heat, it wasn’t boiling anymore, but it still simmered beneath my skin. I wanted to… touch her, be near her. I thought about it all the time, like at least once every hour that I was awake. It had to be Taylor; nobody else was warm like her. She was always on my mind.
We finished our champagne.
Emma took my glass, “I’ll go back first.”
I nodded. It wouldn’t do to have Emma Barnes and Shadow Stalker return to the party together.
I had to pee. Rather than march upstairs I used my power to phase through the locked access door where Emma and I were hanging out. The floor plan was the same on this vacant level, and I found that the bathrooms and lights were serviceable.
I sat down to do my business and whipped out my phone. Madison had linked an ‘epic fail’ YouTube compilation on Facebook. I sat there giggling on the toilet like a doofus. Around the time the video ended there was something of a boom that came from the ceiling, and I might have heard a few faint shouts.
Wonder what that could’ve been…
I watched another video, a funny dog compilation, and when I finally stood up I had to shake out my legs from where they had fallen asleep from sitting too long on the toilet.
Slowly made my way back up to the top floor, and I admired how smooth the handrail was in the stairwell. A wall of writhing darkness greeted me at the event room. I’d recognize it anywhere. Grue is here!
Judging from the noise, there must have been an ongoing fight on the other side of the darkness. I couldn’t discern a way around. If I kept moving in a straight line, eventually I would reach the end. I plunged forward and immediately stumbled over a person on the floor.
Getting caught in Grue’s power was like wearing a blindfold on top of another blindfold. It was total black. And it didn’t stop at visual impairment. I could feel the darkness on my skin; it felt like running my hand through a fine silk garment, almost oily but not wet, with the slightest amount of resistance.
I knew that Grue could see perfectly in his own darkness, so I decided to hunker down and army crawl among the tables, chairs, and guests.
Something fell on top of me like a light blanket as I crawled. It expanded and got heavier, and I could no longer move, the entire front of my body was practically glued to the floor. I struggled for a moment before I realized I was caught in containment foam. Struggled for another moment before I remembered I could easily escape it with my power.
My Breaker state was slow and sluggish under the effects of Grue’s power, but the foam was just foam, and it was extremely porous to boot. I easily stepped out of the foam and crouched on it as it was no longer sticky after fully expanding.
The all encompassing darkness suddenly thinned, and after a couple seconds it disappeared entirely. I was about to stand and bolt towards the action, but a hand grabbed my ankle and rooted me in place.
“Shadow Stalker, get me out of this crap.”
I checked over my shoulder and down. It was Glory Girl, or whatever her civilian name was tonight, I forget. She was coated in containment foam with only a single arm free.
I moved over to her, “Uh yeah, I can do that.”
My Breaker form could pass its intangibility to small amounts of another material if I could maintain physical contact with it. It was how my clothes and equipment weren’t left behind when my power was used. The containment foam was easy to shift through because of its porosity. On the flip side, the foam’s porosity greatly increased its surface area, which made it difficult to apply my power’s intangibility to more than a tiny piece at a time. I prioritized getting her head and shoulders loose first, but it was slow going.
I heard the sounds of a scuffle across the room, dogs growling, people talking, one of them Armsmaster, but he didn’t sound panicked. I didn’t know what was going on over there or anywhere really. All I knew was that Glory Girl was stuck right here, and that freeing her would probably help our situation.
She grumbled, “I can’t believe these Undersider jerks. Thanks for stopping to get me out.”
“No prob-”
Armsmaster shouted my name, “Shadow Stalker, to me!”
“I gotta go,” and I wasted no time considering Glory Girl’s shout of, “Wait!”
I stepped over a few cowering people, mounting a dinner table and leaping over a few more in a row on my path to Armsmaster. On the last table my foot slipped on a dish, and I tumbled forward. I managed to turn the fall into a cool action roll. Coming up out of the roll had me bump into Armsmaster’s back.
Then we were engulfed in darkness again before I could take stock of the situation. Armsmaster’s gauntleted hand was on my shoulder, and he turned me about ninety degrees and gave me a push. I understood that he wanted me to go in that direction.
I moved forward at a fast walk and with my arms held out, wary of running into something. The darkness ended, and I emerged before a glass door that led to an exterior balcony.
Skitter was standing outside by the far rail of the patio, waiting for me.
Instead of using the door, I activated my Breaker state and walked through the glass. Keeping my power activated I readied my crossbow. Numerous small objects intersected my body. They must have been Skitter’s bugs.
I wasn’t sure if she could interpret my weapon pointed at her just from looking at my shadow form, but she raised her hands up in the traditional gesture of surrender.
“Shadow Stalker,” she said, “Talk to me, please.” In the mode of good will, the few insects scattered over my gaseous body retreated.
My face flushed with anger. I turned off my power but kept my crossbow pointed at her, “Are you out of your mind?”
“I can explain if you-”
“What the fuck are doing here, Pest? First the bank, now this!”
I was finally coming around to acknowledging that the champagne was having some effect on me. I had to focus to string my words together. Once or twice my tongue slipped in a weird way. I couldn’t tell if Skitter noticed.
“The bank was my first job. I had to seal the deal and cement my cover.”
“I think your cover is carved in stone! Do you have any idea how important Panacea is? There’s no other healer like her in the world. Hitting her in the head like that was too much, but then you hit her again when she was down. You could’ve killed her.”
“That situation got out of hand. Glory Girl was hitting me with her aura and threatening to crush me. And she’s Panacea, how much harm did I actually do?”
“I know it isn’t advertised to the public, but her power doesn’t work on herself.”
Pest pinched her mask where the bridge of her nose would be, “Oh, fuck me… she shouldn’t have been there! Why the hell was a teenager hanging out at the bank during school hours?”
That’s actually a good question…
I harumphed, and my finger feathered over the trigger, “I’m putting you down-”
“Wait! I’m going to get the Undersiders’ boss!”
I lowered my crossbow, “They have a boss?”
“He’s been anonymous this entire time, only giving orders and providing resources. The bank heist was his order. He wanted us to do this job too, to embarrass the Protectorate in public, then he promised that he would meet with us face to face. I swear I’m done with the villains after this. But you have to let me go so I can meet the guy.”
The Undersiders had a boss, but they didn’t know who he was, so he makes them crash a party. It was difficult to process the narrative. Despite the assurances she was giving me right now, the prospect of getting the rundown on the Undersiders seemed farther away than ever. The possibility of this implausible undercover plan of hers working still felt like a fairytale.
I guess it came down to whether or not I trusted her.
“I can do this, I know I can. Please, I’m asking you to trust me.”
And I wanted to trust her. I wanted her on my side. I heard the desperation in her voice, could practically feel it. Pest was asking for help, and right then I was the only person that could help her. I wanted to.
I didn’t know how much influence the alcohol had on my decision, but I said, “Okay, I trust you.”
Her head snapped towards the fundraiser, “They’re giving Armsmaster the slip. They’re gonna come this way!”
“Hit me!” I told her.
“Huh?”
“You have to knock me down or something. Make it look good.”
Pest came at me.
I formed a final coherent thought and blurted at her charging form, “Meet me at the ferry station! Same time!”
She surged forward and kicked me in the stomach, and when I doubled over, she kneed me in the head. I didn’t have to pretend. I fell down in a daze. No doubt fighting gang members in the streets had provided her with good practice.
Hellhound’s mutated dogs emerged onto the patio, shattering the glass wall with their forceful exit. I watched from the ground with unfocused vision as Grue hoisted Skitter up, and then the group vanished over the rail.
I was getting up to my hands and knees when Armsmaster came storming out.
“What happened?” he asked, “Are you injured?”
I got my feet underneath me and stood, “I let her go.”
Armsmaster did a double take, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then tried again, “Are you out of your mind!”
I winced. I had been on the receiving end of Armsmaster barking orders, but I had never heard him yell like that.
He closed the distance between us and grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak but cut himself off after the first syllable. He suddenly leaned in closer to my face and inhaled through his nose.
“Are you intoxicated?” It was more of an accusation than a question.
My brain yelled no! but my lips betrayed, “Uh-huh.”
He pushed me. There was minimal force behind the push, but I stumbled more than a sober person might.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered then stabbed me with, “I’ll sort you out later.” He turned and hurried away, no doubt to try and catch up to the villains that I had aided in escaping.
I moved to the edge of the balcony, leaned on the guardrail, and thought about my life choices.
Did I mess up?
NOTE
In WORM it is said on a news broadcast that a ‘local cape’ claimed Bakuda’s final bomb had a yield of 9500 kilotons. To put that into perspective… the two nuclear bombs used against Japan in 1945 were 15 and 21 kilotons. The largest bomb ever tested by the USA was 15 megatons (15000 kilotons). 9500 kilotons is crazy, so I decided to have a little fun by having a character make that number up, and implying that the news regurgitated it.
Here’s a fun fact… The alcohol content of champagne isn’t very high. However, it is heavily carbonated. The carbonation increases the speed at which alcohol is absorbed into a person’s bloodstream. Therefore 3 standard servings of champagne can get somebody nice and toasty, especially a teenage girl who isn’t accustomed to drinking.
In WORM Shadow Stalker is handily dispatched by containment foam at the fundraiser event. I say, No! Containment foam ought to be very porous, as it is stated in WORM that people are able to breathe while fully buried in it. Shadow Stalker can go through walls… porous foam should be super easy to phase through, even under the effects of Grue’s darkness which is supposed to slow/weigh down Stalker’s Breaker form rather than completely nullify it.
I didn’t know how to include Shadow Stalker in the fight without having it go overwhelmingly in the heroes’ favor. Therefore I decided to withhold her from the fight. The canonical fundraiser fight is very strange (see Tangle 6.5 & 6.6). Even with luck, even with the heroes underestimating them, the Undersiders should not have won.
Gordon Ramsay was going to make a special appearance as the head chef in the kitchen scene. I even considered making him a celebrity parahuman with a publicly known identity. He would possess an emotional Master power that further makes people feel ashamed of their own mistakes and makes them want to improve. But there was already so much goofy stuff in this chapter.
END NOTE