The disentanglement failed.

Bedevil stares daggers into the mirror, hard into her own eyes, as if she could kill herself on the spot. Then, she grabs at her hair and says, “Metis, this is so stupid. I’m so fucked.”

She has never had an unsuccessful disentanglement, though she’s been through a couple. They can fail, but not on her part. When the procedure does fail, it’s usually because they targeted the wrong emotion. Excised the wrong thing.

So what the hell did they take from her and why does Home Run still make her heart race? It’s not fair. She did the work, she did her duty, she did everything right.

Bedevil sighs, takes the glass she keeps at her sink, and pours a cup of tap water from the faucet. With her power, she changes it into another cherry sour, and starts sipping on it. She stalks into her room, pissed, and not really looking forward to the rest of her day.

No. It doesn’t have to be like that. She can manage her own emotions, control her Affect. She said yes to his date because it’s a chance to investigate more. And doesn’t she need Kitsune to investigate Park Dae-seong, to see where this Pandahead connects to him and Danger Close? So of course she needs to continue.

She can learn what she needs to know, he can carry her around on his back… her legs wrapped around his torso, her arms around his chest, her mouth so close to his thick shoulders and neck…

“Fuck,” she says, smiling into her drink. Then she scowls. “FUCK!”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t recall the last time I was kissed, let alone…

Bedevil groans and pours out the rest of the cherry sour. It’s not helping and she’s fine without it. She’s fine without any of it. She’d gotten along fine suppressing her emotions before Megajoule died and she’s damn well going to get along suppressing them now.

She sighs and checks Dotty’s messages, hoping to bury herself in work. Most of them have to do with various reports she’s requested, but one catches her eye. A high priority message from Highheart.

Bedevil, your presence is requested at a memorial gala for Danger Close this weekend…

#

She designs herself an outfit for the gala, pulling the threads from thin air (and a few from the comforter of her bed to make the process easier). Many capes get their outfits done by fashion guilds or local designers, but Bedevil can simply make her own. She may not care too much for public opinion, but one thing she’s always prided herself on is her ability to make a fashion statement at this kind of event.

There’s a wide spectrum of what capes tend to wear to galas. Some of the suits and dresses she’s seen have bordered on pornographic, while others are more conservative and elegant. Bedevil decides she’ll sprint past the latter end of the spectrum on into regal. Especially since this is a memorial.

No dress for her, nothing so light and airy, like she might have worn years ago. She conjures steel gray cloth into existence, bulky, thick, almost rough to the touch, and armors herself in it, weaving it in layers and sharp angles around her shoulders and torso. This almost armor crawls all the way up to her jaw, down to her wrists, where it flares out, and ends around her feet in sharp heeled boots. And gold, gold for kings and merchants and the highest flying of capes, the ones that could touch that pure sunlight kissing the top of the atmosphere. That gold for her outfit, in cords dangling from the breast and arms and waist, and shimmering in a long, waterfall cape cowled around her collar and pinned together above her heart with a diamond brooch.

She strides out of her rooms, toward the elevators to take her down to the assembly halls. Other capes, headed the same way as her, stop to stare as she passes. She can just hear their murmurs over the clicking of her heels on the tile floor.

The assembly hall used for banquets is resplendent, with walls twenty feet tall bearing bronze reliefs of various capes and their exploits. Three babbling fountains, lit up from within by strips of LEDs, triangulate two dozen round tables. The far side of this triangle from the door faces a stage and podium for speaking, while a huge window wall opens up to an expansive balcony overlooking Houston’s beating heart to her right.

The tables and balcony are already packed to the brim with capes dressed in their finest outfits, in suits and dresses that mimic their uniforms’ aesthetics. Krater looms over his own little crowd, wearing a suit jacket patterned like cracked rock. Highheart is not far from the entrance to the hall, her dress a stark white waterfall stylized with feathers that reveals one dark shoulder and her collarbone. A lacework of diamonds and silver adorns her bare skin all the way up to her jawline.

Waiters pass by with glasses of champagne and appetizers. Bedevil stops one for a cocktail. Might as well take advantage.

Capes meander around the room, talking to each other. They stare at her, but none approach to sit with her or talk. Which suits her fine - she’s used to eating alone. She finds a chair at a free table to wait for her drink, studying her nails intently, when someone sits next to her.

This someone, to her shock, is Abigail Park, Park Dae-Song’s daughter, who was not helpful at all. The woman is staring intently at her, her hands folded on the table in front of her. Like Bedevil, she has opted for a not so traditional outfit - a black coat, with pink trim along the sleeves and collar.

“Come out to the balcony with me?” she asks abruptly. “I wanted to discuss something pertaining your visit the other day.”

“I think that’d be best.” Bedevil stands and follows Abigail out through the glass doors to the balcony.

Abigail looks up as they exit the hall, watching the dark in silence for so long that Bedevil wonders if she brought them out here simply to stargaze (although they can’t see any stars through Houston’s light pollution).

“You look quite dashing, Ms. Dawson,” she says at last, finally breaking her staring contest with the night sky.

“You look… well, amazing,” Bedevil says, honestly. The dark coat suits Abigail well. She’d marked Abigail as frail woman, but the coat lends her some kind of strength, a fortitude that she’d lacked in a plain business skirt.

“Mr. Park wishes to know how your investigation is progressing,” Abigail says.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” Bedevil replies.

“I understand.” Abigail turns and looks out at the city. “But Mr. Park would be upset if I didn’t at least ask. Even so, do you mind if we chat a while?”

Bedevil frowns. That surely can’t be it, right? Just a simple “How’s it going?” “I suppose I don’t.”

“I don’t exactly feel comfortable up here,” Abigail tells her, still smiling. “I’ve never felt comfortable among the Houston capes.”

“Just the Houston capes? Or capes in general?” Bedevil asks.

Once again, the woman’s Affect is unimpeachable, an empty void, but the quirk of her face, the intensity of her gaze… Bedevil should feel something from her.

“Do you feel comfortable around them?” she asks.

Bedevil hesitates to answer that question. It should be a simple yes, but the truth of the matter is, these capes are barely capes. They were unaffiliated just four years ago. They weren’t raised in the Vanguard like she was. “As well as any,” she says, diplomatically.

Abigail grabs Bedevil’s hand suddenly. She turns it over in hers, frowning, and says, “Can a house divided against itself stand?”

Taken completely off guard, all Bedevil can do is give Abigail a funny look.

Abigail nods to her, lets go of her hand, and with a smile like a mystery, leaves her there.

“What in the world?” Bedevil whispers to herself, looking around to see if anyone noticed that interaction.

While she’s still reeling, Flashfire sidles up next to her. He wears a sharp dark gray suit lined at the cuffs and shoulders with silver threads. A hypnotizing white star is embroidered into the breast of his jacket. His eyes look darker than normal. Eyeliner! Bold choice.

“Good evening,” she says, leaning toward him.

Flashfire looks her over, arching an eyebrow with a smirk. “Gotta admit, didn’t think you’d show up down here. Didn’t think it was your style.”

“Why are we having this gala now?” she asks. “Why not months ago?”

“Just haven’t had the chance, what with his body being held in the Shrine for the last two months. What, you don’t think it’s important to honor him?” Flashfire sneers. “Is he just another random cape to you? Cause he was my best friend.”

Two similar emotions run in her - anger and her frustration about the disentanglement. She doesn’t want to fire off at him, so she turns away and employs a pathic breathing technique to bring herself to an emotional baseline. Slow, one, two, three. “It’s not,” Bedevil agrees, finding her footing in the conversation. “But it’s important to be here.”

“It’s important to be seen here, you mean.”

Bedevil rolls her eyes, but he isn’t wrong.

He chuckles and leans his elbows on the balcony railing next to her. As the waiter finally finds her with the martini she’d asked for, Flashfire says, “Damn, that looks good. Get me one of those.”

The waiter bows and leaves.

“I didn’t invite you to drink with me,” she says, wondering what he’ll do.

“No,” Flashfire agrees. “But I’d like to.”

Bedevil purses her lips, wondering if it’s wise. She feels the attraction rolling off him, the desire. Her own - though dampened by her anger - echoes in response. It’s a connection she can control him with, if she plays it right. “Then I invite you.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Flashfire grins. “Thought you’d be pissed off at me, for what happened with Rex.”

“I still think that was idiotic,” Bedevil says. “It nearly cost us a lead.”

“He would’ve turned up,” Flashfire says. “I know the type.”

Bedevil doubts that Flashfire knows Home Run at all. She doesn’t even know him. “Pray tell.”

“Anyone that kills a cape is likely to do it again. Anyone that does it with that much bombast is definitely going to get into more trouble.” Flashfire clicks his tongue and stares at her. “It’s the curse of being a Heavyweight. We don’t get quiet lives. But the thing I can’t wrap my head around is, who believes in this cocksucker we’re hunting? If he’s strong enough to beat one of the Houston Heroes, everyone and their fuckin’ grandmas should know about him.”

Bedevil takes a long sip of her drink. He’s right, to her knowledge. A person with that much power should have the fame to go with it. But Home Run is an unknown. It’s possible for a powerful Heavyweight Affect to pass their engrams on if they believe in someone, so perhaps there are a few powerful people who rely on Home Run. The people behind the Liberation Front might be a powerful cabal of Heavyweights.

There was also the source of some of her own power: mantling. She carried an extra boon to her strength from the weight of Megajoule’s legacy. He had given a mantle to all the Vanguard capes and raised their power by a measurable percentage. Because she was his sidekick, she’d benefited more than most. It’s why the Vanguard kept the posters, the screens, all the propaganda with him in it. A reminder. To keep the engrams flowing.

“Hey, earth to Bedevs,” Flashfire says. He’s already halfway through his drink. Her own glass is empty. “You got lost somewhere.”

“You got me thinking.”

Flashfire smirks. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He stands, gives her a slight bow, and then disappears into the crowd. A waiter passes by just as he leaves, removing her empty glass in exchange for a new, full one. She returns to the dining hall, leaving the warm Houston night behind her, and sits in a spare seat.

It feels like the whole world is seated around her. She finds herself wedged between people she doesn’t recognize, who can’t stop looking at her. They’re all looking at her, and all she can manage is a shy smile. Her head swims.

“How many cocktails have I had?” she wonders.

“Good evening.” Krater’s deep voice resonates in the banquet hall. “Guess I’m the one giving remarks tonight.”

He grins to appreciable applause, and once that dies out, he continues, “Thank you to everyone who joined us tonight. There’s not a single cape in this city who wasn’t busted up when they heard DC was taken from us. I know that…” and he drones on and on about his personal connection with Danger Close.

Bedevil turns her attention to the crisp salad dropped in front of her. Her stomach rumbles powerfully, and she realizes that it’s been a solid day since she had a real meal. Her fork dives into the greens, twirls around, and then she’s crunching on the finest lettuce she’s ever tasted.

Krater is still not done speaking by the time her main course arrives. A duck breast (probably lab grown) served with asparagus. The rich, fatty smell of the duck calls to mind her first years with Megajoule, where victory woke her every morning and celebration put her to sleep every night.

She slips back into Krater’s speech for the ending: “…and we will not rest until he sees justice.”

“We’ll put Home Run’s head on a spike,” an enraged voice calls.

That voice, belonging to one of Houston’s capes she doesn’t know, is met with cheers.

“We’ll track him down, we’ll kill him!”

More cheers. More calls to violence. They’re ravenous to kill him.

They’re giving him too much power. Their hatred would be too much on top of the public’s hatred. Worse, they have more engrams to donate. Home Run could become something truly monstrous if this kept up for long.

Krater, for his part, says nothing. But Bedevil can feel, even from here, the approval wafting from him. There’s resentment and hate in the air. Every single cape here wants a piece of Home Run. Clearly, the Villainization protocols have started to bleed into the ranks of the capes. Normally, they’re used only to control how the general population feels about someone, but sometimes… sometimes emotions run high.

Even understanding why they’re upset, she can’t let this go on. She stands and shouts, “What are you all doing?”

Her question silences the crowd and brings all their eyes to her, which she expected but still hates. She meets every eye she can, just to let them know she won’t shrink back from any of them.

No one answers her question, so while she has their silence, she continues: “None of you are stupid. We wouldn’t be capes if we were, we wouldn’t be Houston’s Heroes. So you all should know what you’re doing, whipping up hate for Home Run, feeding into his Affect. It’s deeply irresponsible and it’s against the Vanguard’s codes on cloaks.”

Krater glares at her, his grip splintering the podium. “He took one of our own.”

“So you want to make him stronger so he can take another?” Bedevil shouts. “Every single one of you, despite what you want, are empowering him. You want to know why he was able to kill Danger Close? You all have demonized the masks of Houston so much, it’s no wonder one of them was capable of killing one of us.”

“You’re the one who wanted to turn him into a cloak!” Krater shouts back, both at her and the crowd.

“But we can’t let that cloud our heads. The civilians can hate him all they want, as long as they believe we’ll stop him even more,” Bedevil says, “But if we give into that hatred, too, we’re going to turn him into another Carnality.”

That’s deeply personal, for both of them. Krater knows full well what it cost to stop Carnality, but still he says: “We killed Carnality.”

“But we lost Megajoule.” Her hand trembles and she takes it in her other hand to steady it. She can’t afford to look weak, afraid, or on the back foot. She has to be unassailable. Or else these capes will stop believing in her. Will stop feeling anything strong about her, and that will hurt her own power.

Krater is silent. A murmur rises from the collected crowd.

“We can’t afford to lose any of you,” Bedevil says. “If you keep this up, the next time we face him, I guarantee he’ll be strong enough to take someone else down. Maybe all of us.” Bedevil turns her attention to the rest of the capes in the gala. “You all need to subject yourselves to pathic disentanglement.”

Her proclamation incenses the capes. The murmurs burst into shouting and they start to rise to their feet. “Hell no!”

“That’s for the civs, not for us!”

“We can’t possibly be contributing that much.”

And one gleeful shout that cuts through it: “She’s had too much to drink!”

That shout catches fire. “She’s had too much to drink!” The phrase dissolves into the general shouting of the crowd, but the theme is clear: they think she’s drunk.

Her head swims. Her hand trembles. It would be better to say nothing right now. She’s not sober but that’s not impairing her mind - it never has before. And it’s not like she’s alone in being drunk. Everyone in this room is four or five cocktails in.

“HEY!” another voice screams, over the rest.

The last person Bedevil wants to join in on the pile-on: Flashfire. “Oh, brother,” she thinks as he stands up, his cheeks red, his mouth pinched tight, his eyes burning, “he’s gonna call me a cocksucker.”

“You’re all idiots!” he shouts, not at her, but at the capes around him. “You have one of the best capes in the Vanguard here and you’re gonna shout at her like she’s a fucking chimpanzee at a zoo? What are we, fucking grade schoolers? Or are we Houston’s Heroes?”

His admonishment, a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one, silences the entire room.

Flashfire jumps onto his chair to be heard better and his shouts crescendo: “Do you all want Home Run to kill someone else? Do you want more heroes dead? Or do you want him in the fucking ground?”

A murmur of approval trills among the capes. Of course they all want him in the ground. Bedevil masks her uneasiness, not sure this is really helpful and also vaguely worried for Home Run. She knows she shouldn’t be… but she is.

“Bedevil is one of the greatest capes to ever live.” Flashfire jabs a finger at all of them. “She’s been at this since she was a fucking kid and she’s put more crazy masks behind bars than any of us. What was it, five Heavyweight cloaks this year alone?”

She’s stunned he even knows that. A new picture of Flashfire is forming in her mind, the arrogant, selfish asshole melting away to someone she can respect, even slightly admire. He doesn’t just walk around blasting things with fire, apparently. “It was,” she says, rising to join him. “And Home Run will be the sixth.”

The crowd, just seconds ago gleefully skewering her for possibly being drunk, breaks into a small spurt of applause. Krater studies her from the podium, anger still apparent on his face and tangible in the air, but he’s stowed his frustrations for now. He doesn’t try to argue back, especially not with his own team member agreeing with Bedevil.

“See? She’s gonna solve this. We just have to have a little trust, that’s it. And if she says we need to get disentangled, I’ll be the first in line.” Flashfire swivels his head at the crowd, daring any challenge. “If I don’t see a single one of your faces there when I get out, just know you’re gonna be on my shit list, and you’re gonna be letting this city down.”

The combined Affect in the room mercifully shifts from seditious anger to begrudging acceptance. Not every cape is on board with the idea of being disentangled, but enough are that they can make a dent in Home Run’s potential.

#

After, Krater gives a few more mumbling words before declaring the evening’s programming concluded. Next there are second and third courses, finely and meticulously prepared, broken apart by a lemon sorbet. A gorgeous pumpkin bisque and a filet mignon drizzled with demi-glace.

The capes turn their attention to the main reason anyone holds a gala: debauchery. The night bares its teeth, lets out its hair, stretches its limbs. Drinks flow. Lips are locked.

Bedevil lost her taste for this kind of thing long ago. Some of the cape galas she’s seen have sprinted past the border of scandal, and while no one starts fucking on a table here, there are definitely hands running under suits and dresses, bedroom eyes, and whispers into ears.

All that, the sexy, sultry fun, is happening a universe away from her. The one person she’s always wanted to do that with… well, that couldn’t have happened even when he was alive. She quietly seethes at all the flirting, the banter, hell, even the plain camaraderie between cape teams.

When did she last laugh with team mates? When was her last never-have-I-ever with partners-in-preventing-crime?

She watches them all with cold jealousy. She drinks, her sixth or seventh one.

Then she finds herself at a table, stopped by a young woman dressed in a fabulous red, glittery suit that makes her look like she’s permanently on fire, who asks her a slurry of words about Metis, for some reason.

“I never met her,” Bedevil says. “She was old when Oracle was young.”

“That’s a sham- a shame,” the woman replies, burping in the middle of the last word. “I heard she was like actually a crazy-” A burp bordering on vomit- “Crazy powerful…”

From there, Bedevil follows the whim of drunkenness to a pseudo-bar, a table the capes seem to have brought over to the waiter’s station where they make drinks. A supreme sense of religious belonging hits Bedevil and she sits down.

They smile at her, showing shiny teeth that split their faces in two. A bartender brings her a drink she can’t say she asked for, and she barely feels it as it slides down her throat. There’s no bloom of warmth anymore, only the feeling of shoveling coal into an already blazing furnace.

“Room for one more?”

Bedevil, still in control of her own mind while the rest of the table is well past blacking out, glances up at the newcomer. Flashfire, smiling down at her. The smile of a man who’s kind of hoping to get lucky tonight.

“Mmmm,” Bedevil hums. “Might have room for you in my agenda tonight.”

“Oh good. Was hoping the great Bedevil could pencil me in,” he says with a grin. He’s handsome enough to do the job. There’s also the politician in her that sees an opportunity to further weld Houston to the Vanguard. The most famous cape in the world, starting a romance with Houston’s ex golden boy?

And Metis… she wants someone. She wants someone so bad. It’s been so long.

But desperation doesn’t look good on anyone, so at the very least she plays coy. “I sort of took you for someone that enjoys getting piss drunk,” she says.

Flashfire laughs. “Maybe there was a time in my life that was true. I had more wild days before…” He shakes his head, not wanting to finish that sentence.

At first she thinks he means before Danger Close, but that seems unlikely, considering how recent it was. Then, she realizes. “Before you became a cape.”

He glances at her with those dark, striking eyes, and nods. His jaw is nice, and even if his neck is a bit scrawny, it’s still very nice to look at. “Yeah.”

“Less serious in those days?”

“No, actually,” Flashfire says, frowning into his drink. “More that… well, any day seemed like the day we might die. So partying the night away seemed like a really good option. Better to live it up if tomorrow might kill you.”

“And that’s changed?”

He leans into her a little, his shoulder brushing up against hers. His eyes dart down to her lips. “I made the deal I made for a reason. I bought Houston safety. Even if they think I sold us out… they don’t see it the way I do.”

“That must’ve been… hard…” Bedevil says, her fingers aching to grab his arm, to kiss him. To kiss anyone.

“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in close.

And for some, damn stupid fucking stupid idiot reason, Bedevil pulls away.

Flashfire blinks, a little taken aback. “Sorry, I thought-”

“No, no,” Bedevil says, shaking her head. She also thought. And yet, her entire soul just suddenly rankled at the thought of kissing him, taking him to bed. Her body is currently fuming but the rest of her psyche breathes a sigh of relief. “Sorry, not that you’re not handsome as hell. You are, it’s just…”

He tucks his lips in, gives her a sad little nod. “I’d heard that about you.” Without elaborating, he gets up, leans over and kisses her hand like a gentleman, and then disappears into the party.

Suddenly, she’s very angry. “Heard what exactly?”

But she knows, oh lord, she knows.

Poor little sidekick, still in love after all this time.