Situation Report, I think grimly. What a fucking world we live in.

The safehouse is a familiar space, but I find myself looking at it with new eyes as I step inside, Mudslide slithering in behind me. It's a decent size for a city condo, with an open concept living room and kitchen, two bedrooms, and a single bathroom. The furniture is nondescript but comfortable, all earth tones and clean lines - the kind of stuff that blends into the background, doesn't draw attention.

Perfect for a place like this.

I do a quick sweep, checking the sightlines from the windows (limited, thanks to the neighboring buildings), testing the locks on the doors (sturdy, recently replaced), and making a mental note of potential exit strategies (fire escape off the master bedroom, a reasonably short drop from the living room window to the dumpster below). Even in a place that's supposed to be safe, I can't turn off that part of my brain, the part that's always looking for danger, always ready to run or fight.

Mudslide, for his part, just shuffles over to the couch and collapses onto it, taking another swig of Hennessy and propping his boots up on the coffee table. I shoot him a glare - boss man demands dress shoes - but don't say anything. It's not worth the energy. Instead, I head to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. It's mostly empty, just a few bottles of water and some protein bars, but I grab one of each and tear into the wrapper, my stomach grumbling.

As I'm chewing, my phone rings, startling me so bad I nearly choke. I glance at the screen - it's Nothing. I hit the speaker button and set the phone on the counter, leaning against it as I swallow my mouthful of tasteless protein. Let the man speak.

"Mrs. Z," he says, his voice tinny through the small speaker, "and Mr. M, I assume."

"You know it, boss man," Mudslide calls from the couch, raising his bottle in a mock toast. I roll my eyes.

"What's the word, N?" I ask, cutting to the chase. "I'm assuming this isn't a social call."

"Far from it," he replies, and I can hear the tension in his voice, even through the shitty phone connection. "We've got a situation brewing, and the boss man wants you up to speed, so Mr. C and I have been doing our homework for the past two weeks while you've been out there cracking skulls. Let me lay it on you."

I straighten up at that, my fatigue momentarily forgotten. "I'm listening."

"First things first - the Chernobyl trial. It's set to start next week, and it's going to be a shitshow. The media's already in a frenzy, and the NSRA is scrambling to do damage control. Rumor has it they were involved with Chernobyl somehow, FBI, too, but of course they're denying everything. At the bare minimum, we have people asking the obvious question - how could they have fucked this up for ten years?, and there's a lot of chatter on the internet that they were in bed together. We'll have to see what happens when someone actually gets grilled on the stands."

My eyebrows shoot up at that. The National Superhuman Regulation Agency, in bed with a known supervillain? That's juicy, if it's true. "Any idea what kind of involvement we're talking about?"

"Nothing concrete yet," Nothing admits, "The truthers on the internet say that the NSRA are straight up funding and outfitting him. More reasonable types just say they're deliberately turning a blind eye - for one reason or another. It's all speculation at this point, but if even a fraction of it is true... it's gonna get ugly, fast."

I let out a low whistle. "No shit. Anything else interesting?"

"That Bloodhound girl," Nothing says, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice. "You know, Sam Small? That middle schooler that keeps getting in our business - she's the star witness. Of course, after Mr. E's fuck-up, obviously. Have to hope she doesn't say anything about us in public, so you should get ready to batten down the hatches in case she does. Man plans, God laughs."

I swallow an uncomfortable lump in my throat with some water. Nothing continues. "Crazy how things keep coming back to her, huh?"

I grunt in acknowledgement, my mind already racing with the implications. Sam Small, the teenage superhero who's been a thorn in our side for the past year, testifying at the trial of the century?

"Okay, so walk me through it," I say, starting to pace the small kitchen. "How do you see this playing out? And more importantly, how does it affect our operations?"

Nothing hums thoughtfully. "Well, for starters, we can expect increased scrutiny on all metahuman activities in the wake of the trial. The NSRA will be looking to save face, which means cracking down hard on anyone who steps out of line. We'll need to be extra careful, keep a low profile. Keep the crimes petty."

"Fuck that," Mudslide chimes in from the couch, to my absolute lack of surprise. "Scrutiny means opportunity. When the pigs are busy chasing their tails, that's when we make our move, expand our turf. The chaos is good for business."

Nothing sighs the sigh of the long-suffering, and I briefly debate taking my chances with the gun-toting mind zombies outside. "Mr. M, while I appreciate your... enthusiasm, I don't think-"

"No, wait," I cut in, an idea forming in my head. "He might be onto something. Not about expanding our turf - because you definitely ain't ready for that smoke, baby boy. But about exploiting the chaos."

"What do you have in mind?" Mr. N asks, sounding intrigued.

I run a hand through my hair, pulling free my spray painted beanie disguise and slumping against the counter. "I'm thinking - you said the NSRA is gonna be scrambling, right? Looking for ways to show they're still in control, still relevant?"

"Right..."

"So what if we offer our services? Not as the Kingdom of fucking anything - we'll go in incognito, maybe as independent security consultants or some shit like that. We've got the experience, the skills, and most importantly, the powers. We can help them keep a lid on things, for a price. Plus, doesn't P already have an in on the local office? It should be easy as pie to just go hey, yeah, we've got some friends. Daisy chain our way up."

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear the gears turning in Nothing's head. "...That could work," he says slowly. "It would give us an inside track on their operations, maybe even let us steer them in the direction we want. And if the trial goes south and public opinion turns against them, we can just cut ties and come out smelling like roses."

I nod, even though he can't see me. "My thoughts exactly."

Mudslide makes a disgruntled noise, rolling off the couch and shuffling over to the kitchen. He leans against the counter next to me, close enough that I can smell the Hennessy on his breath. "Y'all are overthinking this," he slurs, waving his bottle for emphasis. "We don't need to play nice with the NSRA pigs. We just need to take what's ours. And what's ours is all of it, you hear me? All. Of. It."

I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath, reminding myself that murder is still illegal, even for supervillains. Then I turn to face him, snatching the bottle out of his hand and taking a long pull, the cheap whiskey every bit as shitty as I remember. Let's try again.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"M, let me break this down for you in a way even your drunk, broke, "gangsta rap made me do it" ass can understand. The game is changing. We can't just rely on brute force and intimidation anymore. We need to be strategic, we need to be smart. We need to play the long game if we want to stay on top."

I shove the bottle back into his chest, not bothering to hide my disgust. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to shut the fuck up and listen to the adults talk. And if you have any bright ideas, you're going to run them by me first before you go off and do something stupid that gets us all killed or sent to the Raft, or, god forbid, Daedalus. We clear?"

Mudslide blinks at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. For a moment, I think he might actually try to swing on me, but then he just nods, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yeah, aight," he mumbles, slouching back to the couch. "I'll be good. Ain't got to be a bitch about it."

"Productive," Nothing deadpans, his voice crinkly over the speaker. I ignore it.

Instead, I turn my attention back to the phone, back to the matter at hand. "That's another thing. We need to talk about recruiting. With everything that's about to go down, we're going to need more manpower. More metahumans."

Nothing makes a noise of agreement. "I've been thinking the same thing. But you know Mr. A's stance on the twenty-six. He's not gonna like us bringing in new blood."

I snort. "Please. I'm not talking about adding to the alphabet soup. I'm talking about street-level operatives, people who can help us keep a handle on things while we work the NSRA angle. Maybe even juice some of them up with a little Jump or Fly if we can get our hands on it."

"It's a lot of moving parts, Z," Nothing says cautiously. "A lot of variables."

"You're not wrong," I admit, rubbing my temple where a tension headache is starting to bloom. "But we don't have a choice. The world is changing, whether we like it or not. We need to change with it, or we're going to get left behind just like the old dogs did from the Big Raid."

"Oh, you mean like how you got left behind earlier?" Mudslide pipes up from the couch, because of course he fucking does. "When you were running from those zombies or whatever? Real tactical genius there, boss lady."

I whirl on him, ready to rip him a new one, but Nothing beats me to it. "Mr. M, I don't think you understand the severity of this situation," he says, and despite his flat tone, there's real steel underneath. "Those mind-controlled people Mrs. Z encountered could be a sign of something bigger, something we've never seen before. It's not something to joke about."

I decide to chime in. "He's right. I don't know what those people were fucked up on, but it definitely wasn't normal Jump or Fly. It was like they were under some kind of hypnosis or some shit."

"Hypnosis? What, like some kind of psychic?" Mudslide asks, sounding skeptical.

I shake my head. "No, not quite. It was more like... like they had some sort of trigger. Like they were sleeper agents, just waiting for the right command to activate them."

"And that command was what, exactly?" Nothing asks, his voice sharp with interest.

I take a deep breath, thinking back to the encounter. "It was Rogue Wave. As soon as I mentioned that name, it was like a switch flipped in their brains. They went from normal people to these mindless killing machines in a split second. But it's weird - they were confused at first, like they didn't know why they were attacking me. And even then, they still seemed to have functionality. They could open doors, use tools, even try to shoot me. Thank god for Kevlar."

"So it's not a full zombification," Nothing muses. "More like a targeted compulsion."

"Exactly," I say, snapping my fingers. "Like they were under some kind of geas or blood oath or some shit. And I don't think they were even aware of it until it kicked in."

"Okay, but how is that even possible?" Mudslide asks, and for once, it's a valid question. "I thought mind control powers were bullshit. Isn't that what ESP always says?"

"ESP's full of shit," I retort, but I have to admit, he has a point. Mind control on this scale, with this level of specificity... it's not something I've ever encountered before. And I've been doing this a long time.

"Maybe it's not mind control," Nothing suggests. "Maybe it's more like... I don't know, hypnotic suggestion? Like they've been conditioned to respond a certain way to certain stimuli."

I consider that, turning it over in my head. It's a possibility, but something about it doesn't quite fit. "No, I don't think so. The way they reacted, it was too sudden, too extreme. And the fact that they didn't remember why they were doing it afterwards, the ones that I knocked out instead of ditching like a bad habit, it's like their minds were completely overridden in that moment. Like they were puppets on a string."

"So what, you think it's some kind of metahuman ability?" Mudslide asks, scratching his head.

"Obviously, I think it has to be," I say slowly. "MK Ultra didn't get any real results, dawg. Nothing else makes sense. But it's not really like anything I've seen before. Like we woke up some sort of sleepin' giant."

Nothing makes a thoughtful noise. "Okay, so let's think this through logically. What do we actually know about this power? What are its characteristics, its limitations?"

I nod, already running through the possibilities in my head. "Okay, well, we know it's triggered by a specific phrase or concept - in this case, the phrase "Rogue Wave". And we know it compels the affected individuals to attack anyone who mentions it, even indirectly. But it doesn't seem to be a blanket compulsion - they still had some autonomy, some ability to reason and plan, even if their ultimate goal was to kill me."

"So it's not total mind control," Nothing says, sounding almost disappointed. "The affected individuals retain some sense of self, some agency."

"Right," I agree. "And that's important, because it means this power probably has limits. It's not all-powerful, it's not all-encompassing. There are ways to resist it, to break free of it. We just need to figure out what they are."

"Okay, but how do we do that without getting our own brains scrambled?" Mudslide asks, and damn it, that's two semi-intelligent questions in a row. Maybe there's hope for him yet.

"We need to be careful," I say immediately. "This is some serious shit we're dealing with here. We can't just go charging in blind. We need to gather more information, learn everything we can about Rogue Wave and whoever's pulling their strings before we make a move. Can't give away what we know until we know more."

"Agreed," Nothing says firmly. "I'll put out some feelers, see what comes back. Carefully. But in the meantime, we need to focus on shoring up our own defenses. Rogue Wave's not the only threat we're facing right now. Enemies on all sides."

I make a noise of agreement, thinking back to our earlier conversation. "You're right. The Chernobyl trial, the NSRA, the Small girl... there's a lot of balls in the air right now. We need to be ready for anything."

"So what's the plan?" Mudslide asks, and for once, he doesn't sound like he's just trying to stir shit up. He sounds like he's ready to listen, to fall in line. The fuck is this world coming to?

I look at the phone, wishing I could see Nothing's face, get a read on what he's thinking. But his voice is steady as ever when he replies, "The plan is this: we play it smart, we play it safe, and we play it close to the vest. No rash moves, no unnecessary risks. We gather intel, we build alliances, and we position ourselves to come out on top no matter which way the wind blows. And above all else, we stick together. No lone wolfing it, no going off half-cocked. We're an organization, and we need to act like one if we're going to make it through this in one piece."

I feel a smile tug at my lips, a real one this time. "Well shit, N, that was almost inspiring. You been practicing that speech in the mirror?"

He snorts, the sound crackling through the speaker. "Less talking, maybe turn your thoughts a few degrees off of sassing me, and more listening that's all I'm saying."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," I say, waving a hand even though he can't see it. "Teamwork makes the dream work and all that jazz."

"Bitch, I will smack you," he mutters, and I can't help but laugh, the knots of tension in my stomach loosening just a fraction.

"So are we hashing out the details now or later?" I ask, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It's late, and I'm exhausted, but this is important. We can't afford to let our guard down, not now.

N sighs. "Later. I've already pushed some buttons with new info, but let's let the pieces land where they will for now. Just send me a summary of your little joy ride earlier so I can cross-reference it with everything else. For now - rest up, recharge. We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

I grumble, but I know he's right. "Fine," I say grudgingly. "But when I wake up, someone better have some fucking coffee waiting for me, none of that tea and honey shit."

"Gross," he says with a little laugh. "Go to sleep. For real."

I hang up, suddenly profoundly aware of how heavy my limbs feel, how gritty my eyes are. Wordlessly, I turn and head for the master bedroom, not bothering to see if Mudslide follows suit. I don't have the energy to care about his dumb ass right now. I'll deal with him in the morning, when I'm sober and slept.

I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, not even bothering to take off my shoes. My gun digs into my hip, but I don't move to adjust it. The discomfort is grounding.

----------------------------------------

The news is loud against the safehouse's cavernous walls. Mudslide, asleep on the couch, has been a good little doggy, keeping his eyes out for me, but the sounds of explosions in the distance is no comfort to my exhausted eyes.

The news helicopter zooms in, and the migraine behind my eyes blooms like a thousand red roses.

Deathgirl, you fucking idiot. What did you do?