CHAPTER 14 - FISHER

Katherine was right. Fisher didn’t want to admit it, but that was how their relationship had always been. Katherine—Miss Millennium—had been a great leader and a better friend. She always had a way of getting to the truth of things. And it always took a while, and an argument, for him to admit it.

It was a nice day outside. Fisher stirred his coffee (another thing that Katherine had been right about, he should give up the booze) and looked out of the coffee shop window and at the park on the other side of the street. It reminded him of Central Park, and of the holiday he and Mark had taken there. The earthen scar across the landscape, a reminder of the brawl between SOLAR and Sentinel, was only a mild blight on the view. People were taking photos of it. Tourists, probably.

The world couldn’t be too bad if there were tourists. And, if it was, then it wasn’t on one Pavel Fisher to fix it. He’d done his time, spent his blood, paid his sweat, cried his tears. If Katherine could find solace as her body worked to entomb her, then he could make peace with his own situation. Like Asadi said, he could see the sights, live it up, and put it all on the corporate tab. So, he’d sit here and drink his coffee. Life would go on.

“Anything else you need, sir?” the waiter asked.

Fisher smiled, thought for the first time that he didn’t—and the world exploded.

He found himself on his back, on the floor, ears ringing, coughing against the dust. Shards of glass littered the floorboards, one of them had nicked his brow. His table had toppled over, and his mug of coffee lay shattered on the floor.

Son of a bitch.

Fisher pushed himself upward. Someone was screaming towards the back of the dining area. The waiter was shouting if everyone was okay. Between Fisher and the broken window, someone in a suit of powered armor lay amid a wreck of floorboards.

Jesus, he thought, I’m caught in the middle of a superhero brawl.

The armored figure saw him staring and laughed, or sounded like it, as they picked themselves up. The speakers in their helmet crackled from damage or disrepair. Either one was likely, given the look of the suit. Then, they said, “Oh, shit, it’s you. Hah! Sorry about your coffee, Feline Fancy.”

Fisher stared, blinking away the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t place the voice, but he could place the words, even as ridiculous as they seemed. Behind the helmet, he could picture the girl from the store. What was her name? Sammy? Sabine?

Sabra.

Fisher opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. She was already gone, charging off, back towards whatever fight had broken out in downtown Asclepion. Cursing himself, Fisher picked himself up and, staying low, followed.

He wasn’t the only one. There were people up and down the sidewalk, watching Sabra charge up the street, towards the bank, towards the fight. Some people had their cameras out, recording. The girl was stopping a bank robbery. As far as heroic cliches went, it was definitely up there.

Fitting, though. After all, whoever was trying to rob a bank was going more for that cliche than any material result. IESA had a whole Taskforce dedicated to monitoring for financial malfeasance. Like the Dynazon plant, it was a rep job. Someone was showing what they could do, and that they were willing, and presumably able, to handle the reprisal.

Only problem was, Fisher didn’t see anyone responding to it beyond one impetuous girl and her garage-made suit of power armor. As far as reputation went, it wasn’t anything to boast about. It was funny, though—the sight of such an empowered brawl almost made him feel young again.

Sabra charged towards the steps as her opponent descended to meet her, taking them two at a time. A woman in armored cargo pants and a ballistic vest, long black braid lashing about like a scorpion’s tail. Horns erupting from her temples.

Fisher’s breath caught, ice spreading through his chest.

Taurine.

The two combatants crashed together, fists flying. Someone moved into a grapple and the pair circled for supremacy. The suit gave Sabra a few inches on Taurine, but it didn’t matter—nothing could matter. Sabra slammed her helmet against Taurine’s forehead and ate a vicious kick to her armored gut. She stumbled back, caught herself before she fell.

And darted right back in, swinging for Taurine’s face.

Sabra—Fisher still couldn’t quite believe it—had spirit, that much was clear. When Taurine struck at her, she bounced back. Her technique was practiced, blooded, but one could only bounce for so long. The armor prevented Taurine from breaking her in a single blow, but it was like the kid didn’t get that, in armor like that, it shouldn’t have been a slugfest. She should’ve won in the first few blows. And if she didn’t win now, then she wouldn’t.

She was standing up to Taurine, trading blows. The way someone fought when they thought they could rely on endurance or sheer stubbornness to carry the day. But Sabra didn’t know what she was dealing with. Taurine couldn’t be worn down. In a fight, she could only be wound up.

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He wanted to tell Sabra that, to shout it out, but Taurine was right there. Her fingers were already around his throat, choking the words out of him. If he said anything, if she heard him, then she would see him, and she would find him, and she would kill him. Just like—

His wrists were aching.

The two of them broke apart, and Sabra paced a circle around Taurine, banged her fists together. Past them, at the top of the bank, a bunch of figures in black armorweave and chrome helmets settled in to watch the show. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.

All Sabra had to do was hold on for a few more minutes. All she had to do was keep her distance.

She charged back in. Grabbed Taurine by one of her horns and dragged her down and around, getting her to one knee. Hammered her again and again with her fist. Three blows in quick succession and then Taurine rose up, leading with her shoulder. Took Sabra by the arm and spun her about, hurled her into a parked sedan. The car alarm was one more noise among the violent din. It would’ve been funny, if it didn’t mean that Taurine was about to kill her.

Sabra staggered to her feet as Taurine closed the gap. By now, her adrenal-powered transformation was well under way. Her features flattening and broadening to resist attack, limbs longer, muscles thicker, shoulders wider. Her lips moved, but Fisher couldn’t hear the words. A taunt, probably. Or gloating.

Sabra ripped a door from the car and hurled it at Taurine. She leaped to the side just in time, leaving the door to slide up the street, throwing sparks up from the asphalt. Now that someone was throwing things, people started to panic. Fisher remained where he was, transfixed, like a rock in a frenzied stream.

Taurine laughed, a low rumbling noise that Fisher swore he could feel through the sidewalk beneath him. The closest thing her features would let her approximate.

Sabra answered by brushing at imaginary lapels—with only one hand. Her left arm hung at her side, limp and useless. Smoke curled out of the shoulder joint. Either her suit was broken, or her arm was. Either one had just lost her the fight.

And still she squared herself up, drew her right fist up to her chest. Her helmet tilted up at the chin. A gesture of contempt that might’ve been as old as civilization itself. Bring it.

Taurine put her head down, horns catching the light of the Sun, and charged.

Sabra darted to the side, sparks flying as one of Taurine’s horns grazed her torso, and Taurine plowed into the sedan. Sabra played for distance. Like she was playing matador. Like she stupidly thought she could win a contest of endurance.

APD police cars screamed towards the pair, officers piling out, shouting at Sabra and Taurine to stand down. Bushranger slid in on his motorcycle, shock-staff crackling, and leaped off to level it at the pair. Defenda Eureka touched down on the closest rooftop, and her powered suit made Sabra’s look like the garage-built Frankenstein it was—sleek and tall, resplendent in blue and green finery, flight pack exhaust vents that seemed more like wings behind the shoulders. Star Patrol’s most heavily armed one-woman army.

Sabra remained right where she was. Taurine glanced at everyone in turn, one by one. Then she reached for the hood of the sedan, ripped it free, and cast it at Bushranger and the APD. They scattered, cape included, and the hood crumpled against a shimmering barrier inches before impact, like glass catching rays of the sun.

Great Barrier descended from on high, one arm held before her. Star Patrol had come in force. But, shit, they could’ve brought Southern Cross, too, for all the good it would do them. Hell, throw in Sentinel and Fisher would still have bet on Taurine. There was a reason she had never been caught, why everyone had hoped that she’d retired or somehow, impossibly, bit off more than she could chew.

But she hadn’t. She was here. He’d been right.

The APD dispersed, checking buildings, getting everyone away from the imminent combat zone. Taurine’s people, still at the top of the stairs, had produced firearms, and it seemed like the APD was content to leave them there. Wasn’t like they were getting involved, anyway.

Then, someone shouted, “Supernova!” and the world flared so bright that Fisher dropped to the ground, turned his head to the concrete with his eyes squeezed shut, swearing, and prayed he hadn’t gone blind.

When he could open his eyes enough to see again, when they had stopped searing inside their sockets, it was over. Taurine was withdrawing, her black-armored people in tow. Even she had her limits. Knew when to pick her battles. Knew to fight only when she would win. It was how she had survived so long.

Great Barrier had her face in her hands, shouting orders. Defenda and Bushranger, helmeted as they were, seemed to recover quicker. APD trucks pulled up through the street, establishing a vehicular blockade, like the punchline to some terrible joke. Heavily armed APD ELE members fanned out in suits of power armor. With a phalanx at her back, Eureka strode up the steps and into the bank proper.

Fisher glanced about. Sabra was nowhere to be seen.

Just like that, it was over. The ice melted away and Fisher realized he could breathe again. More civilians, people like him, were poking out of alleys and from behind cars. Fisher slumped against the wall behind him. Taurine might’ve been back, but she hadn’t killed anyone.

“Small victories,” he said to the air and sirens.

He let that thought percolate for a few moments as he watched the good guys secure the area. He’d have to clear out before anyone came to ask him any questions, but at least he’d have something of interest to report to Asadi. But there was that thought again: small victories.

Star Patrol had let Taurine escape. Fisher had no doubt that whatever it was she’d set out to do here, she had. The closest anyone had come to bringing in one of the last great supervillains—and they’d let her get away.

But Sabra had gotten away, too. And Fisher liked her, just enough that he didn’t want to see her get caught. So, that was good. And she had gone a few minutes with Taurine and hadn’t gotten herself crippled or killed. That was something of an achievement, too.

His thoughts began to form into a plan, or something like it. Katherine had been right. He couldn’t go after Taurine alone. She was just as deadly as she had been twenty years ago. But there was someone in Asclepion who was brave, brazen, or stupid enough to trade blows with her and seem to think she was coming out on top. Fisher had to know which.

And he knew just where to find her.