CHAPTER 42 - LEOPARD

The first of the enemy hunters died quietly.

He’d been walking a patrol route along the edge of the hideout that Tiger had tracked him to just hours earlier, the front garden of a modest suburban two-story. But he had gotten sloppy—his route never changed, his pace was sedate, and he never checked the blind spots. Among them, a hedgerow that was plainly tall enough for a person to hide behind.

That was where Leopard hid, waiting. When he heard boots on grass, Leopard stepped out, grabbed the man from behind and muffled him with one hand clamped over his mouth, hauled him into the blind spot. Then, like a black wraith with a gleaming felinoid skull, Tiger stepped out and slit his throat.

In the dead of the suburban night, the dull thud of the corpse hitting the grass was entirely too loud.

Leopard waited for the alarm, muscles tense, ready to spring. The adrenal anticipation of a fight was intoxicating, made him feel alive. Whatever came next, he was ready. If these guys were the professionals they appeared to be, they could have had monitoring implants attached to their heart or brain, systems ready to flip some switch somewhere and sound the alarm. But there were no sounds, no shouts, and the windows of the house remained dark.

Yeah, Leopard thought. You get sloppy, you die.

Leopard triggered his helmet comms. “Check his pockets.”

Tiger bent down and found the man’s wallet, rifled through it. “Hard currency—Dollars, Australian and American. Some Yen. And an Imperial credit chit.”

“These guys travel around, then.”

“This guy did at least,” Tiger said, and gave the man one last kick. “Eat shit, Leon Boro. That’s one down, seven to go.”

“You recognize the name?”

“Nope.”

Leopard nodded and slung his rifle around into a comfortable, familiar hold. Hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he’d put it back together. “Keep it. Keep everything. I want to know who these guys are. Maybe one of the others knows something.”

“You’ve got it, boss. But how’re we going to explain this to ‘em?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

"Kinda depends on there being a bridge to cross."

They left the body where it lay. Leopard made a mental note of it. They’d come back for it later but, for now, no one could see it from the road. Tiger led the way across the lawn and Leopard followed.

He expected gunshots to rip through the air, impacts to churn apart the shaggy lawn. It was an open space with no cover, and the second-story windows made for great firing lines.

Nothing happened.

“Electronic lock,” Tiger said as they reached the front door. “Give me a moment.” She popped the casing off the panel, working with the wires. “You know, it’d be so us if we got fucked by some motion sensor.”

“Do not jinx us.”

“I’m not the bad luck here.”

“Yeah? ‘Light me up.’”

“Okay, sure—but you got us into that mess.”

The lock released, and Tiger guided the door open. “Yeah,” Leopard said, aiming through the doorway and taking a slow, careful step through. “Good point.”

Inside, the house was much the same as they had come from: a model of Golden Age comfort. Leopard glided over polished floorboards, smart systems in his helmet alert for anything that resembled a person, or a threat.

The house was silent. His helmet visor cast everything into stark green relief. His breathing—in through the nose, out through his mouth—sounded far too loud inside his helmet. Tiger stepped past him and prowled ahead, huge shotgun sweeping.

“Living room clear,” she whispered. “Kitchen clear, hallway clear.”

Monkey’s voice sounded in his head. Eight people, but only one of them’s on watch? Something doesn’t add up, Spots. Something itched at the back of his neck.

Leopard frowned. “Something doesn’t add up. Double check the backyard while I check the garage. You’re right,” he added. “It’s not our luck to have this so easy.”

“Jeez. You get left for dead once and suddenly you’re all paranoid.” But she obeyed and stepped through the kitchen and into the backyard, gliding the glass door open. Then she stepped onto the porch and off it, into the night.

Leopard cased the ground floor a second time, listening. Nothing. On the way to the garage, he paused to consider, however briefly, a framed photo on a coffee table—how quaint—of a smiling family. The thought that Tiger had gotten something wrong, that they’d killed a family man out on a midnight walk, settled in the crevices of his mind. But Leon Boro wasn’t the man in the photo, not even close.

Well, some part of Leopard whispered, there’s still seven others you’ll need to check against.

“Shut up.”

“Say again?” Tiger said.

“Nothing. Continue.”

Leopard stepped over to the garage door and opened it. It was empty, which meant the car that Tiger had seen them take had to be out on the street. His gaze wandered over the selection of tools and other garage miscellanies on the shelves and benches, saw nothing unusual. He went through them anyway, found nothing that wasn't supposed to be there. He glanced at the clock on his visor—still on Asclepion time, he had to get on top of that—and frowned.

Ten minutes. It shouldn’t have taken Tiger so long to check the small yard. Leopard sent a single click through the comms. If Tiger could hear him, she’d click back on the same frequency. Standard status check.

Nothing but silence.

“Tiger,” Leopard asked. “Tiger, come in.”

That itch again. Small and prickly and rolling over the back of his neck. For a moment, Leopard pegged it as nerves. After all, there was no way something could get inside his armorweave. The helmet sealed up against the collar. Nothing could get inside. There was no way-

That feeling again. Prickly, rough, furry... Moving slowly now, as if with purpose. He had remembered to check his seals, hadn’t he?

No. He hadn't. Because they'd been loose ever since the raid on the Citadel. Which meant...

There’s something in my helmet, Leopard realized. With too many legs.

A sharp pain then, a white-hot needle in the nape of his neck. The agony spread like liquid metal underneath his skin and Leopard stumbled, reaching for the wall, suddenly sweating. He pushed himself off the wall, but his legs were sluggish, his motions jerky, and his tongue would only let him grunt.

He fell, hit the floor of the garage, and found he couldn’t roll over onto his back. His body wouldn’t obey. Soon, there was a vague awareness of doors opening, people moving around him, some of them grabbing him, hauling him over, dragging him.

He tried to call for Tiger but, even though he could see his legs dragging across the carpet, nothing existed below his eyes. He was a prisoner in his own head.

It wasn’t that uncomfortable a feeling, really—or that unfamiliar.

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

Soon, his thoughts returned, and he found he could move his jaw. He wasn’t sure how long it was until the venom either expired or ran its course out of his system. Maybe someone had injected him with antivenom. But, eventually, the feeling of nothingness became more of heavy fatigue. Wherever they had dragged him, it was green.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

No, not green. They’d just left his helmet on. Leopard tried to stand up, and found himself bound to a chair. They’d jammed him into a chair, tied his arms behind him, and left his helmet on. Who the fuck were these guys?

He pulled at his bonds once, and then again. Not even an inch, and he hadn’t really expected one. But there was always the chance that his captors, whoever they were, didn’t know how to tie a decent knot.

These ones did.

He turned his head left, then right. His neck felt swollen, the motion too slow. He still felt so tired, so he counted what he saw to keep himself alert. Stone countertops, wooden floorboards, an oven, a refrigerator, three doorways, and Tiger to his left. Moonlight gleamed through a large skylight.

No guards.

“Tiger,” Leopard hissed. “Tiger, you alive over there?”

She stirred. Her response was slurred and incoherent, but seemingly affirmative.

“They obviously don't want to kill us.” It was stupid to talk where they could hear them, but talking felt like it helped his body throw off the toxin. That, and there was a certain consistency in stupidity, really.

Tiger murmured something.

“Something bit us,” Leopard said. “Something got inside our gear and bit us. There’s an empowered with these guys. A powerful telepath, maybe. Or an insect controller.”

“Close enough,” buzzed a voice, and a figure stepped into the kitchen.

The figure was about Leopard’s height—somewhere around average. They wore black from head to tie and, in the dark midnight atmosphere, it was like they were a shadow. A long trench coat shifted in time with their steps, and Leopard caught the texture of armorweave underneath.

Then, once he caught sight of the dim scarlet lenses of the figure’s mask, he had their name—Arachnicide.

One of the IESA’s most wanted. Leader of the Shadowbound supervillain group. Two others stepped into the room, following him. The woman, hooded and masked in blue and purple, was Liarbird. The third was a broad-shouldered giant of a man with a visored helmet and an electron ax against one shoulder. No Vortex, though. That was good. The lack of Arachnicide’s pet hydrokinetic meant that his water would stay in his body.

Three empowered and their lackeys. Talk about luck.

“I thought you two had a reputation for running your mouths,” Arachnicide said. He stepped closer and bent low, scarlet lenses meeting Leopard’s visor. Something writhed at his neckline, under his coat—a lot of somethings. “I couldn’t believe my luck when one of my little sentries told me you were here.”

Tiger stirred. “Must’ve been... the last thing he told you...”

“Not him. He’s immaterial. All baselines are, when you get around to it. My eyes and ears are everywhere.”

“Brave words when I’m… tied to a chair,” Tiger said, looking up at him. “Y’know, the one thing I… missed doing in grade school was… making a nerd eat bugs.”

“Said the fly to the spider.” Arachnicide regarded Tiger for a moment, then looked back at Leopard.

“Leopard, wasn’t it?”

“You obviously know.”

“I do. You see, it’s interesting. Two things. One, by dropping into my humble abode like this, you’ve really made this whole hunt much easier for me. Two, I’m wondering why there’s only two of you, though. My bugs are scouring the surrounding streets for any sign of your companions. Where are they?”

“Figures you have to ask,” Leopard said. “We walked right in through the front door.”

“You did, but not without my knowing. I had a spider planted on you from two blocks away.”

“Man, I almost feel bad about cutting Leon’s throat,” Tiger said. “I’d love to see you tell him that.”

“Perhaps, but we’ve got so much to talk about.”

Leopard sighed. “So, why haven’t you killed us?”

“Because I haven’t been hired to kill you. Not yet, anyway. And here you are. Like I said, you’ve made my job so much easier. It’ll grant you some small mercy at the end.”

“What job, then? Why’re you looking for us?”

“That’s between you and my employer.”

Leopard considered that, or tried to. His vision was still a bit off, and his face felt clammy. The Animals had crossed a lot of people over the years. Monkey, of course, had a way of doing that. But they were typically small-time operators, people who couldn’t hit back. No one who could hire Arachnicide and friends, not even if they had pooled all of their resources.

Then, who was it?

“This is a simple matter,” Arachnicide continued. “I will ask you a question, and you will answer. If I get an answer I do not like, then one of my associates will bite you.”

“Oh, good,” Tiger said. “Love a bit of teeth.”

“Chelicerae, actually. Regardless, the first bite will be painful. Excruciating, really. It’s a simple game: when I don’t like the answer, when I think you are playing silly games, when I think that you are lying to me, they will bite. Liarbird will keep you honest.”

She waved at them.

“First bite wasn’t so bad,” Leopard replied. “I’ll live.”

“Perhaps. But I am host to a multitude of different arachnids, each one made for a specific task. The ones inside your helmets, sitting now on the back of your necks, each possess a potent venom—artificial, of course, because everything can be improved upon.”

“And?” Tiger asked. “No offense, but this is the wordiest interrogation I’ve been in.”

“As I was saying,” Arachnicide continued, “it’s an artificial venom. My own concoction, in fact. The pain is debilitating by three, prompts hallucinations by six, and a slow, agonizing death soon after.”

“Hey, I always knew seven was my lucky number,” Tiger said. “Great. Then I’ll see you in Hell.”

“I suggest you cooperate. It’s for your own good. I’m not the enemy here.”

“Oh my God,” someone said. “Do you think if we were interested in our own good we would’ve put these stupid helmets on in the first place? Fucking hell, give me my goddamn handgun so I can stick it in my mouth already.”

Leopard’s brain matched sound to voice to a person—that was him. Where had that come from?

Arachnicide stood stock still, arms crossed, but his trench coat boiled. A rolling, seething mass of motion that ran from feet to shoulders and then down again. Something buzzed at the edge of Leopard’s hearing.

“Trying to upset me will not disrupt my control over my spiders,” he said. “Or, perhaps, it might, and they’ll devour you from the inside out. Don’t test me. I will fucking end you.”

The buzzing grew louder and, for a moment, Leopard thought he could put a beat to it.

“Hey,” the guy with the ax said. “Is that music?”

The skylight exploded.

A gleaming metal comet crashed into the kitchen, crushing the island bench top into a furious hail of stone, wood and glass. Shards ripped through the air like the mother of all frag grenades had gone off—Leopard heard them ping against his helmet.

The armored figure drew themselves up to their full height, moonlight catching the sleek angles of their silver powered hardsuit. The figure said something, but Leopard couldn’t hear it over the energetic rapping that was blaring from the suit’s external speakers.

The cacophony stopped, and the figure spoke again.

“Hate to drop in like this,” Defiant said.

Arachnicide’s man went for his ax, but Arachnicide raised his left hand and said, “Wait.”

“Shut it,” Defiant told him. “I’m talking first, and you’re listening. I’m taking these two idiots and then I’m leaving. Then we all walk away and act like this never happened.”

“That’s a nice suit. It might be worth enough to pay for my contract.”

“Funny. I’m not negotiating.”

“Listen to that accent,” Liarbird said. “This one’s from Asclepion.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Arachnicide said. “And you’re obviously new to this, or you wouldn’t be issuing an ultimatum to Arachnicide.”

“I don’t even know who that is,” Defiant retorted. “That mean you kill spiders?”

He chuckled. “With them.”

“You ever seen what happens when you hit a spider with a sledgehammer? Don’t step. Like I said, this isn’t a negotiation.” Frustration edged into her voice. “Let these two go and forget this ever happened, and we can all win.”

Leopard looked past them. People were slipping in from the doorway, firearms at the ready. Leopard caught sight of a blazing red prosthetic in the darkness—so, they had the right place, at least.

“Leave the vigilante to us,” Arachnicide told his people. Then, he turned his attention back to her.

“Can’t walk away. It’s not good for business, you see.”

“This isn’t about business,” Defiant snapped. “This is about your fucking lives!”

“She’s got spirit, doesn’t she?” the third guy growled.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen such a Golden Age exemplar,” Liarbird said, grinning in the dark. “Not a trace of dishonesty in this zealot.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Arachnicide said, chuckling, “but I think you should take this seriously.”

Neither did Leopard. How Defiant had tracked them down, he had no idea. Her suit wasn’t quiet enough to follow them closely. But here she was, with the full-on knight in shining armor routine. It was no more absurd than any other part of the world. The standoffs, the posturing.

Like Monkey had always said, if you were in a stand-off, the smartest thing to do was just shoot.

But here was Defiant, practically pleading, as if she could shout down the violent impact that was about to hit. She wouldn’t shoot first. Not if you put a gun to her head. And if she wasn’t going to pull the trigger, then Arachnicide would. Once he’d wrung all the entertainment he could out of her.

“I am taking this seriously,” Defiant said, and raised one hand, leveling one finger right between Arachnicide’s eyes.

“That’s why you die first.”