“There is no immortality, but the memories left in the minds of men.”
Ade paused, letting the words linger in the air and dance from ear to ear between all of us gathered. Outside, the sun was setting behind Captain’s Hill, the sky cast in reds reminiscent of the sunrise I’d abandoned to chase bad ideas earlier today. Any other night, the doors of Palanquin would have been thrown wide by now, entry granted or barred not by the heft and weight of wood but by the will of Pierce and his men. But tonight, Palanquin was closed, the entrance closed behind the last of us to arrive, as we all came together by unspoken agreement around the bar where Ade stood upon a squat step stool procured from some corner of the club known only to the staff.
“We are gathered tonight,” he continued, “not to mourn but to remember.”
All of us, even Ade, were wearing our normal clothes. A bit nicer, truth be told, but there was no black beyond the norm. Gregor wasn’t wearing his habitual hoodie but kept the solid color tee over jeans. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Newter was wearing a shirt for once, albeit a faded, form fitting Rolling Stones tee. Beneath where Newter was affixed to the lip of the balcony, Emily still had her headphones, but she had pulled them down to settle around her neck. Elle and Masuyo were both dressed for comfort, the former because she was just only starting to recover from a string of bad days and the latter because her bandages complicated getting dressed enough already. The real surprise was that Therese, in the simple clothes Ade had procured, had teamed up with Emily to coax Mischief into wearing a buttoned-up trench coat. It had taken every ounce of my self control, which was in very short supply, to resist the temptation to make a joke about ten rats on each other's shoulders in a trench coat.
I’d personally settled on a ruched top with flowing sleeves over a pair of torn jeans. I’d bought both with the money from my first job with the Crew right before… before Octavia.
“Because Melanie Fitts is not dead.”
I grit my teeth, and though there was a faint, untraceable snicker from someone among the Chorus at my discomfort, the quiet otherwise persisted. I held my tongue and counted my blessings that the lot of them were being respectful of the ceremony at all.
Ade reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, whatever shine its emerald thread once held worn with age yet no less refined for it, the daily compliment to an austere white button down tucked into black slacks over matching loafers. Out of the pocket he withdrew a small piece of metal a bit larger than a half dollar, the tip of a stylized crack cutting into the remnant of the otherwise stark design. The only piece of her I’d kept Charon from claiming.
“She is alive in each and every one of us.” Then, after a brief pause, he added, “Labyrinth, if you would?”
Behind the amorphous crowd of assembled staff and residents, in the middle of the empty dance floor, a narrow circle began to depress. As Ade stepped down from his perch and crossed through the parting crowd, the sinking wood grew into a proper hole. It was funny, really, how Ade openly addressed ‘Labyrinth,’ despite none of us wearing any masks. He hadn’t directed any particular attention to Elle, nothing that would identify her as Labyrinth, but it was a polite fiction. All of the staff were adults over 21—this was a club, after all—and everyone on the crew was well under that threshold but Gregor and Masuyo, both of whom stood out in their own ways. If someone on staff had really wanted to match one of us to our cape identities, it wouldn’t exactly require much effort.
Ade reached the hole Elle made and turned to face us, mask in hand. He dropped it into the darkness, and the floor swallowed it, no sign left behind. He took a deep breath and smiled. It was pained, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Melanie left specific instructions to, and I quote, ‘Break out the good stuff, and do not mourn. Celebrate that I made it as long as I did.’ I think, my friends, that we have come dangerously close to mourning.
“So let us get on with the celebration.”
----------------------------------------
“Really? You’ve stolen from an art gallery?” [Footloose: Never gonna give! You! Up!]
Newter threw his head back, barking a laugh at the reaction. Over the course of the night, he had amassed a small pack of ladies from the staff at the nook he’d claimed on one side of the dance floor, his entourage enraptured by his energy, his stories, or both. In a way, he was treating it like another night in the club, which I suppose was the point. He had individually dragged most of our crew members over at one point or another to offer their own perspective on his stories and back him up when his tales grew too tall for his avid listeners. At that moment, that meant me, which in the past I had never minded as much as I did right then. Most of the young women he spent the nights coaxing upstairs to the balcony lounge weren’t that much older than us, and there was something… nice about the interactions, as superficial as they often were. Tonight wasn’t much different in that sense. Some of the staff were of a similar age as the clientèle, and those that were older generally weren’t that much older. Honestly, the conversations had even been better than normal overall. These people didn’t know us, but they knew us enough that they weren’t intimidated by or enamored with speaking to a cape, and that lent itself to less one-sided dialogue.
The reason I wanted to retreat from the attention Newter had gathered was as simple as it was difficult. And it was exceptionally difficult to keep a straight face while Footloose was fucking singing off key in my head. If I managed to keep the depth of my annoyance limited to a twitching eye, it was going to be a goddamn miracle.
“We did!” Newter rejoined with a grin a mile wide. “You didn’t hear about our job in Buffalo? It wasn’t that long ago!” [Footloose: Never gonna leeeet ya dooOooOwn!] [Diamondback: I know this song. This is not how it’s sung.] [Alchemist: At least choose something classier, Footloose. Sinatra? Dean Martin?]
Dude. Why?? I groused in the safety of my head, the question meant for both Footloose and Alchemist. The DJ and the backup for her off days had kicked the sound system into gear, and neither Rick Astley or the Rat Pack fit whatsoever with P!nk’s Raise Your Glass. [DZ: Don’t encourage them.] [Footloose: Never gonna run around and desert you!!] [Klaus: That’s just how they are, June.]
“Oh!” someone spoke up, “SUNY Buffalo, right? My brother goes to school there and mentioned… I think it was a skull got stolen?” [Never gonna maaaake ya cry!]
“That’s the one,” Newter confirmed, directing a finger gun at the person who’d spoken up. “Not just any skull though—this one was made of titanium and covered in diamonds with a big one smack dab in the middle of the forehead. Thing was worth a fortune just in materials before you even got to artistic value. Cost the artist millions.” [Alchemist: Tch, I suppose it is too much to ask for you…] [Footloose: Never gonna say… good-BAI!]
“That much?!” [Never. Gonna. Teeeeell ya a liiIIeeee…!]
Newter looked my way. “You remember what the value was?” [And hurt. you. bay-Beeee!!]
I took a moment to clear my throat to recover from Footloose’s impromptu singing. I did my best to not fidget under the attention of the staff, a couple of whom I knew had only been hired after I lost the ability to speak. I did not have an answer ready for why I suddenly could, an oversight I would need to fix ASAP. “Sixteen mil? Eighteen? To make it, I mean. Price tag was fifty, I think. Pounds, not dollars. I dunno the exchange rate.”
Perhaps shocked into silence by the value of that job—though it was more likely they’d grown bored with their own antics—Footloose finally, blessedly stopped singing. Which wasn’t to say that the Chorus fell silent. [Rotlimb: Yowza. That’s a lotta green.] [Caterpillar: Interesting. Your group is not a band of thieves—you were paid to steal it then? How much?]
I don’t really remember how much my cut was, sorry, Cat. [Alchemist: Sounds like a potentially interesting target!]
His audience suitably awed by the price tag of our heist, Newter launched into, admittedly, mildly exaggerated retelling of how we’d liberated the art piece out from under the noses of the significant security SUNY Buffalo’s Center for the Arts had assigned to guard it. I wasn’t super interested in the tale, having experienced it all firsthand, so my attention began to wander. After getting roped into Newter’s earlier retelling of our job at the Queen’s Gambit, Emily had retreated to the lounge upstairs, and Therese had followed her and struck up a conversation from the look of it. Made sense the two of them would gravitate to each other right then, since neither of them knew Melanie that well—or at all, in Therese’s case. Gregor was chatting with Masuyo and Ade across the room, Mischief’s trench coat draped over his arm but the Changer themself nowhere to be seen. Elle had likewise made herself scarce; upstairs in… our room, judging by the position of the metal button and accents adorning her jeans.
Elle… I wasn’t ignorant. I knew I needed to talk with her. The problem was, what the fuck should I say? How was I supposed to broach learning our entire relationship was founded on a lie? It was like some shit straight out of a soap opera some underpaid writers had churned out in an afternoon after pounding back a few. I was the unsuspecting target of a mad scientist who had tinkered with what made her tick, with what made her her. The unwitting yokel tricked into drinking a witch’s potion that made her into someone else altogether. The veil over my eyes had been torn away, the truth laid bare, with nothing to show for it but misery. Pandora’s box had been opened, my eyes forced open, and—
[Toro: Okay, wow, this is some next level avoidance.] [Butcher: Pathetic. Whining.] [Klaus: June. Sweetheart, you’re being a little… Uh…]
Oh shut the fuck up! I just… Just don’t know what to think! To do! [DZ: Okay, honest truth, I kinda wanted to see what metaphor you’d come up with next.] [Quarrel: I hate it when I agree with you, One.]
[Klaus: Yes. You do.] [Diamondback: You already admitted you know what to do. Why lie now?] [Butcher: You came around in the end, Fourteen.]
I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing myself to be patient. It isn’t that simple! This is Complicated with a capital fucking ‘C’! [Klaus: It’s not simple, things like this never are, but they’re always worth doing.] [Quarrel: Not for you.]
Klaus, please stop trying to be the cool uncle. It doesn’t work normally, and it definitely doesn’t work when I have all your memories. [Footloose: A fucking ‘C’… Oh my god, gang. A ‘C’ can slip right in and curve up to the good shit…] [Rotlimb: It really isn’t that difficult.] [Diamondback: I don’t understand how capitalizing ‘complicated’ is relevant to this conversation.]
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[Klaus: You know what? You’re right. I’m not the cool uncle. I’m a pathetic loser who ran away from all the problems in my life and look where it got me!] [Footloose: But it’s also fuckable… It’s… It’s the perfect letter!]
[Klaus: And that’s why I need you to see that I’m right too. Running from your problems is never a solution. If it doesn’t come back to bite you, then you’ll still be left unsatisfied!] [Rotlimb: I’m so glad I came before you Six. I do not want your memories.]
[Klaus: Don’t be like me, okay? Don’t be a goddamn coward who pissed away every chance to be a father to his kids or kiss the woman he loves!]
“Hey… you okay?”
“Huh?” I blinked. For a moment, tears painted the world in arcing smears and oblong splotches of color, Palanquin rendered in watercolor like one of Alchemist’s paintings brought to life. Then I wiped my eyes, reality reasserting itself over artistic impression. People were still here, the memorial ongoing, but they weren’t here. It was just Newter with me in the booth, the gaggle of people he’d collected with his stories gone.
Newter gave me an unsure smile. Eyes flicking to the crowd then back. “I asked if you were okay.” [Diamondback: He asked if you were okay.] [Butcher: Again, pathetic.]
“Oh.” Thanks, Diamondback. I sniffed and wiped my eyes again. Then grit my teeth as tears reversed course and my snotty nose settled into placidity. “I’m, um. I’m okay. Ish. Where’d… where’d your, uh, people go?” [Diamondback: Just clearing things up.] [DZ: That is such a gross feeling…] [Toro: Avoiding again. You’re a pro at this, Sixteen.]
He waved away my concern. “Asked you something and noticed you were…” He cleared his throat. “Thought you might need a moment.” [Klaus: Don’t be like me.]
“Idid!” I blurted, the words half jumbled. I paused, taking a moment to breathe and nearly losing my nerve. Nearly “I… I did. Thank you. You didn’t have to send them away. I can leave.” [Toro: See? A pro.]
I was shaking, a gentle clatter of bone. Did he hear what I meant? Did he know that I saw the way he looked at me, how his eyes got wider when he noticed me in the room? Did he realize I was offering to leave, so he wouldn’t have to be afraid of me anymore…?
Maybe he did. “Did I ever tell you what Melanie told me when she found me?” [Klaus: Don’t run.]
“N-No?” I answered, thrown by his non-sequitur. [Klaus: Face it head on.]
He leaned back into the cushions, stretching his arms then settling them behind his head as his tail lithely wrapped around his drink and bringing it to his lips. He was obviously still scared, his eyes still wider than they would be, the slightest tremble running down the length of his tail. But he was here—with me.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks then back up again. It felt nicer, having someone here as they did. “Thanks, Newts.” [Klaus: That’s good… Keep going…] [Rotlimb: This is getting awfully sappy.]
He took another sip, and maybe it was my imagination, but his tail seemed just a bit steadier as he did. “Want to talk about it?” [Butcher: What do you expect from a weakling like her, Four?]
“I… kinda was. With, um…” [Klaus: You’ve got this.] [Toro: Took weak for words.]
“With them?” His pupils might’ve gotten a bit wider at that. “Can’t imagine they’re good conversation.” [Klaus: I believe in you.] [Toro: Too weak to fight for what she wants.]
“No, they… some of them, they talk at me, but…” I smiled. It was weak, but it was there. And it was honest. “I was actually talking with, um, m-my… my Dad.”
“Oh?” [Dad: Oh…] Newter blinked then faintly amused asked, “And how is dear ol’ Daddy Seven?” [Dad: Oh, honey.]
“Klaus. His name isn’t Seven. It’s… It’s Klaus.” [Rotlimb: Oh my fucking god.] “And he…” [Edict: Kid…]
I took a shuddering breath, a couple stray tears flowing back into me. “I was just… Everything’s fucked seven ways to Sunday, Newts. Ma— Melanie is, she’s gone, and I almost got us all into trouble earlier, and I don’t what to say to Elle—do with Elle—and I dragged Therese into all of this, and I heard Masuyo and Gregor talking about having trouble finding us work, and— and— and I dunno w-what to do about any of it!” [Rotlimb: This has blown right past sappy into saccharine.]
“H-Hey now, c’mon, I’m no good with—” Newter started to say, looking supremely uncomfortable. [Toro: Huh. Well, alright then.] [Butcher: Can’t stop crying. Can’t fight for anything.]
“Mind if we join you?” [Edict: Fuck off, Butcher, give the kid a damn minute to feel, would you?]
Newter and I both were caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Therese and Emily, the two of them having come up in our blind spot while I was too distracted to notice the approaching bits of metal on their persons. Therese looked more than a little worn out, I realized, seeing her up close for the first time that day. And Emily was… Surprised? Uncomfortable? Both? Also a bit winded, strangely.
[Toro: No one asked for your opinion, bitch tits.] “The more the merrier, I say.” Newter sounded relieved. I might have felt a bit resentful of that. “June?”
“S-Sure?” I didn’t sound ‘sure’ whatsoever, so I tacked on a smile and scooted in a bit to try and reassure them. It wasn’t that I minded company; I just felt overwhelmed. Thankfully Edict wasn’t rising to Toro’s bait.
“How are you two holding up?” Therese asked as she slipped into the empty length of the booth I’d freed. Emily took the opposite side, leaving plenty of space between her and where Newter was reclining into the cushion in the back of the U-shaped booth. It might have been that she was keeping a safe distance from any accidental touches, but it just as easily could have been that she was keeping herself at the edge to beat a hasty retreat. I hadn’t forgotten how she’d reacted at the 7-Eleven yesterday on the way back from New York.
[Rotlimb: Who, Sixteen? She’s holding up great.] “I’m doing okay,” Newter replied with a forced smile that quickly fell apart, devolving into something forlorn, caught between happiness and sadness. “It’s... Palanquin won’t be the same without her.” [Rotlimb: Super well adjusted in here.]
I opened my mouth to lie but stopped short of following in Newter’s footsteps. “I’m… I’m feeling pretty lost right now.” [DZ: She’s doing pretty good despite having you jammed in here.]
“We—” Therese’s eyes flicked to Emily briefly, prompting her to quickly look away, cheeks dark “—might’ve heard the tail end of your conversation. And I, uh, have a suggestion on the money front. Got the idea because of June, actually.” [Diamondback: Letting rot set in is always bad.]
“Oh?” Newter’s eyebrows shot up at that, mirroring my own surprise. “Well spill the beans, girl!” [DZ: Was… was that a joke? That sounded like a joke, but you’re not really the type, Diamondback.]
But the beans didn’t get spilled, and the question of whether Diamondback had a nascent sense of humor didn’t get answered either. Both the Chorus and Therese paused when I tensed up. “June?”
Two very familiar sets of armor were approaching outside, and it did not bode well. “Heroes are coming. Boudicca and Dauntless.” [Rotlimb: Hey hey! Now’s it a party!]
Newter didn’t question my sudden announcement in the slightest, pulling his feet up onto the seat then springing up onto the wall. “I’ll head them off. Go get Gregor and Masuyo.” [Dad: Heroes? Any idea why they’d be here?] [Rotlimb: No better way to celebrate a lost comrade than sticking it to the Man!]
No clue. I reached out to my scarf and coin collection on the upper floor while scooting towards Therese, but she didn’t budge as I bumped into her, instead turning from the stock still, wide-eyed Emily to where Newter was just starting to crawl along the wall. [Footloose: Maybe they wanted to go clubbing?] [Edict: It’s known your crew lives here, right?] [Butcher: Isn’t it obvious? They’ve figured you out, Sixteen.]
“Wait!” Therese blurted. “What do you mean, ‘Head them off’?? Don’t attack them!” [Dad: We can’t be rash! We don’t know what they want!] [Caterpillar: It’s Sunday, and they’re in costume. They aren’t here to party.] [Toro: Hey, twink boy’s got the right idea haha!]
“He won’t,” I think, I said as I followed Newter’s lead. I twisted around to get my legs up into the booth then pushed off into a handspring on the wooden divider behind the seat cushion over Therese. A surreal experience for me, since it hadn’t actually occurred to me what I was doing—or that I knew how to do it—until mid-motion. Thanks for that I guess, Alchemist. [Edict: He’s a case-53; doesn’t need a mask. Warding them off from the memorial?] [Footloose: I partied in my costume! On Sundays too!]
Most of the staff had already stopped what they were doing to gawk our direction as Newter and I sprang into action, and more importantly, so had Masuyo and Gregor, who were rushing over. I moved to meet them halfway and, not wanting to make anyone panic more than necessary, quietly told them “Boudicca and Dauntless incoming. No PRT vans that I can feel? Not sure what’s going on.” [Alchemist: Mmm, you’re quite welcome, I’m sure.] [Caterpillar: You are a poor measuring stick, Six.]
“Ssshit, no commssh,” Masuyo bemoaned, whispering making her lisp more pronounced. She and Gregor and shared a look. “Fig’re out wha’ they want. Be out sshortly.” [Alchemist: If you really wish to thank me, get some supplies.] [Footloose: I’ll have you know, I am an excellent ruler when I’m hard.]
I hated so much that I knew the exact measurements Footloose was referring to. My scarf and coins finally got clear of the upstairs hallway and onto the balcony, the materials rocketing across the final distance once I had proper line of sight. Scarf secure around my neck and coins orbiting around me, I hurried to follow Gregor as he jogged towards the front of Palanquin.
“I thought we got things sorted out earlier?” I said as I melted and merged some of the coins to become sheaths for my arms and legs. I lifted into a hover as we reached the door. “What did they lose wolfboy already?” [Alchemist: The bar a backdrop to a union of bodies on the dance floor, the scene illuminated only by shafts of color in the darkness!]
“We did.” He pushed the door open, and we stepped out into the open air. A slight shiver stole its way through him, a cloud escaping him as a slight pressure washed over me. It took me much longer than it should have to remember it was January and therefore freezing outside. I didn’t feel it in the slightest. [Alchemist: I simply must see this exquisite gem captured in portrait.]
Sure, why not. It’ll help pass the time. “I think I could get jackets for you and me out here?” [Alchemist: Excellent. I shall hold you to it, darling.] [Ror: I don’t like surprise PRT visits…]
Ror speaking up for the first time in at least a week caught me off guard enough that I almost missed Gregor’s reply, “No need, I will adjust. Keep your attention on them.”
The heroes weren’t bothering with hiding their approach. Dauntless was flying low, a multitude of Boudicca’s runes arrayed down his arm, their cool, blue glow almost washed out by the crackling yellow of his own power burning bright around his equipment. Boudicca herself was easily keeping pace with her flying companion, but what really drew my attention was the car they were both clearly escorting.
Or rather, it was the fact they were escorting it at all that caught my eye. It certainly wasn’t the car itself, which was as milquetoast as could be. A powder blue sedan, squat and steadily, slowly approaching. At a guess, the driver was traveling at the posted speed limit of a measly 35 miles per hour, which wasn’t slow per se but certainly felt like it. This was the sort of situation where the enemy would ordinarily be barreling towards us at a speed somewhere between a good clip or screaming down the pavement.
It took me a second to locate Newter by the studs in his jeans. He was staying out of sight, moving into position to pincer them from behind if they stopped in front of Palanquin. Unseen backup, especially with a power like his, would be an invaluable trump card if things went sideways. There wasn’t any time to try and find the others in the club. The sedan smoothly pulled to a stop in the street in front of us and turned on its blinkers, the curb itself too full with cars to parallel park despite the club being closed.
“What is this? Why have you come?” Gregor called out to them as Boudicca slipped between the cars onto the sidewalk and Dauntless touched down next to her. [Footloose: Let’s get ready to rumble?]
“Just here to keep the peace,” Dauntless answered as the driver’s door opened, a woman in a smartly styled suit climbing out. Her short blond hair was immaculately coiffed, a deep part sweeping over her forehead with the shorter hairs on the other side neatly tucked behind her ear. I didn’t recognize her at all, and with features as striking as hers, I figured I would have had I known her. [Footloose: C’mooon. We were all thinking it.]
“You’re the mercenary known as Meteor, correct?” the mystery woman asked, her question clipped and to the point, her entire focus on me as she stepped past the heroes and began to pull something free from her suit jacket’s inner pocket. [Footloose: There wasn’t nearly enough rumbling earlier!]
No metal in there. None on her person at all. Not even the stud earrings I might’ve expected to find a woman like this wearing. Tinkertech weapon? I tensed, readying my coins, only to still when Gregor’s hand landed on my shoulder, firm and unyielding.
“Mrs. Carol Dallon, I presume?”
Who? [Sarah: Oh. Oh shit.] [Quarrel: Brandish?]
“She’s wearing the scarf commonly associated with Meteor,” the woman—Carol Dallon? Where did I know that name?—said, and though her eyes never left me, she was clearly speaking to the heroes on the sidewalk behind her. Her hand came free from her jacket, and in it was… a sheaf of paper? “And exhibiting ferrokinesis.”
Wait. Wait. “You’re Amy’s—?” [Dad: Oh god.]
“Meteor,” Amy Dallon’s mother brandished the paper like it was a sword, bringing it to bear with my chest, “You’ve been served.”