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INTERLUDE ONE
Alexandria
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“...here today in the wake of another devastating attack by the Slaughterhouse Nine. Words cannot capture the pain and horror experienced by those directly affected, nor can they fully convey the bravery of the first responders, heroes and the strength of the survivors…”
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The sound of camera shutters accompanied bright bursts of light—miniature supernovas that exploded and then faded away in quick succession. Each pop of the flash left a ghostly imprint in her vision, fading away slowly as she blinked.
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“…The scenes of destruction and loss are etched into our hearts and minds, a reminder of the challenges we face. Yet, amidst this tragedy, we have also witnessed extraordinary acts of heroism and compassion. Neighbours helping neighbours, strangers risking their lives for others, and countless individuals coming forward to offer their support…”
In her secret identity as Rebecca Costa-Brown, Alexandria stood tall behind the polished oak podium, addressing a gathered crowd of reporters and media representatives. Her long, black hair, pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, revealed a face meticulously made up to hide the truth: that she hadn't truly aged since adolescence. Cosmetics added years to her appearance, masking the eternal youthfulness that betrayed her true nature. Even then, she knew the charade was a fragile one.
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“…This is the true spirit of our country. We may be shaken, but we are not broken. We may grieve, but we will also heal. And together, we will stand against those who seek to spread terror and division…”
Dressed in a sharp suit, she projected an air of authority. Yet, the press conference room, with its beige walls and low ceiling, felt stiflingly small and stuffy. A prison for her words.
She'd done this countless times before. It was routine, practically rote: read the prepared statement, field the reporters' questions, and then leave. Still, each time she held a media briefing after a Slaughterhouse Nine attack, the experience felt like the first time.
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How could it not?—
“...heartfelt condolences and deepest sympathies go out to the families and friends of the victims,” Alexandria continued while her mind wandered. Not that it affected her delivery. Leveraging her power to perfect the art of public speaking throughout the years, she could give a flawless performance with little conscious effort. “Our thoughts and prayers are with those who are grieving and those who have been affected by this senseless violence...”
—That roving, deranged band of serial killers were more than a mere thorn in her side; they were a festering wound. A reminder of failures and sins that could never be forgotten or forgiven.
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With every passing year, she felt the weight of her burdens growing. Every death, every life destroyed, and every scar etched on the survivors of the group's atrocities were like beads on a rosary, each one counted off by her blood-slicked fingers. Whenever the news broke about their latest attack, the familiar guilt returned, just as it had years ago. The heavy feeling sat deep within her, like an anchor in her stomach, dragging her down into the murky depths of a dark ocean.
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For the greater good... for the sake of humanity's survival, the things she’d done had been necessary. She'd sacrificed lives, futures and dreams; stained her hands and soul with the blood of many. All to play the part of the silent, guiding hand behind the scenes, subtly nudging the world towards a brighter future. Or at least, a future. But the path to hell was paved with good intentions, and now she found herself on the downward spiral into its molten, fiery depths. The Nine were always there to remind her that the road she was on was a one-way trip.
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Of course, regret wasn't something Alexandria could allow herself to indulge in. A luxury she couldn't afford. Not when the fate of the entire multiverse rested on her shoulders.
But that didn't mean the past couldn't haunt her.
The sins.
The deaths.
The pain.
All that she’d inflicted could never be forgotten.
It was a constant, unshakable feeling. A persistent, nagging voice that whispered to her, accusing her of crimes that could never be absolved or overlooked.
(Not that she'd want it to.)
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She couldn't undo the past, nor would she if given the chance. The future demanded sacrifices, and she had chosen to follow a Path that led to inevitable casualties. Lives weighed against the survival of countless others—it was a moral calculus she had become all too familiar with. The needs of the many outweighing the few, the suffering and the pain of a minority sacrificed for the sake of a future for all.
It was a bitter truth she eventually learned to swallow without hesitation. Alexandria refused to shy away from the consequences of her decisions, even if it meant carrying the weight of the dead upon her shoulders for eternity. And yet, moments like these, amidst the relentless click of cameras, forced her to confront the enormity of her choices and the shadow of her own damnation.
Hell had a special place reserved for her, and it was one she knew she'd have long earned before her time came.
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“…We stand together in the face of this atrocity. The Slaughterhouse Nine seek to sow chaos and despair, but we will not let fear dominate our hearts. We must honour the memory of those lost by continuing to live, to fight, and to hope...” Alexandria paused, letting the silence hang—heavy and charged—before she continued.
Blank stares met her words. A few heads bobbed mechanically, their eyes dulled by a resignation that had become all too familiar. The reporters—a mix of national and local—had heard it all before: different words, different phrases, but the same hollow sentiment. They knew, as she did, that no amount of speeches, empty condolences, or promises would change anything.
How many times had she delivered a similar speech? How many more would she be forced to?
Everyone had long grown used to the cycle, and the events seemed almost expected. Scheduled even. Truthfully, they were probably only here because it was the right thing to do, as opposed to any genuine desire to listen to what she had to say.
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She took a deep breath, her gaze sweeping across the room, locking onto the jaded eyes of the journalists. Faces etched with fatigue, the kind born from witnessing too many tragedies, reporting too many horrors, looked back at her. “There is much work ahead of us…” she said, her voice unwavering and resolute, even as her heart ached with weariness.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments when Alexandria allowed herself a moment of weakness, she wondered if this ritual had become as much a charade for her as it was for them. A pointless performance. A hollow display of strength and unity that failed to heal the deep wounds inflicted by the Slaughterhouse Nine, and only served to remind people of their tragedies. The urge to abandon the farce tugged at her constantly, a tempting whisper in the back of her mind.
But she knew, deep down, that the act was necessary. In some small, intangible way, it mattered. Despite the irony, despite the hypocrisy, her words could still provide a flicker of hope, a sliver of comfort for those who needed it most.
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“...And we will not rest until the Nine are brought to justice. We will not let fear dominate our lives. And we will not surrender. These are our values. Our beliefs. They define us as a community and as a nation. Together, we will prevail.”
As much as she disliked the spectacle and the meaningless platitudes, she would do what was required. She always had.
“To the survivors and their families, know that you are not alone. We are here for you, offering support and solidarity. We will help you rebuild, recover, and find strength in each other.” Alexandria's fingers brushed the edge of the podium, her hand tightening around its cool surface. “You have our word. Together, we will get through this.”
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Another sweep of the room and she finally noticed a man that looked out of place in the audience. His face was gaunt and pale, almost corpse-like, with thin lips and sunken cheeks that gave him a skeletal appearance. Greasy, unwashed hair fell loosely over his shoulders, clumping together in matted strands. He didn't resemble the typical reporter; he was too unkempt and unprofessional, like a vagrant that had wandered in from the street. His cheap suit was a sorry sight, with a rumpled dress shirt and a fraying tie barely clinging to his neck. The jacket, several sizes too big, hung off his lanky frame like a discarded curtain.
Yet, it wasn’t his appearance that drew her attention—it was the raw, burning hate in his eyes, cutting through the crowd and locking onto her with a ferocity that was impossible to ignore.
Alexandria's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than the rest: a subtle, barely perceptible change in the pattern of her scanning the crowd, a shift that none of the reporters caught, and one she didn't expect the man to notice. But he did. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles jumping beneath pale skin. His brow furrowed deeply, the lines across his forehead becoming even more pronounced. Shoulders hunched forward, a faint tremor rippling through his body.
It was then she realised: his rage was directed at her.
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She continued her speech, but a part of her mind focused on the strange man, cataloguing every detail. Her near-perfect memory provided a name for the face—James Harrow, brother and only living relative of Emma Harrow, one of the Slaughterhouse Nine's most recent victims. She remembered the file: a small, tight-knit family torn apart by a senseless act of violence. His pain was understandable, his anger justified. But what was he doing here?
“...of the greatest act of vengeance we can take is to live, to move on, and to grow stronger. By doing so, we rob the Nine of the one thing they truly desire. To show the world that we are not afraid. That we will not falter. That they have not broken us...”
James moved. The motion was subtle, a shift in his stance as he reached into his jacket. Alexandria caught the movement instantly, but she allowed it. She saw the object before it left his hand—a shoe, not a weapon.
She could have stopped him. Could have ended the disruption before it began. But she let it happen.
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The shoe flew through the air, spinning awkwardly. Alexandria watched it travel the distance, arcing slowly and then tumbling end-over-end as it sailed over the heads of the crowd. At any moment, she could have dodged. Could have moved out of the way, leaving it to clatter harmlessly against the stage. Or she could have caught it with one hand, plucking it from the air like a ripe fruit from a low-hanging branch. But instead, she stood her ground, allowing the shoe to hit its mark.
The sole collided with the side of her face. It was a slow, clumsy throw. The impact didn't hurt. It achieved its intended effect though. The room gasped, the sound escaping the crowd as a single, drawn-out breath. Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
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“Liars! You're all liars!” James spat, his voice a raw, ragged edge of fury. The anger and hatred poured off him in waves, rising in pitch as he continued, breaking into a shout. “Fuck you, fuck your words, and fuck this world! My sister's dead. Murdered by those... sick fucks, and you do nothing. How dare you! How fucking dare you! You stand there, spewing your lies, pretending to care! Where were the heroes when they came for my sister? Where were they when she screamed for help?!”
Alexandria noticed security guards closing in from the corners of the room.
“You've done nothing! Nothing! This is all your fault! The PRT were supposed to protect us!” the distraught man yelled, his voice cracking as he pointed a shaking finger at her, his face twisted into a furious grimace. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and it wasn't long before he sobbed openly, his body trembling with the force of his emotions.
“WHERE WERE THE HEROES?! WHERE WAS THE HELP WE NEEDED?! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HER! YOU COULD HAVE SAVED MY SISTER! BUT YOU DID NOTHING!!”
She could have defused the situation. She could have talked him down, used her voice and her words to calm the distraught man—acknowledged his loss, empathised with his pain. It wouldn't have been difficult. She could have—should have—done a great many things. But she didn't. She chose silence: a heavy silence that hung in the air as she watched the man being hauled away by the guards, his furious accusations and sobbing cries echoing through the room.
Then came the lights and camera shutters. More avid and eager than before.
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“Eidolon tells me you had an... exciting day.”
The words welcomed Alexandria as she stepped through Doormaker's portal: a seamless tear in space that led from her PRT office to Doctor Mother's own. Not the one the woman sometimes used to discuss with Cauldron clients, but rather, her more private office. The one where Doctor Mother worked.
White walls with white tiled floors—pristine and sterile, just like everything else in the compound—that was the room's only defining characteristic. No pictures. No personal touches. Nothing hinting at the occupant's identity or location. It was spartan. Utilitarian. Functional without a hint of form. Honestly, save for a few places, the room might as well have been a near replica of every other one in the facility.
For someone with access to the entire multiverse, and all the culture and art it offered, Doctor Mother had a decidedly bland taste in interior design. Alexandria hated it. It was clinical. Too... cold for her liking. But perhaps that was the point. She'd read enough colour theory and psychological studies to know how decor could subtly influence people.
Still, it reminded her too much of a hospital room. A place she spent far too much time in. And she didn't need another reminder of the past.
“Exciting. That's one word for it,” Alexandria replied dryly. The portal closed behind her. “An unfortunate incident. But it's been dealt with.”
Behind her white marble desk, Doctor Mother gave a quiet nod before turning back to her sleek, metallic monitor. Clad in clothes and a lab coat that matched the room's monochromatic palette, her dark skin stood in stark contrast. Not a wrinkle or stain marred her pristine garments. “He's not the first to lash out. I doubt he'll be the last,” the Doctor said. Alexandria guessed it was the woman's attempt at comforting her.
She hummed noncommittally in response, not really caring to continue the conversation.
“David was here?” Alexandria asked instead, changing the subject. The click-clack of her heels against the tiled floor echoed as she crossed the room to sit in one of the room's three chairs. Two were set for visitors, positioned in front of the large desk, while the third was behind it—Doctor Mother's chair. The white leather chairs were comfortable. Exceptionally so. Yet she could never quite relax when she was here.
“Yes. He came by earlier for one of his booster shots,” Doctor Mother replied, the slight French accent she carried giving the words a hint of a melodic lilt.
Alexandria grimaced inwardly. It was an unpleasant reminder that an Endbringer attack was due if the pattern held. David always got jumpy before the attacks. More... aggressive. The obsession to be in ‘top-form’ had gotten worse with each year his power grew weaker.
“Asked about that new Parahuman in Brockton Bay too. He looked about ready to leave and go find her himself,” the Doctor added, fingers swiping along the touchscreen monitor. A quick glance revealed a packed spreadsheet with tables upon tables of numbers, graphs, and charts. Information on their power serums, Alexandria recognised.
“Oh?”
“Mhmm. I told him we had it under control.” Doctor Mother paused, pulling open a drawer to retrieve a sleek, metallic tablet no larger than a book. She slid it across the table. “Here. This contains the files Contessa wanted you to have.”
Alexandria picked up the device, turning it over in her hands. It contained all the information Contessa considered important for her to know but not important enough for the woman to handle personally. She'd go through the files later.
“And do we?” Alexandria asked, lifting her gaze. “Have it under control, I mean.”
“You have doubts.” Not a question. Doctor Mother's tone was matter-of-fact. She looked away from her monitor, giving Alexandria her full attention.
A beat passed.
It was hard not to have doubts, considering what little they knew about this girl—Seraph. Or Silver, as she'd come to be called. An unknown entity. A complete mystery. No history, no records, no nothing.
A second Eidolon—that's what they had initially agreed on with Contessa's help. The Doctor even theorised that the girl had David's equivalent of an Agent, one that came from Scion. Alexandria likened the girl more to a second Faerie Queen. The comparison was more apt, especially since the girl appeared to grow stronger by killing people.
But with the chaos the girl caused—was still causing, really—she found herself wondering how much control they actually had.
“There's something off about her.”
“Hm? What is it?”
Alexandria's lips tightened. What could she say? She didn't have anything concrete. No solid proof, only an inkling of an idea that, try as she might, she couldn't bring to life. It was more of an impression. A feeling. A hunch. Something that niggled in the back of her mind, refusing to fully form. She shook her head.
“I don't know. Nothing specific. I'm just... uncertain. About her. About her power. It feels...” she trailed off, struggling to put her unease into words. She tried again. “I feel like there's more to her than what we're seeing. Like we're not understanding the whole picture.”
She leaned back, sinking deeper into the plush seat. “I know we're optimistic about her potential as a ‘Silver Bullet’...” And they were. Finding a potent asset that could be useful in the end-of-the-world scenario was a massive weight off their shoulders. Especially with David's deteriorating condition. “...but I can't help but wonder if we're not being naive.”
“I thought you agreed with the plan?” Doctor Mother gave a contemplative hum, her black eyes boring into her. They reminded her of dark pits. Deep. Bottomless. “Or is this about what happened today?”
Alexandria ignored the last question, her fingers curling around the tablet. “I did. Still do.” The hard, ugly road was not something she shied away from—a fact she proved over the years. And letting the girl go largely unchecked to let her grow through murder and mayhem was, unfortunately, a small price to pay for a greater gain. “It's just...”
Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythmic sound of Doctor Mother's nails clacking against the hard desk filled the room. “You don't trust her. You're saying she might be a threat.”
She didn't. How could she? From what scant information they could glean, despite the potential the girl offered, Seraph was broken in a way Alexandria had rarely seen. And that was coming from someone who had a front row seat to the worst humanity had to offer.
Add on the fact that Contessa—Cauldron's final solution to most problems, with a power that made Alexandria sometimes question free will, no less—couldn't reliably predict or understand the girl, and it was impossible not to have doubts.
“Yes… No... I don't know.” She sighed.
Truthfully, the girl wasn't a problem. Not yet, at least. She couldn't be, not if they were handling her correctly. But what would happen if Seraph got out of their grasp? What would she do if she decided they were a threat to her?
“But wouldn't it be safer to use a... direct approach with the girl? Bring her in, instead of using the roundabout method we have now?” Alexandria asked, her voice quiet. “That way, we can keep an eye on her properly. Contain her if we need to. Control her.”
Doctor Mother was silent.
“Doesn't it bother you that Contessa has been making mistakes when it comes to the girl? Even Brockton Bay has started to get... murky to Path,” she added, choosing her words carefully. “How long until she starts affecting other things?”
“Would you rather I was bothered by it?” the Doctor countered. “You're forgetting the girl isn't a Blindspot. Just hard to Path.”
Alexandria shifted in her seat.
“I admit the recruitment failure was... an unpleasant surprise,” Doctor Mother continued, her words slow, almost careful. “Contessa hasn't made a mistake in a long time. Not like that. But we all agreed it was honestly a longshot. With enough time, Contessa should be able to create an accurate model to navigate around the girl's power. Then it won't matter.”
The woman leaned forward, steepling her fingers together. “Besides, we have other Thinkers who have no problems looking into the girl. It's only really pre-cogs that have issues—we still have plenty of ways to mitigate any problems the girl might cause.”
A thoughtful hum escaped Doctor Mother's lips, the noise a soft whisper in the quiet office. “You may be right about changing our approach with the girl though. It might be wise to guide her growth a little more closely. I'll bring it up with Contessa and see what we can do.”
“I'm surprised you're being so... receptive.”
Doctor Mother quirked a brow and leaned back. “It's not a bad idea. We can't afford any more mistakes. Plus, I'm confident the girl will be receptive to our offers.”
“Oh?” Alexandria perked up. “It's confirmed then? That the girl will do whatever someone asks?”
She never understood why the girl was sometimes so… accommodating. The leading theory was that Seraph's Trigger had shattered her psyche, much like what happened with The Faerie Queen. A Second Trigger wasn’t out of the question either. Perhaps the girl's power was slowly consuming her personality and warping her perception of reality, which could explain her... behaviour.
The Doctor smiled—a tight, mirthless thing. “To an extent. We have Coil's pet Thinker to thank for confirming it.”
Her interest piqued. Alexandria's mind raced as she tried to figure out the implications. Coil's pet Thinker... she meant...
“Tattletale?”
“Mhm. Unfortunately, it also seems Coil will be removed from the board soon. Tattletale has found the right... leverage to break from his influence,” the Doctor said, her tone casual. As if the death of the man who was their unknowing test subject didn't matter. Alexandria knew it didn't—Contessa had briefed them of the possibility only days before—but the indifference still rubbed her the wrong way.
Would she be thrown away just as easily?
The woman then shook her head, almost dismissing the matter altogether. “We'll keep the Terminus Project running even after his death, but it's a shame. He was a promising candidate.”
“We're not going to keep him alive? His power is—”
“No.” Doctor Mother interrupted. “We hadn't interfered once, and we're not about to start now. His death will be an unfortunate consequence of a natural process. One we agreed to allow.”
“He could still be useful.”
The woman shrugged, uncaring. Indifferent. “Perhaps. But a result is a result, no matter the method. And the results have spoken. Or it will, given time. We can find another candidate easily enough.”
Alexandria didn't answer. They lapsed into silence.
Doctor Mother turned back to her screen. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? If not, I have a meeting with a client soon.”
She paused, staring at the Doctor, who was already engrossed in her work. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—how much time did she have before she, too, became just another result?