They were a bit of a motley crew.

Their ages ranged anywhere from preteen to late forties. Their membership consisted of a few boys, slightly more girls, and one boy pretending to be a girl. While the majority of them were white, two of them didn’t actually have skin and the boy pretending to be a girl was also pretending to be both black AND white. So you couldn’t really say they weren’t inclusive.

With no place to truly call home, they wandered the country on a whim as they searched for others like them. Don’t think it was an easy life though. Everywhere they went they were shunned and hated. No one ever welcomed them when they visited, and the governments of the land tried to kill them whenever they showed their faces.

It was understandable really. Unfortunately, their reputation wasn’t the greatest. Their show was a bit controversial, and most people who attended one agreed they weren’t interested in a repeat performance. Online they were review bombed over and over everywhere they visited. Nobody ever wanted to be their friend. True, sometimes they would force the issue, but they often left town without much compensation. Bridges burned and betrayed by their audience.

Nevertheless, this eclectic group of artists didn’t let that discourage them. In fact, it was just the opposite. When one knows everyone else hates you, it makes life a lot simpler. They didn’t have to worry about being polite, or paying their taxes, or even going to school. It was them against the world. There was no reason to hold back. So they just did what they wanted, when they wanted, all the time.

Sometimes members had to be let go. Either from coworker disagreements, or rival organizations, or workplace accidents, or any of the other various hazards a career in such a competitive industry inevitably developed. Safety was not guaranteed. It was a steep tradeoff for such a flexible work schedule and lack of oversight. On a scale of one to ten, with one being a hairstylist and ten being a kamikaze pilot, the risks of the job rated about a nine.

But even so, the group carried on. Their team members had each other’s backs most of the time and let nothing get in their way. They were a united front. In spite of their wildly different skill sets, appearances, ambitions, and personalities, they stood together. Comrades in arms against the world, come what may.

Some of them even liked each other, but that wasn't required. Their leader had a knack for bringing people together whether they liked it or not.

Ever since their foundation, after a brief rocky start with a disagreement in leadership styles, their fame only grew. Their name carried a weight only a few others did. They were still hated, of course, but with that hatred came a healthy helping of fear. People refused to talk about them in polite company, as if speaking would summon them to their doorstep. It was somewhat of a privilege, actually. While Babe Ruth and Elvis Presley were inducted into the halls of fame along with the few talented people who manage to make that cut, this troupe of eclectic individuals were invited to join an even more exclusive—and quite frankly more relevant—group.

The S-Class threats.

The Simurgh, angel of death and master of Rube-Goldberg machine precognition plots. Leviathan, terror of the seas and sinker of Newfoundland. Behemoth, titan of the earth and slaughterer of thousands of heroes. Sleeper, conjuror of storms and impossible to get close to. The Three Blasphemies, living tinkertech collaboration and destroyer of Europe’s governments. The Machine Army, brilliant in adaptation ever since a tinker decided a self-replicating robot army was a good idea. Nilbog, powerful biokinetic and delusional king of a small town filled with goblins and fairies.

These were the likes in which this motley crew fit right in. Amidst the impossible to kill monsters and murderers of hundreds of thousands, they made their place. Little was known about them, not because they were good at hiding their abilities, but because most of the witnesses were dead before they could start running.

They called themselves the Slaughterhouse Nine, and were the most dangerous and unhinged group of serial killers the world had ever seen.

There were two problems with that though. First, there were only eight of them, and second, all of their minds were currently being invaded by the personality of a random middle aged guy from Madison Wisconsin.

—

Crawler fell over with a crunch as the 1999 Toyota Corolla Silver crumpled beneath his weight. The airbags deployed only to get crushed and pop with loud bangs under his spines.

Bonesaw’s eyes rolled up into her head and her limbs went slack. The Siberian, currently giving her a piggyback ride, flickered and disappeared. Gravity asserted control and Bonesaw’s head hit the corner of the bedroom dresser before she collapsed onto the floor.

Jack Slash’s hands relaxed and let the newspaper fold up in his lap. His eyes closed and fell back onto the headrest of the recliner he was sitting on.

Cherish’s back dropped onto her stolen body pillow with a floof. Her earbuds continued playing before her phone fell off the bed and tore out the audio jack, releasing her song to play at an obnoxiously loud volume in the background on loop.

Burnscar and Mannequin didn’t move at all. The former was already fast asleep next to the empty fireplace, and the latter had locked his joints and was resting against the wall next to her.

Finally, Shatterbird, who was in the middle of trying to do a handstand, tumbled forward and got her leg stuck by smashing a hole in the flimsy divider wall with her foot.

The elderly couple whose home had been invaded stared in shock at the completely unexpected turn of events. One minute they were being forced to watch a disturbing parody of family life. The next their captors toppled down around them like their strings were cut. Honestly, their reaction was understandable. Others might have tried to escape immediately, but that’s hard to do without any limbs or vocal cords.

There was silence for almost a half an hour before the first people began to stir awake. All of them were no longer the same though. Well, technically they were, depending on how you thought about it.

And just like that. The Slaughterhouse Nine had been defeated.

—

Contessa

The fog was gone.

Contessa’s typing cut short. The screen, which she had not bothered paying attention to, displayed a spoofed message to a minor villain in Chile. The email was part of a twenty-six step path intended to interrupt a scandal prompted by a recent trigger event.

Simon Adams Byrial had triggered with the ability to generate large clouds of highly acidic gas, and was going to drench the headquarters of a local villain group to avenge his deceased sister, who had been caught up in one of their robberies and used as a demonstration to show they weren’t bluffing. By impersonating an old friend of the leader of that team, Contessa would warn them of the impending attack and give them time to escape unharmed.

While Contessa would normally not interfere, the third member of their group had a minor teleportation ability that teleported anyone he touched to himself or himself to anyone he touched. A powerful, if somewhat limited, power that could be of some use in the fight against Scion.

Which might not matter anymore, because the fog was gone.

She began frantically running paths to determine what had changed, and it turned out that wasn’t quite accurate. Path to killing Scion was still blocked. Path to convincing Scion to leave without endangering the earth was also blocked.

But the end? The fog in the future that hinted at billions of people dying to someone who was out of the Path’s reach? That ticking clock Contessa had been preparing for all her life?

It was gone, and Contessa didn’t dare move.

Cauldron had theorized about this, of course. There were several things the Path simply couldn’t register. Scion wasn’t the only blindspot. Contessa herself technically counted in that she couldn’t Path to determine what she was going to Path. Eidolon and the Endbringers also qualified.

So did trigger events.

The conclusion was obvious. Someone–or something, Contessa supposed–just triggered with a power that guaranteed Scion’s death without destroying the earth in the process.

It was completely absurd. Everything Cauldron had fought for, an increasingly hopeless battle against an unbeatable opponent fought over the course of decades, was overturned in an instant. Contessa couldn’t help but laugh, an incredulous, light huff of air that did nothing to convey the sheer magnitude of what just happened.

Humanity had just been saved.

The procedure, in what was considered at the time to be an unrealistically optimistic scenario, was simple. Do absolutely nothing. If any Path, no matter what it was, had the slightest chance of changing the future, then Cauldron couldn’t take that risk. Contessa didn’t know if anything she did would be considered interference.

But she did know if she did nothing, Scion would die.

Then she realized she really needed to go to the bathroom.

—

Cherish

The music woke her up first.

♪ Until you figure out. Just where you’re at. ♪

Six musicians played the exact same song around her. A seventh echoed it in the distance. Slow beats of lethargy. Discordant tunes of confusion.

♪ Cause you’re emotion in motion. ♪

“What?” She sat up with a groan and rubbed her eyes. “Why is it so loud?”

Then she froze. Her voice was wrong. Alarm shot through her as she looked at her hands.

Her small hands with bright purple painted nails.

“What the heck?” She stared. ♪ My magical potion. ♪

The musicians nearby began to diverge. The one outside rapidly cleared their sleepiness with a spike of alarm and fear. Panic began to creep in and it lunged to the left. Cherish jumped as the house shuddered from the impact.

The rest of the songs soon followed. A series of people saying “What the heck?” repeated across the house. Alarm and confusion took over each of their melodies.

In exactly the same way.

Cherish thought fast.

Different body. Small hands with painted fingernails. Probably a girl. She quickly reached back and grabbed a fistful of hair. Yep. Definitely a girl. Damn it. I’ve been transmigrated or body swapped. This isn’t supposed to be a real thing. Panic later. Think now. Come on! You’ve thought about this enough times! Is this a dream? No, shut up. That’s an unproductive train of thought. Assume this isn’t a dream. If it's a dream it doesn’t matter. Holy crap. Who am I? Who are they? Priorities. Threat assessment before identity crisis. Go go go.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

On instinct she focused on the people around her. Two were next to each other unmoving. Despair, confusion, surprise, anger, dread. Not a threat. Another was outside. Panic, fear, horror, panic, disgust, panic, panic. That was who shook the house. Where am I?! How is this happening?! No! Focus on threats. Next. Four were in the living room. Jack Slash had just shot out of his chair-

“Wait what? Who the f- oh.” Cherish sat still on the bed, eyes wide. It was at that moment she realized what she had been doing, and just how dangerous of a situation she was in. ♪ Until you take it all in stride. I’d hold on to you. ♪

Ok. That’s Jack Slash. I just read everyone’s emotions. Girl body. I’m in Worm and I’m Cherish now. Panic later. Think now. Holy crap. Holy crap. Jack is the priority. He has the intuition thing right? And I’m a parahuman now. Holy crap. Holy crap. That’s great but REALLY BAD right now. Has he noticed? I’m just dead if he’s noticed. Quickly she focused on his tune. Panic, fear, confusion, confusion, surprise! Realization! He just noticed something!

She scrambled off of the bed, stuffed her phone into her pocket, and bolted to the door. No time. Have to kill him! It banged against the wall as she flung it open and raced through the hallway.

There they were. Jack was out of his chair with a knife in each hand, facing away from her. Across the room was a… white robot? Crap. That’s Mannequin. Cherish didn’t have time to see anything else and jumped, reaching for Jack Slash’s neck.

Without looking he threw himself to the ground. Cherish sailed overhead and smacked into the wall, having flown way further than she thought. One of the knives twitched from where he lay and extended, slashing across her back. “Holy crap!”

She was still stunned from the impact, but that was fine. In a fraction of a second she grabbed his emotions and pulled.

He gasped as dread slammed into his gut. “Waitwaitwaitwait! I’m not Jack Slash! Holy crap!”

Cherish’s mind paused. He’s not? But what about- no wait! That’s his Thinker power! He knows what to say! She kept up the dread and pushed calm and apathy into everyone else.

Outside in the garage Crawler’s emotions were the last one to thrum with realization moments before her power hit him. Mannequin had begun to move from his spot on the wall. Burnscar was awake and stared at the ceiling. She assumed Burnscar was used to feeling nothing, so maybe this wasn’t the best strategy.

She could feel Crawler adapting while she hurriedly got up and ran towards Jack again. He was already back on his feet despite the emotional onslaught, which was NOT GREAT. Steel flashed and two blades extended to cut a deep gash across her legs. “I’m serious! This isn’t his power talking!” She tripped and sprawled onto the gray carpet, her blood staining it red. “My real name is Robert Rugger! I just took over this body literally five minutes ago!”

That stopped her in her tracks. Metaphorically. She was already quite stopped literally.

Cherish canceled the dread and analyzed his emotions carefully. Not a hint of deception. Was that because of Bonesaw’s false nerve system counterplan thing Tattletale snitched on in the Slaughterhouse Nine arc? She closed her eyes and thought back. Her memories—and wasn’t that weird, she was already thinking of herself as a girl—told her she had just finished the Nine’s tests two days ago. So it was possible. Bonesaw made Hack Job in four hours right?

This whole situation made absolutely no sense. Not just because of the whole Worm is real thing either. Jack Slash couldn’t be Robert Rugger because she was Robert Rugger!

Jack was still talking. “Yes, I know I know! The false nerve counterplan thing Tattletale snitched on in the Slaughterhouse Nine arc. If Bonesaw had put that in me your artificial dread wouldn’t have made me want to puke my guts out.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not Jack Slash, and I have a hunch you aren’t Cherish either. So stop trying to kill me! I’m not going to set off Scion!”

“You can’t be Robert Rugger.” A young girl’s voice said. Both Jack and Cherish flinched and looked around for the source. With bright blonde curls and wearing a bloodstained dress and apron, Bonesaw glared from the living room doorway. Her backpack unfolded into two of the most disturbing parodies of spiders Cherish had ever seen. “I’m Robert Rugger!”

Clearly one or more of them was lying, and so began the Slaughterhouse Nine Robert Rugger Mexican Standoff. Cherish got ready to-

“Don’t be stupid.” A woman called out from across the house. “Clearly some ROB thought it would be funny to put the same guy into the bodies of the Slaughterhouse Nine. We’re all Robert Rugger. I know I’m good at the whole ‘don’t panic, move move move mindset’, but this is absurd. I can’t believe I’m such an idiot.”

Jack blinked and relaxed. “Ok. That makes a lot of sense.”

There was a loud clinking sound, and everyone turned to see Mannequin tapping the wall. He gestured toward himself and then to the rest of them, nodding his head. Then he pointed at Bonesaw and then Cherish, making a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

Bonesaw finally noticed Cherish bleeding out slowly on the floor. “Holy crap! Hold on! I’ll fix it. You guys keep talking.” She rushed over and brought out a syringe. “Hold still please!”

Cherish groaned and rested her head on the floor, not bothering to get up. ♪ That’s just about anything. ♪ “Can someone turn the music off? Somehow my phone survived this mess and I think the song is on loo- OW!”

Bonesaw frowned and pushed the syringe’s plunger down into Cherish’s thigh without bothering with anesthetic. One of her spiders handed her some flesh colored string and reached over to power down the phone. “I said hold still.”

Burnscar turned her head and just looked at them, not saying a word.

Shatterbird called out again from the bedroom. “So there are two old people torsos in here and my leg is stuck in the wall. Can one of you guys help me out?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Jack said sheepishly and put his knives away. Another crash sounded from the garage. “Um, Burnscar? You’re one of us right?”

Burnscar slowly nodded, absolutely expressionless.

Jack pointed at the door. “I’m just going to assume all of us are then. Can you get Crawler? He’s probably freaking out right now.”

“Why bother?” Burnscar turned back to staring at the ceiling. “We’re all dead anyways. The heroes want to kill us. The villains want to kill us. The Endbringers want to kill us. Scion’s going to want to kill us eventually. No point.”

“There’s no need to be so depressing.” Bonesaw chimed in over Cherish’s screams as her leg began to be sewn up by robot spiders.

Burnscar shrugged. “Then send someone else. I don’t give a crap about anything right now. It’s probably this body’s fault, but I just don’t care.”

Jack sighed in exasperation. “Bonesaw is busy with Cherish. I’m going to go help who I assume is Shatterbird-me. The Siberian is in a van a few miles out and Mannequin can’t talk. Go help Crawler.”

Burnscar rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

—

Burnscar

I should probably be feeling something right now.

Burnscar trudged her way to the door leading out to the garage and glumly fiddled with the doorknob. Twist. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. Simple. Back. And forth. Twist. Untwist.

Doorknobs had it easy.

Twist. Untwist.

Nobody told them what to do.

Twist. Untwist.

They didn’t have to worry about expectations.

Twist. Untwist.

Or saving the world.

Twist. Untwist.

They had a pretty good life.

The house shook as the living room wall exploded. The sound of Jack yelling something about also being Robert and how it would be nice if people stopped trying to murder him probably should have been disturbing. She figured he would be fine. Manton could definitely hear out of his projection in canon, so things would get sorted out. Twist. Untwist

Burnscar wished she was a doorknob. It was probably better than being Burnscar.

Twist. Untw-

SCREEEEEETCH!

Oh. Right.

The sound of metal being torn apart reminded her of what she was supposed to be doing. Begrudgingly, she opened the door. Peeking her head out, Burnscar saw the weirdest animal she had ever seen. Not that she really cared.

A massive van-sized monstrosity was weeping in the middle of the garage. He looked like a- well, a lot of things. Black armor completely covered his form, with scales protecting what needed to be flexible. Dinosaur spines rippled across his back and six oversized legs. Glowing red eyes and tentacles erupted from any space that wasn’t already occupied. Acid dripped from an enormous maw of mismatched teeth. Together it was incredibly intimidating, like you knew that if that decided to eat you, you were lunch. And there was nothing you could do about it.

He was also crying in the corner.

“My body! What happened to my body!?”

Burnscar rolled her eyes. “Hey. Dude.”

“I look like a monster! How am I going to go outside like this?! My life is over! I am so-”

“Hey! Crawler! Stop moping and listen when people are talking to you.”

Crawler flinched in fright and whipped its head towards her. A few globs of acid flew out of his mouth and drenched what was left of the car. The pile of airbag material and scrap metal began to disintegrate with disgusting bubbly sounds that would have made Burnscar want to hurl if she could feel anything at the moment. “Crawler?! Who is- Oh no! Crawler! Am I-”

Burnscar interrupted with a loud explosion of fire around her fingers. “Yeah. We know dude. We’re in Worm. All of us have the personality of Robert Rugger. We’re all going to die. Get over it. Jack Slash Robert is probably going to call a meeting. That’s what I would do. So stop being such a crybaby and suck it up.”

She dismissed the feeling of being a blatant hypocrite and closed the door on him before he could answer.