Today’s mission begins like all good jokes do, with three people walking into a bar. Unfortunately, neither Vindicator, Adamant nor I are members of the clergy, so the similarities just about end there. And as clever as that line is, I should probably avoid saying it out loud, because to the locals, this emphatically isn’t a bar. It’s a pub, which the sign outside identifies as The Rosy Cheeks. The precise distinction is largely lost on me, but I suspect it matters more than a little to the people we’re here to meet.
Haley, Clay and I are the Front Line- vigilantes who don’t operate under the aegis of any government, and fight the fights ordinary heroes can’t or won’t. What the Front Line is to the Americas, the Blackguard is to Europe. Not that we don’t both operate internationally, but their primary headquarters is here, and our primary headquarters is there. It’s a big world, after all. No need to fight over who gets to protect what. And indeed, instead of fighting, we do our best to cooperate. Which is why we’re in London, meeting with our European counterparts.
As the three of us walk in, one of their number spots us immediately, and waves us over to her table. Her, I recognize instantly. Miranda Belmont, better known as Ashmaker. Pyrokinetic, founder and leader of the Blackguard, and the woman who scares me most in the world, after Adamant. You wouldn’t know that just by looking at her, though. By all appearances, Miranda is an ordinary Englishwoman, her blonde hair done up in a ponytail and a stylish white leather jacket draped over her shoulders. My mental image of her always includes a cigarette between two fingers, but there’s a number of prominently-displayed ‘no smoking’ signs around the bar, which I suspect were placed there specifically for her sake.
Sitting next to Miranda are two men I don’t recognize. A fit, young Pakistani guy, and a slightly overweight man with a Greek accent. The Blackguard has a few more members than the Front Line, so I can’t identify them immediately, but there’s no doubt that they’re metahumans. We aren’t here on a social call. The purpose of this meeting is planning. It’s their mission- we’re backup.
“Kellan!” Miranda calls to me in her East London accent as we approach, a familiar smile on her face. “How’s life under the Fourth Reich?”
Her glib enthusiasm is infectious, and I return the smile as I take a seat next to her. We haven’t spoken in person for a while, but she’s just as easy to get along with as she was when we first met, almost ten years ago now.
“Same old, same old. Are you planning on introducing us to your friends?”
“Of course,” she replies. “These two are Yasir and Angelos.”
The former gives a two-finger salute, while the latter chuckles heartily.
“Just call me Angel, everybody else does.”
Vindicator nods politely to each in turn, and extends his hand across the table to shake.
“I’m Clay.”
“I’m aware,” Yasmir replies dryly. The Greek lets loose a sound I can only describe as a cackle, slaps his friend on the back, and reaches out to enthusiastically shake back.
“Don’t be fooled,” Angel warns us mirthfully. “He’s a huge fan. Has all your posters on his wall and everything.”
Flushing, Yasmir waits until they’re done and shakes Clay’s hand as well, then lightly smacks Angel on the forehead.
“I’m not the one whose search history is full of things like ‘Adamant nudes leaked.’”
At that, I can’t help but laugh, while Haley smirks and Clay tries to suppress a frown. He’s aware that this is just friendly banter, but ultimately the man’s too straitlaced for this kind of thing. At least, he will be until we get a few drinks in him. Luckily, Miranda seems to have the same thing in mind.
“All right, how about you boys go fetch us another round? Me and the Americunts have some catching up to do.”
Chastened somewhat, but both still laughing under their breath, the Blackguards rise from their seats to requisition more drinks. Miranda rolls her eyes fondly as they go.
“Apologies for the lads. Hopefully they’ll learn a thing or two from watching you lot work. Now, tell me, how’re things going? And you-” She points directly at me, a gesture usually followed by immolation when made by her. “What took you so bloody long to put your big, bad dad’s shoes on?”
Standard protocol is to be oblique about cape-stuff in a public place like this, but the meaning behind her words is obvious. Clay bristles, offended on my behalf, but I make a placating gesture in his direction.
“Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to walk through the door while I was having all his clothes refitted.”
In other words, I wanted to be sure Jason wasn’t coming back any time soon, before I took up his mantle. Miranda isn’t wrong, though. I waited four long months before finally putting the suit on. Thankfully, she seems to accept that response. She doesn’t insult my intelligence by asking what the status of the search for him is, though. Obviously, if I had any leads, I’d be pursuing them, not sitting here and speaking with her.
“Fair enough. How about the rest of you? Is the latest chief cocksucker at the DMA giving you any extra trouble?”
“Atkins? No, not particularly,” Clay answers, doing his best to act unperturbed by Miranda’s casual deployment of profanity. “What about the Triple-S?”
He’s referring to the Special Superhuman Service, or SSS, Britain’s equivalent of the Department of Metahuman Affairs. Originally, both were divisions of pre-existing national security organizations, but once it became obvious that existing institutions were unequipped to deal with the rising metahuman population, and the threats it represented, they were spun off into their own entities, with commensurately bloated budgets.
“The usual. I caught one of their people tailing me last week and set his pants on fire.”
As she’s finishing her sentence, Yasmir and Angel return. Each is carrying a small tray with three pints balanced atop. The portly Greek attempts something resembling a bow as he sets his down, doing his best to meet Haley’s eyes.
“Your libations, m’lady.”
Adamant meets his gaze and smirks. Even at this angle, I know exactly what expression she’s employing. It has the intended effect of prompting him to look away and take his seat, with Yasmir snickering quietly next to him.
“Right,” Miranda says, picking up her glass and taking a sip before the foam head can fully dissipate. “What say we get down to brass tacks? I’m sure whatever Triple-S twat they’ve got watching this place is creaming his jeans at having all of us in one place, and every second we waste brings us closer to them deciding the risk’s worth it and sending in everyone they have.”
“There’s a cheery thought,” Yasmir mutters, earning him a light smack on the arm. Tapping a finger against the side of her glass, Haley leans forward, the mirth draining from her expression.
“I agree. What’s the job?”
Apparently, just thinking about it is enough to put a twinkle in Miranda’s eye and a smile on her face.
“One word. Valorous. Ring any bells?”
“Vaguely,” Clay says, using his power to wipe a thin film of foam off his upper lip. “Refresh my memory?”
“Up until about a year ago, he was Nicky O’Connor’s golden boy. Up-and-comer in the ranks of the Royals. Supposedly the next in line to be Prince- that’s the highest you can get, below King Geas himself. Unfortunately, Duke was as high as he ever got.”
Even putting aside her powers, there’s always a fire in Miranda’s eyes when she talks about the Royals. Something about them offends her personally. They’re no different from most American super-teams, in that they mainly exist to protect the interests of the ruling class, but the fact that they go around using titles like that makes Miranda want to see them all burn, and I can’t blame her. Or pretend I don’t share the sentiment.
“What happened?”
“Got knocked on his arse in a fight. Indian kid ran up and tried to help him. Called the kid something not fit to be repeated in polite company, and smacked him away hard enough to permanently rearrange his face.”
“Was he prosecuted?”
“Lord no. And the lad’s parents don’t have the kind of money it would take to go to court with him. Royals paid his medical bills, and not a dime more. Course, Valorous had to be let go, and nobody heard from him for a while. Til he and a couple of other cunts popped up calling themselves the Mighty.”
Miranda’s tone becomes distinctly harder, and she takes a long drink before continuing.
“Now, obviously our man wasn’t the most politically correct character out there. But since his name became a dirty word among the late-night show types who used to adore him, he’s taken a hard right turn. And his team aren’t the usual brand of super-fascists. They’re rather explicit about it, actually. Won’t shut up about protecting our ‘way of life,’ keeping the borders secure, blah blah. They aren’t worried about fighting supervillains so much as stopping ‘terrorism,’ which in practice means roughing up anyone who’s a shade too brown for their liking. And of course half the cunts in government are tripping over themselves to give the lot of ‘em medals.”
While Miranda speaks, I study the expressions of the others at the table. Clay’s making no effort to hide his simmering anger, while Haley remains coldly implacable. Angelos looks distinctly uncomfortable at such a heavy topic being discussed, and Yasmir is drinking stoically.
“None of that is great, but it gets worse. One of their great pastimes is flying out to try and scare away migrant ships. Last month, one of those ships went down in the middle of a storm. Official story is that the weather did them in, but what they won’t say is that they found the ship’s engine looking like this.”
Miranda slaps a Polaroid photo down on the table. It’s not perfectly clear, having been taken underwater, but what’s impossible to miss is a pair of holes burned in the ship’s exterior, exactly as far apart as a pair of eyes are. Once she’s satisfied that we’re sufficiently outraged, Miranda puts the photo back in her pocket and takes another drink.
“So. I was thinking we’d pay a visit to their little clubhouse, and make an example out of them. In or out?”
I take a moment to gauge the moods of my teammates- fury and disgust. Then I nod.
“We’re in. What’s the opposition look like?”
Having gotten the answer she wanted, Miranda leans back and gestures to Yasmir to speak. He pulls his phone out and spends a moment pulling something up, before turning it around to show us.
“This is Valorous.”
The former Royal is a man about a year or two younger than me, with shoulder-length brown hair I’d bet money he thinks looks ‘kingly,’ and a cold sneer on his face in what’s clearly a press photo. His uniform consists of a cobalt-blue suit of knight’s armor, with a modern sense of design. There are glowing white lines running down the arms and across the body, converging in a stylized V logo on his chest. He wears no mask.
“His powers manifested while he was undergoing severe physical trauma, which often results in uncommonly powerful abilities, but also ones that are difficult to control. He went two for two. ‘Heartless’ isn’t just an expression with him. His actual heart is a bundle of pure energy. The suit helps him channel it safely. It’s also damned near indestructible. Enhances his strength, lets him fire lasers, fly, the whole package.”
“Let me guess,” Haley says. “That includes eye beams too.”
“He can do those without the suit, actually. But yeah, he’s our prime suspect for what happened to the ship.”
There’s very little in the world I want more than to watch Miranda go to town on this guy right now. The analytical part of my brain that never turns off wonders why he was allowed to keep the suit after he was kicked out of the Royals, but the answer is probably that his powers are too unsafe to use without it. I also can’t help but notice what look like similarities between his suit and an older model of Machina’s armor, but that doesn’t make any sense. The Peacekeepers and Royals have a public feud, mainly perpetuated by their leaders. O’Connor wouldn’t go to Robards and ask for help with a troublesome team member’s powers.
“Next up is Gladius,” Yasmir says, swiping to an image of an older-looking man in a gladiator’s outfit. His exposed chest reveals a body that was once in peak condition, but has since been allowed to deteriorate. Either he’s legitimately washed-up, or his power means he doesn’t actually have to stay in shape, and he just stopped caring at some point. The plumed helmet he wears hides most of his face, and there’s a serious-looking sword in his hand.
“He’s from Italy. Obviously. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised they still have a few fascists running around over there. Anyway, his power’s to absorb the physical attributes of anything in his vicinity. It transfers to his weapon, too. So, ah, Ms. Adamant—”
“Just Haley is fine.”
“Right. Haley, it might be best for you to stay off the field until he’s dealt with.”
She nods, taking the point, and I see Yasmir breathe a sigh of relief.
“Is his name referencing what I think it’s referencing?”
Yasmir looks to me and raises an eyebrow, confused, but before I can clarify, Miranda goes ‘mhm’ and takes another drink.
“Right, one of you is gonna have to explain that to me later. Moving on, we have… Rubberman. Whole body’s made of some hyper-elastic material that basically can’t be damaged in any meaningful way. Bullets literally bounce off of him, usually right back at whoever fired them. Either it was a permanent transformation, or he likes being that way so much that he never goes back. So we can’t just take him while he’s sleeping.”
Good thinking on his part, mentioning that. The most effective way to deal with a metahuman like Adamant, who’s effectively invulnerable only in a certain form, is to kill them quietly while they sleep. Which is precisely why we all do our best to make sure that, even if the government knows our real names and faces, they don’t know where we lay our heads at night.
Rubberman is a bald- probably totally hairless -man, with skin the color of a rubber band, blandly beige. Strange that he qualified for membership in a more-or-less explicitly racist group, but I suppose he counts as white enough for them. Plus, there aren’t that many racist metahumans who aren’t just out-and-out supervillains, even in a blighted hellhole like England, so the Mighty probably weren’t in a position to turn down his application. His uniform is the standard superhero fare, albeit with short sleeves and shorts, plus a stylized rubber band twisted into the infinity sign on his chest.
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“This one’s called Supermarine, after those planes all the old farts obsessed with the war love. Shitfires, or whatever. He used to be in the S-Corps. Details of what got him discharged are classified, but it has to have been something bad. They don’t let go of people easily.”
Yasmir’s referring to the Superhuman Corps, Britain’s superhuman military division. I mentally mark this guy down as being the one to watch out for. A metahuman with military training is miles more dangerous than one without. Supermarine has the outfit down, a flight suit with a leather jacket over it, and a pilot’s helmet with a mirrored visor and a seemingly-functional oxygen tank attached to the mask.
“He manifests some kind of spectral fighter jet to fly around in. Bloody dangerous, because it’s virtually invisible, but far from intangible. Including the bullets. Also, Mister Vindi- I mean, Clay, you might want to watch out for those specifically, because I’m not sure if your telekinetic field would be able to automatically halt them like it would with ordinary gunfire.”
Clay nods seriously.
“You may be right. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Uh, no problem. Lastly, we’ve got Chosen. She’s the Jesus freak of the group, if the outfit didn’t tip you off.”
The outfit he’s referencing looks like a white hooded robe, with a prominently displayed set of rosary beads around her neck.
“Her power lets her turn into wind. Obviously useful for avoiding attacks, but she’s dangerous on her own too. I’m talking gale force ten here. Not to worry, though. I’ve been cooking up something special for dealing with her.”
“Well, they seem charming,” Haley says sardonically. “I’m assuming you have a game plan prepared?”
“You’re damn right I do,” Miranda replies. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down…”
----------------------------------------
The Mighty may be a relatively popular among certain groups in Europe, but among polite, liberal society, their reputation is still in the toilet. That means they don’t have the lucrative endorsement deals that most non-government hero teams rely upon for funding. So instead of a proper headquarters, they operate out of Valorous’ home. Fortunately for them, it’s a pretty nice house, paid for with his earnings as a member of the Royals. And fortunately for us, it’s nice and isolated, meaning we don’t have to worry too much about collateral damage.
Being the biggest name in superheroics across all of Europe, even just for a few years, pays quite well. Valorous doesn’t just have a well-appointed townhouse, he’s got an entire manor, the kind that an actual noble would have spent his summers in. It reminds me of Winters House, where my rival-turned-ally Conrad lives, except the Winters family had much better aesthetic sensibilities than Valorous does. The very first thing I see when I break in is a picture of him standing next to one of the members of the actual royal family- a duke, I think. Maybe some insipid talk show host thought it would be funny to get the two of them on at the same time. The rest of the hallway is lined with similar photos showing him with actors, politicians, musicians, and various other celebrities. I can’t help but notice that the only pictures he saw fit to frame were the ones where he happened to be standing next to someone white. Considering the man who hired him was a telepath, I have to wonder- did Geas not know? Or simply not care?
Disarming the home security was pitifully easy. I’ve seen more expensive systems in the homes of people with much less money. But I guess one imagines they don’t need an advanced security system when they have superpowers. It’s at times like this I’m glad Jason’s suit has a built-in sound-suppression system, or I’d be very audible to the Mighty, who are having a meeting one floor below. Apparently they’ve got an actual round table in his dining room, as a part of their whole fixation on British heritage. And right now, even if he doesn’t know it yet, Valorous is sitting in the Siege Perilous.
As I continue down the hall, my suit’s blackout field disables the lights, giving me a cloak of shadows. With the sun already far below the horizon, the house is swiftly becoming enshrouded in darkness. On my way down the stairs, I retrieve two grenades from my coat and pull the pin on each, holding the levers tight until the time comes to use them. The electric bulbs in the gaudy multicolored chandelier hanging over the foyer fizzle out as I pass underneath, the door to the dining room swiftly approaching. Once I’m close enough, the lights inside go out, and I hear the low murmur of conversation between the Mighty hush. Then it starts up again, louder than before, with an undercurrent of panic. They may be metahumans, but they’re still ultimately ordinary people where it counts- on the inside. They feel safe here, and nobody reacts well when you attack them in their place of power.
With a single strike, I kick down the dining room door, sending it flying across the room to snap against the edge of the table. Immediately after it come the grenades, tear gas already streaming out. It expands to fill the room rapidly, and through my mask, which protects me, I hear them coughing and howling in pain. Jason made sure I knew what being hit with a lachrymator was like before he let me bring it into the field, and it was worse than I ever imagined. It’s a useful tool, but I’m sparing with it for that very reason. Unfortunately for the Mighty, I’m more than comfortable with using it on them. Amidst the cacophony, I hear a distinctly feminine voice issue a choking command.
“—window! Somebody break a window!”
A blue beam haphazardly swings through the room, and I watch on thermals as it nearly carves off the top of somebody’s skull, before there’s a sound of shattering glass. Seconds later, there’s a rush of wind as Chosen changes forms and sweeps the tear gas out into the open air, dispersing it. Transforming and then going back to human seems to have cured her of its effects, and Rubberman doesn’t look like he was hurt as badly, but the others are still doubled over, rubbing at their eyes that won’t stop watering, or scratching feverishly at skin that won’t cease itching. But when they catch sight of me, they force down the pain and ready themselves for a battle. All five of them against me wouldn’t be much of a fight, tear gas or no, but that was just softening them up. The second I threw the grenades, the signal was sent.
Vindicator crashes through the wall at Mach five, sonic booms following in his wake. The windows, walls, and furniture shatter as he passes by, but the debris doesn’t scatter everywhere. Instead, it’s collected by his telekinetic field, and when he turns around, he fires it like a shotgun blast, riddling the Mighty with a hail of splinters and shards of glass. Rubberman is protected by his power, and Gladius has the presence of mind to transform before he’s hit, the debris breaking against his suddenly-stony skin. The others aren’t so lucky. Valorous raises his arms, using his armor to guard his unprotected face, but still gets a few minor lacerations. Chosen is hit more directly, and I see some blood begin to stain her white robe, but I have a feeling that’ll be healed when next she transforms. And Supermarine looks like he’s been struck at least hard enough to crack his helmet’s visor, though why he was wearing it indoors, I have little idea. When he sees Vindicator, though, he just cracks his knuckles, and runs for the hole Clay made in the wall. When he’s far enough away from the others, he spreads his arms like wings, and summons his Spectral Spitfire. It appears like a distortion in the air, reminiscent of a heat haze, but with a slightly more solid form- and unmistakable a plane. It maneuvers much better than one, though, and he takes off after Clay, firing invisible bullets with abandon.
If Valorous had the presence of mind, or the leadership skills, he would have kept his team together. Instead, everything is going according to our plan. Divide and conquer. The rest of them are about to get their shit fully together and come after me, when Miranda makes her appearance, flanked by Angelos and Yasmir- or rather, Typhon and the Specialist. The former is wearing a lightly armored grey bodysuit that screams ‘generic,’ while the latter has on what can only be described as a combat lab coat, over jeans and a Kevlar vest, plus a pair of goggles that vaguely resemble the eyes of a fly. He’s got a high-tech rifle in his hands, and a heavy-looking backpack full of what I was told are ‘science goodies.’ Miranda’s outfit is exactly the same, except for the cigarette she has in her hand.
“Oi, cunt!”
Whirling around, Valorous spits a single word back at her- “You.”
“Me.”
He glances between them and me again, then comes to a decision.
“Tino, sort that one out. You two, with me.”
The name he used must belong to Gladius, because that’s who stays focused on me, while the remaining three exit the house via the hole Clay made, and prepare to face down the Blackguard. I can hear a sound that must be Valorous powering up his suit’s systems, but rather than call upon her own powers, Ashmaker just smirks and smacks Angel on the back.
“Go get ‘em.”
Typhon sighs, and then shows everyone how he got that name. His body expands, skin turning the same grey color as his uniform, which seems to somehow meld with his body, rather than shredding itself like one would expect. I imagine Yasmir had something to do with making that possible. The lower half of his body splits up into a mass of writhing tentacles, and a pair of leathery black bat wings sprout from his back, accompanied by a spray of blood commensurate with new appendages of that size emerging without warning. Halfway through, Angel’s raw screams of pain turn into a roar of fury, as his goatee grows out into a full, flowing beard, and his face turns into a monstrous mirror of itself. He’s easily thirteen feet tall by the time it’s done.
Hard as it is to look away, I force myself to focus on Gladius, who’s been doing his best to keep from turning around to witness whatever is prompting the screaming. He grips his sword tighter, and advances towards me. It’s hard to tell, between the helmet and his stone skin, but he looks to be putting on a false face of confidence. Better that than show fear.
“Who are you s-suh-supposed to be?”
Any intimidation factor in that question disappears instantly when he starts stuttering. Maybe that’s why he let himself get out of shape- no amount of physical fitness will make you frightening to criminals when you talk like that. He should really have just kept his mouth shut and attacked me.
“I’m the man you’ll be seeing in your nightmares for the rest of your life, Tino.”
The voice in my head that fed me that line sounded suspiciously like Jason. In my mind’s eye, I see him nodding in approval. Gladius takes another, smaller, step forward, but I don’t back away in response.
“Shut up! My name is Gladius! And I’m f-fuh-fucking invincible!”
Underneath my mask, I’m wearing an expression of cruel amusement, and something tells me that he knows. I pull a small device out of my pocket, and press a button on the side, extending the handle to reveal that it’s a collapsible sledgehammer. A gift from the Specialist. According to him, he was told by Miranda that the fastest way to Hawkshaw’s heart is with a weapon, and she was right in more ways than one.
“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that. See, I’ve got a friend who’s invincible. You? You’re just a cheap imitation of her.”
That finally makes him snap. He rushes me with the sword, seemingly unaware that it’s still made of stone too. He took on that form reflexively, to protect himself from Vindicator’s barrage, and didn’t remember to drop it in exchange for something better-suited to combat. The weight of it also makes him slow, and I avoid the sloppy slash with trivial ease. Frankly, it gives me some hope that this has-been was one of the only people that Valorous could convince to join his team.
Efficiently employing the momentum of my evasion, I swing the hammer and strike him in the back, sending chips of stone flying in all directions. He stumbles forward and steadies himself against a wall.
“On the surface, you seem like a stronger version of her. She can turn into one thing, and you can turn into anything and everything around you. But that’s your problem. It’s only a surface-level change. Her entire body becomes metal. Machinery replaces her muscles, so she can run faster than a train despite weighing a couple hundred pounds. But your power can’t replace every single organ with bespoke machinery made from any number of different materials every time you change. So it just changes your skin.”
Indeed, the spot where I struck him was hit hard enough that there’s blood flowing from underneath, and a hint of raw flesh. He forces himself to turn around, and raises his shield to block my next blow. But instead of hefting the hammer for another swing, I draw my sidearm, Inquiry, with the practiced motion of a gunslinger, and shoot him in the knee. He howls in pain, sword clattering to the ground, but the helmet’s speakers allow my voice to cut through the sound.
“And it’s not even an especially thick layer over your skin. Oh, sure, it lets you shrug off ordinary bullets, but my gun fires tungsten penetrator rounds. The kind I used was the smallest caliber I carry, by the way. If I used anything else, your entire leg would be gone. As it stands, you’ll probably never walk properly again. But looking at you, I can tell that you’re a stubborn, stupid piece of shit, and you’d probably try to attack me again if I turned my back on you now. Plus, your name alone ensured I was never going to go too easy on you.”
Holstering the gun again, I pick up the hammer and swing it once more, cracking him across the head hard enough to shatter the layer of stone entirely. It provided enough resistance that he probably won’t have permanent brain damage- just a hell of a concussion. That should be enough to take him out of the fight entirely.
Before I can turn my attention to the main fight, and help the others, I hear a voice in my earpiece. Clay.
“Kell, if you’re still in the house, get out- now.”
The hole he made before is on the other side of the room. No way to make it there in time. Instead, I exit the kitchen and crash through the front door a second before the Supermarine crashes into the house from above. Though his plane is only barely visible, it’s still corporeal enough to trash the entire manor, caving in the roof. When the dust settles, I see the man dressed as an aviator collapsed amidst the wreckage, his helmet split in two by the force of the impact. The faint movement of his chest tells me he’s alive, and the plane probably protected him from the worst of the shrapnel before it discorporated, but there’s no telling how many bones he broke.
Vindicator descends a second later, breathing heavily. His hair is matted with sweat, which he wipes off his brow with the back of his hand. After a moment, I realize that it’s not just the exertion weighing on him.
“You were hit.”
“Just a few grazes,” he says dismissively, but the bloodstains tell a different story.
“Sure,” I reply, and toss him a tube of RegeneraGel from my utility belt. “Get up high and patch yourself up. We’ll hold out.”
Rather than lifting a finger to catch it, Clay just uses his TK field to grab it, and regards me for a moment, before shooting back up into the sky to do as instructed. He may be my senior when it comes to superheroics, but we can all be stubborn and bullheaded sometimes, especially in the heat of battle. That’s why it’s crucial for the others to set us straight.
Turning to the fight outside, I see Ashmaker and the Specialist standing back and watching the battle between Typhon and Valorous unfold. The small tank on the underside of Yasmir’s weapon is full liquid, swirling around in a vain attempt to escape, which tells me that his plan worked. The ‘Condenser Cannon’ in his hands turned Chosen from vapor into a more manageable form- water -which he then simply vacuumed up before she could adjust. That still leaves one member of the Mighty unaccounted for, though.
“Where’s Rubberman?”
Ashmaker points wordlessly, taking a drag from her cigarette. I look in the direction she indicated, and see the elastic asshole’s upper body trying to drag itself forward, as the lower half melts and drips away into a puddle. I suppose there wasn’t much for him to bounce off of out here, and apparently he can’t stretch very far without snapping back violently. That left him highly vulnerable to Miranda’s powers. Maybe he’ll be able to reconstitute himself eventually, maybe not. She doesn’t seem to care much, and I can’t say that I do either.
There’s still one fight left to win, though, and Angel doesn’t seem to be up to the task. When I first looked over, he had Valorous wrapped up in his tentacles, but the ‘hero’ since managed to wrest himself free, shearing several of them off with an energy beam in the process, and is now flying circles around Typhon’s head, while the monster swipes at him with his oversized claws. Angel still can’t hold this form for very long, either, which means he was never going to beat a powerful, experienced combatant like Valorous alone.
As predicted, Typhon goes down a moment later, falling to the ground with a dull thud. Hopefully he hasn’t broken anything, but apparently he heals fast even out of his other form. Valorous descends a moment later, eyes wild, and it takes a moment for him to focus properly on us.
“You… you stupid bloody slag. What were you even hoping to accomplish by coming here?”
Unperturbed by his vitriol, Miranda takes a long drag from her cigarette and stares him down.
“Just thought we’d take you down a peg, is all,” she replies mildly. The blandness of her response only serves to enrage him further, and I see the suit powering up again, this time more slowly. Seems like he expended a lot of juice fighting Typhon- but a single blast would still be enough to kill the three of us easily.
“You and everybody else in the world. Well, it didn’t bloody work, did it? I don’t need any of the others… I’ll kill the three of you myself, and then I’ll— what the hell is that sound?”
The sound he’s referring to is rather like the beating of a drum, only it’s getting progressively louder by the second. It’s been building since the moment Typhon went down, and a moment after Valorous finally acknowledges it, Adamant strikes.
If she wanted to, she could have rammed her entire arm through his chest, and killed him in an instant. Instead, she simply hits him like a ton of bricks, sending him flying forward to faceplant at Miranda’s feet. The suit kept him alive enough to be aware of what just happened, but when he tries to get up, he finds its functions unresponsive. Haley didn’t just hit him- she forcibly attached a device of Yasmir’s creation to the back of his armor. It’s hardened enough that we couldn’t simply have thrown the gadget at him, but having it rammed past the protective casing seems to have done the trick- namely, shutting the entire suit down around him.
“Thanks for that, love,” Ashmaker says casually, before kicking Valorous in the face as he looks up at her. “Mind holding him up for me?”
“Not at all,” Adamant replies, hauling him to his feet. He seems like he’s struggling inside of the armor, but with the joints locked in place, there’s not much he can do. As Miranda leans in close, the expression on his face slowly shifts to pure terror.
“Right then. Listen up, because here’s how this is going to go.”
Ashmaker takes her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger and stubs it out right between his eyes. He squirms and squeezes his eyes shut, but the adrenaline high means it probably doesn’t hurt too bad. Not yet, at least. Miranda tosses the butt away and smiles.
“First off. Your team is disbanded, effective immediately. If I ever see any of you in the same room together again, I’ll track the whole lot of you down and make sure you die screaming. Clear?”
Seemingly unable to form a coherent sentence, Valorous nods rapidly, sweat pouring down his face. Half of it is from Miranda’s ambient heat aura, which she’s cranking up right now, and the other half is from fear.
“Second. You’re going to go and turn yourself in for killing all those poor sods on that boat. And for any other shit you might have pulled that I don’t know about. If I ever find out you withheld something, I’ll track you down and… well, you can guess, I’m sure.”
The low chuckle Miranda gives only serves to terrify Valorous further. If I was a betting man, I’d wager every dollar I have that he’s wetting his spandex undersuit right now.
“Third. I want to discourage any other cunts from doing what you tried to do with these ones. They’re going to be in traction for a while- permanently, for some. But you look like you’ve gotten off rather light, all things considered.”
Ashmaker’s grin turns predatory.
“Let’s see what we can do about changing that.”
There’s a brief flare of light as Miranda’s right hand wreaths itself in flame. Then she presses her palm to his face, thumb positioned directly on his eyelid, and pushes down. There’s no need to gouge the eye out- her fire burns bright enough to liquefy it. As skin starts to drip down his face and into his open mouth, Valorous begins to scream.